# (Cydra) The Year 271 Campaign (Low Magic experiment)



## the Jester

The clouds are turning orange as the sun sinks behind the mountains in the west.  There’s a nice, cooling breeze- pleasant after a hot day.  Only a few of the peasants are still toiling in the fields; the harvest is pretty much over.  It is the nineteenth day of the eighth month of the 271st year After the Founding (A.F.).  That means that the four-day harvest festival begins tomorrow.

Throughout the town of Whitewater, population 139, most people are taking off their shoes after a hard day’s work and smiling as they contemplate the morrow.  Some of them have moved from one bit of work to another, however, and are setting up booths at the area designated for the festival that begins the next morning. 

Brackburn Smith is erecting a small wooden structure; Bevin Tanner is setting up something simpler, just a place to hang hides and skins out.  Bryan Boatwright and his son Bryan are putting together a large tent, from which they will try to sell toys and models- and to get _real_ work.  There are others putting things together, too.  Jorgen Boatwright, self-appointed watcher of the town, walks around the perimeter to make sure all is well.  He carries a spear; his is the only weapon in evidence.  East and south of town, just a little ways down the river, several strangers’ wagons have camped for the night; doubtless they’ll be attending the festival in the morning.  Perhaps some of them will even set up booths of their own- in fact, a very large area is staked and roped off with a sign.

Jorgen walks over and examines the sign.  “That’s interesting,” he says aloud.  

*----------Reserved for-----------
the Amazing Longleap Sisters!!!*

Jorgen scratches his head and fidgets.  

“I wonder who they are,” he muses- again, aloud.

“I guess we’ll find out.”  He turns and keeps wandering, keeping an eye out, making certain that all is well.  

So far, so good.

***

“Thquire, come with me!  We thould inthpect the fethtival groundth!”

“Yes, my lord,” replies Goer, picking up the pace a bit.  Cedric, his master, was besotted already.  Goer was certain there had been a time when his master had not been so... fond of the bottle, but he couldn’t really remember when that had been.  He had been a page, and now squire (well, not technically yet), for almost eleven years.  It was a good life- a comfortable life.  It probably wouldn’t have happened at all if it wasn’t for his father’s skill at his trade.  Speaking of whom, his father would likely be showing items of smithcraft for the next few days while the festival went on.  Goer just hoped that dad wasn’t going to ask him to work for the festival.

If he had to work for his dad on the festival, not only would he not get to have any fun, but everyone would call him by his name, Fwaigo, rather than his nickname.  He much preferred Goer.  Why his parents gave him such a weird name, he had no idea... none at all.  Eh, no matter.  Squire Goer was good enough for him.

After a cursory glance at the skeleton of the festival, Cedric and Goer head to the nearer of the town’s two taverns, the Fat Mallard.  Brandon Mallard, the proprietor gives a friendly smile to the two of them.  “Good evening!” he calls.

“Good evening, my fine thir,” replies Cedric.  “A mug of your finetht, pleathe, on my father’th tab.”

Brandon waggles his finger at Cedric.  “I know better than that,” he admonishes.

Cedric scowls and sits at a table near a window.  Goer buys him a mug of ale, and himself one as well.  The two sit and drink for a few moments, watching the festival grounds. 

”Hey, look, it’s the ‘watchman’,” Goer snorts.  The two head outside and begin heckling Jorgen.  Recognizing Cedric for the son of the Lord Whitewater, Jorgen can only smile and endure.  

Night draws in.  As it does so, with no more coin to buy himself a drink, Cedric determines to return to the castle.  “Come, thquire!” he calls, and Goer trots after him.  Watching them go, Jorgen sighs.

“I better go make sure there isn’t any trouble at either of the taverns,” he muses aloud.  His patrol takes him through the Fat Mallard, from which Cedric and Goer had emerged, and thence to the Honest Man, Whitewater’s other tavern.  He approaches that one with a touch of trepidation; if there’s going to be a bar fight, it will probably be here.  The Honest Man is certainly a little more permissive than the Fat Mallard, but both are nice enough places.  “I certainly hope the festival is peaceable,” he says to himself as he enters the Honest Man.  All is well.  Soon he begins a circuit of the town.  

Soon enough, though, he is asleep.  Eager thoughts about the next few days keep him awake for a time, but he must be alert for trouble in the morning!


----------



## the Jester

This is a story hour written around a low-magic setting I'm running.  The rule changes and tweaks are detailed here.

The three pcs we have met so far are:

*Cedric,* played by omrob (knight 1).

*Goer,* played by cold1s (fighter 1).

*Jorgen,* played by seldomseen (also a fighter 1).

There are five pcs yet to come.


----------



## Spider_Jerusalem

Hey Jester, I read through your low-magic 'read-me' thread.

This sounds very interesting. I've always been such a fan of just scribbling out teleport style spells. Characters should travel. 

Looking forward to see how this develops.

Spider J


----------



## the Jester

Hey Spider, glad to have you aboard! 

Here is the next update and the next few pcs:

The night before the festival begins is a busy one for Cara Reed.  She is very excited; tomorrow she will have a chance to show off both her talent as a musician and her beauty as a young lady.  She plays extensively in both the Fat Mallard and the Honest Man, honing her skills on the disparate crowds at the two competing establishments.  In both places, business is slow tonight; people are saving their energy for the following several days.  This year’s festival promises to be a good one, for the harvest was good this year.  The two will ever go hand-in-hand; on years with a poor harvest, the festival is always more subdued, less festive and more aimed at the lesson of sacrifice. 

Cara sighs as she plays the Fat Mallard, her music crowded by the drunken shouts of the lord’s son.  But his squire is buying him drinks at the start of the evening; it is not long before they must call it a night.  Cara herself, with half of her audience vanishing, finishes her last number for the night and heads outside. 

The stars are brilliant diamonds overhead, and Cara stops to take a deep breath.  The smells of autumn are on the wind- hay and pollen and a _ripeness_ that has no other word.  Smiling, she walks back to her home, where she lives with her mother and her siblings.  As she leaves the Mallard behind, so she leaves the river and the only bridge across it.  The Fat Mallard and the general store flank the bridge on this side of the river; on the other side, their places are taken by the church of Belthizar, currently decked in husks of corn, and the Boatwright home.  The town sprawls out on either side of the river, its one hundred and thirty-nine people content in their village existence.

Cara glances at the watch tower as she enters her own home.  Atop it she can see the silhouette of the local self-declared watchman, Jorgen.  She quirks half a smile.  He means well.  As she carefully washes herself down, scrubbing her makeup off, she sighs to herself.  Tomorrow she will begin to make her name as an entertainer!  Between her wide-ranging knowledge, her good looks and her sweet voice and delicate lute-playing, she should make quite an impression!

***

In the predawn light of very early morning, about two miles east by southeast of town following the curve of the Roaring River, a strange figure loads her donkey with gear, food and fodder.  Her clothing is a mishmash of different bits of fur and leather.  

_If I’m going to go to the festival,_ the strange woman thinks, _I’d best get an early start.  Two miles could take a couple of hours!  And who knows what bandits or goblins might lay in wait along my way._

Carefully, the woman balances the saddlebags on her donkey.  Clucking her tongue, she takes his lead and starts walking upriver towards the town.  Towards the festival!  She wonders what strange entertainers or bizarre merchants will be there.  Maybe she’ll even get a chance to meet the Weird Ladies!  _They sometimes go to festival- I’ve seen them there before,_ Dahlia thinks.  She does not notice the dirt on her hands or the leaves that have fallen in her long tangled hair.  She chuckles to herself as she leads her faithful beast of burden along.  _Whoever is there this time,_ she thinks, _I’m sure there will be good fun to be had!  There are always strangers, and it seems like there’s always some kind of excitement!_  She smiles as she remembers the year that a couple of the town boys tried to steal some honey from a beehive.  Ooh, there was a lesson there, yes there was!

Humming and singing to herself in the tongue of the vanished elves, Dahlia heads to the town.  When she arrives, most of the merchants are set up and a few early risers are already there, staring at the displays set up.  Bryan, the town boatwright, aided by his son Bryan, has a display of miniature and toy boats (prices range from 5 sp to 3 gp each).  Amanda Garden has a brilliant display of flowers and herbs.  She is selling bundles of either for 4 cp, and sprigs of wolfsbane for 1 sp each.  She has one of the Garden servants with her, doubtless in case there is any trouble with the Cookers.  The owner of the general store, Mingus Menhure, has a booth set up with a sampling of various goods, hoping to sell stuff.  “If I don’t have it here, ask me!” he booms.  “I’ve hired one of the Miller daughters to run back to my shop as required over the festival!”  Brackburn Smith has horseshoes, a breastplate, plows, shovels, picks, hammers and other tools, a longsword, nails, a pair of shields, a pair of metal gauntlets, spoons and knives* and other, similar items.  He has two of his sons with him in case he needs to run off or send an errand boy somewhere.  Bevin Tanner has a number of furs, hides and skins on display, including a wolf fur cloak (with the head over the wearer’s head) (1 gp), a fabulous, thick rug of winter wolf fur (20 gp), several suits of leather armor, one suit of studded leather armor and a variety of other, similar things.  Ovina, the local priestess of Belthizar, is ready to talk to or counsel anyone.  Lane and Johnson Cooker are there selling food- roasted goat, goat sandwich, stewed goat, goat on a stick, goat cheese, etc.  Several of the bully-boys the Cookers tend to hire when they need a little muscle are standing around unobtrusively as well.  Both Brandon Mallard and Jimmy Goodman, the proprietors of the town’s two competing taverns, have come to sell food, beer and wine. 

There are two more areas of great interest.  One is a medium-sized tent set up with a barrel out front.  The barrel has a fire crackling within it- but a _green_ fire!  Dahlia gapes.  She has never seen the likes of this before, that’s for sure!

On the other end is a large, roped off area with a sign.  Several young red-haired halfling women are working on constructing some sort of large frame, shaped something like a triangular wedge.  Dahlia scratches her head.  She has no idea what that thing is for. 

***

“Halflings!” Jorgen swears aloud to himself.  “Thieves!  I must keep a careful eye on them!”  Already the festival has thrown him a challenge- if he’s not careful, the halflings are likely to take anything that isn’t nailed down!

It’s hard to watch the whole festival by himself, but by the gods, he’s going to do his best!

_*Next Time:*_ The first day of the festival!  Let’s talk to the halflings a little!  Cedric needs a drink! 


*The Year 271 Campaign does not use forks.  Knives skewer food, spoons work for soups or liquids.  Forks are broken.


----------



## the Jester

We have just met two more pcs:

Dahlia, elfblooded druid 1
*You know the crazy hermit in Keep on the Borderlands?  Apply image to Dahlia.  Elfblooded pcs are basically half-elves, but they are very rarely the result of the union of elf and human (since the elves are gone).

Cara Reed, bard 1


----------



## the Jester

*The Harvest Festival of 271 AF- Day One*

The sun climbs to the top of the sky.  The summer heat increases.  Sweat pours from the brows of simple farmers as they mill about through the various merchant stalls.  Smoke rises from the green fire barrel in front of the large tent that the alchemist has set up.  People gawk at the Cookers’ goat show.  A beautiful girl named Cara Reed plays and sings, gathering a crowd of onlookers and admirers.  Even the apprentices of Xastys the Sorceress, whose tower rises just outside of the town proper, have come out.  As the first day of the festival moves on, the fun and celebration are just beginning.  Drinks flow freely; at one point one of the Garden family’s servants passes out free bouquets to several of the townsfolk.

Dahlia wanders over to the alchemist’s tent, peering within.  A pair of individuals are already in there, speaking to the merchant.

“Tho what do you have, fine thir?” the first- who we have already met as Cedric- asks.

“Why, many things, my lord,” the alchemist replies.  He introduces himself as Braze, a merchant from Kamenda-

“Hey, we’re in Kamenda,” Cedric’s squire, Goer, interrupts.

“Kamenda City,” the alchemist explains.  Smoothly, he resumes his sales pitch.  From sleeping powder to stimulant root to impotence cures, he’s got it all.

“Well, thir,” Cedric says, “I am the thon of the local lord, and it ith cuthtomary in our landth for traveling merchantth to offer thome refrethment to the ruling family when they come to vithit, perhapth a thimple drink.”

“Ah, certainly, my lord, certainly,” Braze replies, and soon Cedric has a drink in his hands.  He sighs in contentment.  Braze also gives him a little something for his father- some of his impotence cure.  Not that Cedric’s father is impotent, of course, but with all the stresses of the duties of lordship, and fatigue and such... well.  One never knows.

Dahlia, having nowhere near the necessary amount of money to buy any of Braze’s wares, wanders back out into the crowd.  The halfling girls are still setting up their large... whatever it is... at one end of the field.  Dahlia stares intently at it for some time, but then shrugs, unable to quite fathom it.  

Near the halflings, Jorgen, self-appointed watchman of Whitewater, nervously calls out to one of them, “Hi!  What are you building?”

“You’ll see,” one of the lasses replies.  “We should be ready to perform tomorrow night.”

“What kind of performance?” Jorgen asks.

“You’ll see,” the halfling replies.

Cedric, too, stops by the halfling area.  He stares at their bizarre construction, then cries out, “Hello, thtrange halflingth!  I am Thedic, thon of the lord of thith area!  I thee that you have come to our fethtival- what ith it you are doing?”  

“Greetings, my lord!”  One of the three halflings walks over to him.  “We are halfling entertainers, the Amazing Longleap Sisters.  We are setting up a performance area so that we may provide sport and spectacle for your folk- and yourself, of course.”

“Hmph!”  Cedric glares at her suspiciously.  “You aren’t from around here, I take it?”

“No, my lord, we travel far and wide.”

“And where are you from originally?  Tydon, perhapth?”  Cedric leans in accusingly.

“No, my lord, we come originally from further to the northeast, in the plains.”

“Hmph!” Cedric harrumphs again.

”Ah, perhaps you could appease my lord’s suspicion with a drink,” suggests Goer.  Soon, Cedric has another beverage in hand, and all’s well again.  

Early in the afternoon, as the structure starts to become more complete, the halflings stop working on it long enough to erect a high curtain around it, obfuscating the rest of their construction.  At one point Cara wanders by and looks it over, on one level admiring the halflings’ showmanship but on another level rather pissed off about the competition.

At noon, there is a little excitement as a brief scuffle breaks out between one of the Cooker bully-boys, Tom Breaker, and Drew Garden.  It is over in a moment, though, with no lasting harm done.  Jorgen scolds them both, but nothing further is necessary.  Interestingly, Drew Garden is one of the Gardens who want nothing to do with the feud between them and the Cookers.  Tom certainly must have done something to provoke him.

As evening rolls in, there are a number of folk from out of town present.  Most of them are from another community, but a few either live alone (Dahlia) or are more migratory.  A group of outcast mixed-blood individuals lives like this, traveling the general region of Whitewater, Cotton Hill and the foothills leading into the mountains that rise to the west.  One of these, the product of rape and abandonment, is a half-orc named Cur Sed Seed.  He is inspecting Bevin Tanner’s wares thoroughly- the man has a few nice pieces of work, especially that wolf fur cloak!- when he catches a glimpse of another half-orc walking through the crowd, this one armed and armored.  Really, nobody here is armed and armored.  _Nobody._

Cur turns to pay a little more attention to this new fellow, and realizes that he recognizes him.  

“Tumenore,” Cur whispers to himself.

Tumenore the Bandit-Hunter, and he isn’t alone: he has a bunch of armed men with him.  The crowd is clearing space around them; men with swords are not anything to be trifled with.  Yet at the same time, his name is going around the crowd like a whisper on the waves: _Tumenore... Tumenore... Tumenore._  It’s the sound of excitement, adoration mixed with fear.  Quite a few of these folks have heard of Tumenore and his band before.  They are known for bringing rough justice to bandits.  The common folk like them; Cur Sed Seed does not.  Not one bit.  Tumenore and his folk are sometimes a little _too_ resolute in their pursuit of outlaws.  There have been times when they have raided the outcasts’ camps and taken members of the band away, claiming they were bandits or brigands.  Was it true?  Cur isn’t totally certain that it wasn’t, but... he is also very far from sure that it was.  He frowns.  Half-orc or not, he doesn’t like having that fellow here.  It bodes ill.

Jorgen, Cedric and Goer approach the leader of the armed band that has just joined the festival.  “Thir, I mutht demand that you tell me who you are,” Cedric cries.

“Of course, my lord, we mean no harm,” the half-orc replies.  “My name is Tumenore.  Perhaps you have heard of me?”

Cedric studies him.  “Indeed not.  It theemth a common name, with no notable houthe attatthed to it.”

“Notable... ah, I am not high-born, my lord, but your common folk know of me.  I hunt bandits.  With your permission, of course, we shall simply keep our eyes open for any sign of bandits that might hide here at the festival, concealing themselves among the good folk of your town.”

“Ah, I thee, I thee... Well, we thertainly don’t want and banditth hiding amongtht our populath.  By all meanth, keep your eyeth open, and report any funny buthineth to me or my father at onthe!”

“Of course,” Tumenore agrees easily.  

“Now, of courthe, it ith cuthtomary for visiting guethtth to buy the local knight and hith family thome refrethments at a time like thith...”

“Of course,” Tumenore repeats, and he presses a few coins into Cedric’s hand.  “Here, my lord.  I am unfamiliar with the local drinks- this way you can procure what you most desire.”  

“With your permission, we shall set up a tent over there.”  The half-orc gestures to a clear area near the edge of the festival.  At Cedric’s nod, he strides away, calling for his men to begin setting up.

Staring after him, Cedric thinks, _I’d best tell father about that one._  He closes his hand around his drinking money.  

By dark the bandit hunters have set up their area and several of them, having doffed their armor and most of their weapons, begin mingling.  Jorgen groans inwardly.  _Now I’ll have to watch them and the halfings!_

Night draws a curtain of stars across the sky, and soon enough the only people still out are the last of the traveling merchants, cooking late meals and sipping off of wineskins or ale tankards.  Everyone is tired but happy.  The first day of the festival was a smashing success.  Most of the merchants did very well; only Bryan Boatwright has had little luck, and that might change if he gets just one good real boat building job out of the festival.  

As she washes her face before bed, Cara Reed thinks about the morrow.  _Tomorrow’s the contest day!_  She is very excited.  There are a number of contests, any number of which will be fun to watch, but only one of which she _really_ cares about.  Sure, she’s going to enter the sausage-eating contest too, but the one she _really_ wants to win is the Prettiest Girl contest.

_I _am_ the prettiest!_ she tells herself desperately as she falls into sleep.

_*Next Time:*_ Festival day two!  We meet another pc or two!  And the contests- from Prettiest Girl to the Chicken-Plucking Contest!


----------



## the Jester

As you can prolly guess, Cur Sed Seed is another pc:

Cur Sed Seed- half-orc ranger 1.


----------



## the Jester

Kyle Goldenbow spends much of the night preparing.  Although he did not set up a booth on the first day of the festival, he now regrets it.  He is Whitewater’s lapidary and stone-polisher (for semiprecious stones are washed downstream by the Roaring River), and he has many small stones and such that might fetch a few pennies from festival goers.  Thus, Kyle rises early, puts on a cheerful face and heads to his booth.  He spreads his wares out before him, careful to leave them all in view of himself when he sits behind them- the last thing he needs is a thief to steal his livelihood!

As the number of people present increases, and the singing of Cara Reed sweetly caresses their ears, the fun begins to flow.  Gossip and rumors are exchanged along with coins and goods.  “I heard that Tad Ranger has won the archery contest every year for the last four years!  He’s sure to do it again!”  “Did you hear?  There is an alchemist here selling magic potions.”  “You know, there used to be elves around here, but they all vanished long ago.”  “The feud?  Well, the way I hear it, it all started because Latin Garden is having an unnatural relationship with one of the Cooker bully-boys!”  “The Weird Ladies are a trio of witches.  They cannot be trusted.”  “There is a crazy hermit that lives a couple of miles downstream.”

The sun slowly works its way into the top of the sky.  Kyle makes a few sales, but nothing spectacular.  One of the more interesting characters that he meets is Otis Optimus, one of the apprentices to Xastys the Sorceress, who dwells on the edge of town in a high tower.  Otis and Kyle chat for nearly an hour as they barter and trade stones.  Otis is polite but distant.  Along one long edge of the festival, the sounds of construction still emanate from behind the heavy high curtain that the halflings erected yesterday.  Cedric and his father are at the lord’s place of honor (by tradition, the local lord or one of his representatives remains at the festival while it is running to show their approval of it), chatting amiably with those that approach them.  Jorgen maintains his vigilant watch over the crowd, keeping an eye open for thieves or halflings, and he also keeps more than half an eye on Tumenore and his men.  He recognizes several of them in the crowd; though they are no longer armored, they are still armed.  They are acting like everyone else at the festival, but nobody is especially fooled.  They are on patrol.  They make Cur Sed Seed entirely nervous.  _What if they accuse me?_  He can’t help but wondering... he is no bandit, but he _is_ an outcast.  Where do Tumenore’s men draw the line?

But nobody is accused, at least not before the contests that begin in the afternoon.

About noon the construction stops behind the curtains.  The sign is changed- the performance will begin at the eighth hour.  “What performance?” wonders Jorgen aloud.  “I’ll have to keep an eye out for anyone working the crowd.”  He glances worriedly at the nearest of the bandit-hunters.  “And I need to keep an eye on all those guys!”  Realizing he’s talking aloud, Jorgen gulps and self-consciously covers his mouth.

The first contest is an archery contest.  There are traditionally only a few entrants, as one must provide his own bow (though arrows are provided).  Jorgen and Goer both manage, though they both have to borrow bows.  Their competition includes Tad Ranger, Greybold and Blake Cooker Junior.  A target is set up just outside of the festival grounds, and three shots are allowed per contestant from a line at 50’ distance.  There are three rings and a bullseye on the target.  Jorgen manages to land one shot in the innermost ring, but his other two both miss completely.  Goer has even worse luck- he doesn’t get anything.  Greybold, a retired soldier, is clearly a little rusty, and quirks a self-deprecating smile when he completely misses the target once.  Although Junior Cooker manages to land two shots in the target, Tad Ranger takes the victory again, for the fifth year running.  This year’s prize is a fabulous golden arrow.

The second contest of the afternoon is a riding contest, with what amounts to an agility course for horses set up.  The entry fee is 3 cp, a little stiff, but again, the main barrier to most would-be contestants is the need to provide one’s own horse.  A few of the townsfolk manage to enter, including a number of the Cookers and one of their bully-boys.  So does Drew Garden.  Tad Ranger enters this contest as well, and Cedric borrows one of his father’s horses to enter, but unfortunately he is eliminated when his horse strays from the course.  Ultimately, the victor is Tad Ranger again!  He wins a child’s toy- a wooden horse suspended in a frame, which a young child could ‘ride’. 

“Next year, my lord,” Goer commiserates.  

Next comes a traditional favorite- the drinking contest.  Cedric and Cur both enter it, along with a large field of other contestants.  Two of the Brownstone brothers- the local dwarf population- enter; surely they will not be pushovers.  The town drunk, Hadrian Fisher, already looks like he has had a few, but he’s ready for more.  Goer’s dad and brother enter; and cajoled by them, he is persuaded to join them.  Bangus Redcoat, one of the Cooker bully-boys, joins the fun.  So does Antos Mallard, just a lad but willing to try.

Soon their heads are swimming, their mouths are mushy and their minds are dimmed.  One after another they drop out of the contest, either passing out, vomiting or failing to set their glass down in front of them.  In the end, it comes down to a tense battle of wills between Hadrian Fisher and Zandos Brownstone- and the famous dwarven tolerance prevails!  Zandos wins.  Drunk as a skunk, he receives his prize- a straw hat.

As the contestants stagger away, one of the bandit-hunters follows Bangus Redcoat with his eyes.  

Cara Reed’s heart starts to pound as she enters the next contest: the sausage-eating contest.  It’s a warm up for the _really_ important one, which is coming soon.  She’s getting more and more nervous; she spent a long time getting prettied up for today!  Hopefully her hair looks okay- it’s been hot and dusty... Well, there is no time to worry about it now, the contests are under way.

“I could use a sausage after all that beer!” roars Zandos Brownstone.  “Come, brother!”  Showing an unusual level of jocularity, the two dwarves pay their entry fee and pull up stools to the table erected for this one.  Little Cathy Cooker, the town’s milk maid (and a sultry, if aging, figure) sits opposite Cara.  Several other townsfolk enter, as well as the retired soldier, Greybold.  But when the long, thick sausages are brought out, Cathy demonstrates her legendary ability to shove things down her throat and stuffs the entire sausage down in seconds.

In awe, the others can only watch as she collects the prize- an entire goat, dressed and slaughtered.  “Well, since I’m one of the Cookers, I don’t really need this,” she says magnanimously, “so I’ll pass it along to the second place winner.”  She smiles at Cara.

There are two contests left: the chicken-plucking contest and the prettiest girl contest.  People are laughing and joking as the pen that will hold the chickens is set up.  

Across the festival, one of the bandit-hunters reaches Tumenore, at his tent.  With a grim smile, the man- whose name is Narmox- tells his leader, “I think I spotted one.”

_*Next Time:*_ The rest of the contests!  The Amazing Longleap Sisters perform!  And Tumenore’s men make their move!


----------



## the Jester

I almost forgot!  Here are two more pcs:

Kyle Goldenbow (elfblooded rogue 1)
Otis Optimus (wizard 1)


----------



## the Jester

Afternoon is turning towards evening.  The final posts are hammered into the ground, and the wire is strung from post to post, until finally the enclosure is finished.  Then, one chicken per contestant is released into the enclosure, and the contestants are allowed to enter.

And the chicken-plucking contest is on.

Dahlia and Goer, among other folk, scramble after the chickens, struggling to be the first to catch, slaughter and pluck.  Cheers, laughter and general jocularity ensue.  The crowd shouts its enjoyment as the folk in the pen leap, run and scramble after the panicky fowl.  Old Blake Cooker himself, head of the Cooker clan, and his wife Cathy (not the same Cathy that ate the sausage) are both formidable foes.  Dirkyl Fisher, old weird Drendlin, Ulga Boatwright (Jorgen’s little sister), 11-year-old Terri Goodsoil, Dahlia, Jorgen and Goer all take part, chortling with glee as they catch their targets.  Soon all of them have captured a bird, and the slaughter and plucking commences.  Though it is a tight race, Drendlin, one of the so-called “weird ladies” in town wins.  Dancing and cackling once she’s done, she holds the de-feathered, headless chicken aloft, dancing and crowing her victory.  When she stops, face flushed, she receives a truly fantastic prize: the right to hunt pheasants on the Whitewater lands, so long as she sends half of each bird to the knight.  Sure, there might have been more applause and acclamation if it were someone with a better reputation around town, but at festival time, even the Weird Ladies are cheered.

The shadows are growing long, but there is still enough golden autumn light for the final contest: the prettiest girl contest.

Cara Reed takes a deep breath as the contestants step up.  _I’m going to win this one, I know it!_ she thinks to herself.  During the chicken-plucking contest she took a few minutes to clean up, check her hair and makeup, and compose herself.  This is going to be _her_ moment, after all- at least, as long as she doesn’t mess it all up somehow!  She joins the other contestants, Fiona (one of the Garden maids), Prenda Miller (the younger), Tara (one of the Whitewater servants) and Lanie Cooker.  And _none_ of them have ‘the strut’ like Cara does.  They are all dressed a little provocatively, but not to the point of looking unseemly.  Just enough to look... enticing.

The young ladies line up, turn around, parade about; the five judges rate them by putting chits in a bowl for each.  In the end, Cara has the most chits.  Beaming, she is awarded her prize- a fancy ribbon leafed with real gold!  She almost cries in happiness.  _That’ll show all the other girls!_ she thinks with a short burst of irrational jealousy.

The crowd disperses back into the entire area set up for festival.  Kyle Goldenbow looks happily at the depleted supply of stones in his booth.  Brandon Mallard and Jimmy Goodman are selling the folk ale and wine to clear the dust of a hot day off their tongues.  The sun is near to going down, but large fires are being lit in several areas to provide lighting.  

_I think it’s near the eighth hour,_ Kyle thinks to himself.  _That’s when the halflings are going to hold their performance, whatever it is._  With a slight smile, the elfblood begins putting his things away.  As he does so, he glances up and sees an unkempt woman with more than a few splatters of chicken blood on her clothes (from the contest) and a few feathers in her hair.  His eyes widen slightly as he realizes that she, too, has the blood of elves in her veins.  And she is staring at him fixedly.

For her part, Dahlia is fascinated by things elven.  She truly wishes to re-connect with her elven heritage, and when she sees the elfblood man, she exclaims to herself softly in elven and can only stare.  He catches her looking at him, so she hurries off to the halfling performance.  

And what a performance it is!  The curtain rises to the amazing spectacle of the halflings hanging from platforms attached to ropes, and swinging from one end of their high-peaked frame-like structure to another, jumping off and catching themselves on another moving platform on ropes (or even on each other!)- it is amazing.  None of the townsfolk have ever seen anything like it before.  Gasps, oohs and ahhs, and finally, at the end, roaring applause are the halflings’ answer.  It is an amazing spectacle.

“My lord, that was amazing!” exclaims Goer.  “Perhaps we could invite them back to the castle.”

“Goer, I thall have to thpeak to my father about that,” Cedric replies.  “But thertainly, they detherve thome recognithon for their amathing talentth!”

By the end of the halfling performance, everyone is tired and worn out from the day’s events.  It has been a fun day, an exciting day full of contests.  Jorgen congratulates himself for having successfully prevented any trouble so far.  He watches as the townsfolk go home and the strangers retreat to wherever it is they are staying, be it in their wagons or in the common room at the Fat Mallard.

Cedric and Goer return to the Whitewater estate, just about a mile outside of town.  The estate consists of a small fortress with a connected tower and a large outbuilding that is a combination servants’ home and stables (split half and half).  They enter the fortress and Cedric soon approaches his father.  He regales him with tales of the halfling entertainment and finishes by saying, “Father, you thould thee them!  I thought perhapth we could bring them back to the ethtate for dinner or thomething tomorrow...”

But Cedric’s father, Sir Martin, frowns.  “Son, I understand that these entertainers amused you, but that would not be... proper.”  

“Oh.  Of courthe, father.”  Cedric is somewhat crestfallen, but he nods.

Sir Martin studies his son.  “Perhaps, instead, you could take them out to breakfast in the morning,” he allows.  “Here, I’ll give you a purse for them as well.”  The old knight favors his son with a fond smile.

***

“I know I saw him,” Narmox insists.  “He’ll be out here again tomorrow, I’m sure of it.”

“Unless we scared him off,” Tumenore replies.  “But even then, the townsfolk will notice that he’s missing.”

Narmox rubs his hands together.  “I can’t wait!  We’re gonna hang us some bandits!”

_*Next Time:*_ The bandit-hunters make their move!


----------



## the Jester

“Good morning, fine halflingth!”  

The Amazing Longleap Sisters look up from their work.  They are busily deconstructing the frame that they used for their amazing performance of the other night.  They recognize Cedric from the other day, when he nearly accused them of being spies from Tydon, the rival earldom not far to the southeast.  Goer stands faithfully just behind him.  

“Good morning, lord,” one of the girls replies with a smile.  

“Your performanthe wath amathing!  My father conveyth hith rethpectth, and in hith name I would like to take you all out for breakfatht and perhapth a fine beverage or two.” 

The halflings exchange a glance.  “Well, certainly, my lord,” one of them says.  “We are always willing to have breakfast!  However, I must tell you, we _are_ in a bit of a hurry to make it to the next festival.  We cannot dally too much.”

“Of courthe not,” Cedric nods understanding.  

Soon the Longleap sisters, Cedric and Goer are at the Fat Mallard, eating bowls of potatoes and enjoying a morning mug of ale.  Cedric tries to elicit tales of the sisters’ journeys, asking especially about any dangers that they have encountered.

”Certainly, my lord, there are bandits in many places in the wild,” one of the sisters offers.

“Banditth!” exclaims Cedric.  “Why, I would like nothing better than to prove my valor by thmiting down thome banditth!”

Indeed, as they talk, Cedric keeps turning over one thing in his mind, again and again- his knighthood.  Though his initial training is complete, he has not yet performed a task of sufficient valor to earn his dubbing.  Nor does he yet have a horse of his own.  He knows that he must be patient; his father has long made that clear.  In time, when he has proven his valor on the field of battle...

***

Meanwhile, the third day of the festival is picking up.  The rays of the sun already promise a hot day.  Cara Reed is playing her lute at one end of the festival space, while on the other, the Old-Timer is fiddling up a storm.  The folk are eating confections, drinking morning wine and ale, having some sliced goat sausage fried up by the Cooker clan.  The merchants have already begun trading.

“There he is, my lord,” Narmox the bandit-hunter murmurs, gesturing at Bangus Redcoat.  Tumenore nods.  

“Take him.”

Suddenly there is quite a commotion.  A shout of surprise, then a cry of pain as swords rasp free of their scabbards, then a woman’s scream....

Jorgen is on the scene is seconds.  Bangus Redcoat, one of the Cooker bully-boys, is surrounded by a handful of the armed bandit-hunters.  The local has frozen, his eyes darting from one of the bandit-hunters hemming him in to another.

“What’s going on here?” Jorgen demands.

“We’re apprehending a bandit,” one of Tumenore’s men says.

Jorgen glances at Bangus Redcoat.  “Him?  But he lives in the town.”

“They often do,” the bandit-hunter replies.  “You’d be amazed how often we find these scum hiding themselves among the peasantry.”  One of the bandit-hunters moves to seize Bangus.

“Now hold on there just a minute!” Jorgen exclaims.  “What are you going to do with him?” 

“Question him, first of all- and then justice.”

“I’m not a bandit!” Bangus declares fiercely, fear evident in his voice.  He gulps.  “I work for the Cookers.”

“What evidence do you have?” asks Jorgen.  

“One of us saw him.”

“What!” Bangus cries.

“Where?” 

“Near the ruins of Castle Laagos,” declares a new voice.  Jorgen turns as Tumenore himself walks up.  Jorgen swallows.  Tumenore is a formidable looking half-orc; his arms and legs look like tree trunks.  He is tall, too, and his scowling face bears enough scars to draw a picture of him as a formidable warrior.  

“You saw him yourself?” asks Jorgen.

“No- one of my men did.  Who are you?”

Jorgen introduces himself.  “I keep watch over the town.”

“I’m not a bandit!” Bangus cries again.

“Well, watchman, we’re going to take him away and interrogate him now.  We’re operating with your lord’s permission, so if you’ll excuse us-“

“Maybe I should go with you,” Jorgen offers.  He can feel the sweat trickling down his face, smearing on his palms.  He is _very_ nervous about this situation.  This has the potential to get _very bad_.  He glances at Tumenore’s men- there are almost two dozen of them, all armed with shortswords.  _They could tear this town apart,_ Jorgen realizes unhappily.

***

Cedric and Goer exit the Fat Mallard and turn towards the festival grounds.  “That’th odd,” Cedric remarks, “there theems to be a commotion.”

As they approach, they find quite a scene, indeed: Bangus Redcoat is being taken by Tumenore and his men.  “What’th going on here?” demands Cedric, and Tumenore bows to him.

”Ah, my lord, we have apprehended a bandit who was hiding amongst your folk.”

“I’m not a bandit!” cries Bangus.  “Please, there must be some mistake!”

“I saw him with my own eyes,” declares another of Tumenore’s men (named Narmox).  “He was with a group holed up in the ruins of Castle Laagos.”

“It wasn’t me, I swear!  There must be some mistake!”

“When was this?” calls Kyle Goldenbow, who has come over from his booth to observe the scene.  “Perhaps he has an alibi.”

“This was ten days ago, in the early evening.  A few of us were patrolling, looking for the nest of bandits, and we saw a couple of them in the ruins.  _He_ was one of them!”

“Ten days ago he was working on our ranch,” Lane Cooker states firmly.  “He was helping slaughter and dress goats until well after dark.”

“Don’t try to protect him just because he’s one of your neighbors!  He’s a bandit!”

“Either way, we’ll find the truth of the matter,” Tumenore says.  

_“My father_ dithpentheth juthtithe in these partth,” Cedric warns them.  “You may protheed with your invethtigathion, but when you are done you will turn him over to Thir Martin.”

“When we are done, we will see him hanged,” Tumenore says flatly.  

Cedric demands that they first go explain themselves to Sir Martin.  Tumenore agrees testily, and the troupe rides out to the Whitewater estate.  Tumenore goes into conference with Sir Martin for nearly an hour, and when he emerges his men mount up and prepare to leave with Bangus Redcoat.

“I am going to go with them to... keep things proper, my lord,” Jorgen says uneasily.  

“I swear, I was on the ranch!” Bangus groans.  “Why won’t you listen to me?”

Tumenore and his men mount up and escort Bangus out of the walls of the estate.  “Where are you taking him?” Jorgen asks.

”We’ll go to Heartbreak Hill,” says Tumenore.  Jorgen nods.  Heartbreak Hill, just outside of town, has a cliff called Lover’s Leap.  From there, a heartbroken jilted lover once hurled himself to his death.

“I hope this wasn’t a bad idea,” Jorgen moans aloud to himself.

Sir Martin is livid, but, as he explains to Cedric, “What can we do?  There are far too many of them, and they are well-armed.  They genuinely believe that Bangus is a bandit, but I’m not so sure.”  He leans towards his son.  “I don’t trust him.  Keep an eye on things as best you can, son.”  His eyes seem to measure Cedric.  “I know you have been frustrated for a chance to prove your valor.  Your day is coming, son- perhaps sooner than either of us think.”

“Of courthe, father.”

“And if he is a bandit, he must hang, obviously.”

“Of courthe, father,” Cedric replies again.

***

After several hours of rough treatment atop Heartbreak Hill, Bangus has still not confessed to anything.  Jorgen watches uneasily, but what can he do?  He is one man in the midst of many.  And though they have beaten him a little, they have not actually broken anything or cut anything off. 

But finally, at about the fourth hour past noon, Tumenore growls, “I tire of your lies, brigand!”  He draws his axe out and steps towards Bangus.

“Hey, now-” Jorgen says, but the half-orc ignores him.

“I give you a choice!” barks Tumenore.  “You can take the leap,” he offers, gesturing at the dizzying fall, “or I’ll cut off one of your hands, or you can confess!”

Bangus’ face goes white.  

“That’s no choice at all!” Jorgen protests.

“I don’t think the boss wants your input,” one of Tumenore’s men rumbles at Jorgen.  

***

When they come back into town, it is late afternoon.  Tumenore’s band heads directly to the festival grounds where they announce that Bangus Redcoat has confessed to being a bandit and that he will be hanged after the conclusion of the festival, as an example to others who might think of turning to banditry rather than honest work.

An impromptu group of the more concerned folk of the town, consisting of Cedric, Goer, Dahlia (though she’s not really of the town, as she’s a hermit from outside of town), Jorgen, Kyle Goldenbow, Cara Reed, Cur Sed Seed and Otis Optimus.  Jorgen complains about the method used to elicit the confession, but he admits that the bandit-hunters seem sincere in their belief that he’s a bandit.

“Perhaps there’s a look-alike,” suggests Kyle.  

“It’s possible,” Cara admits.  

“Or maybe he really is a bandit.  How reliable is his alibi?” asks Otis.

Kyle says, “I asked around a little, and there are multiple people who were working with him that evening.  Just like Lane Cooker said.”

“Then perhapth we thould investhtigate Castle Laagoth,” Cedric suggests.  “If there ith a look-alike, we may be able to prove Banguth Redcoat’th innothenthe.”

“The festival ends tomorrow night,” Otis comments calmly.  “If he is being hanged as an example, they will probably do it the next morning, as there will be fewer people late in the evening.”

“And most of the people from out of town don’t usually leave until the day after it’s all over,” remarks Kyle. 

“Then we mutht move quickly,” declares Cedric.  “To the ruinth!”

_*Next Time:*_ The Ruins of Castle Laagos!


----------



## the Jester

We now have but one more pc to meet, who will pop up in the next update- which I forecast a 50% chance of being later today.


----------



## the Jester

*The Ruins of Castle Laagos*

Lazarus of Kamenda has only lived in the village of Whitewater for a few short years, having immigrated from Kamenda City. He has spent most of the last few years ingratiating himself with the folk of Whitewater, plying his trade as a bookkeeper. He makes a fair living, but there are only so many clients in a village this size.  (There are, after all, only 139 people living in all of Whitewater!)  Thus, whenever an opportunity arises to take a new client on, Lazarus jumps at it.  

That is how he falls so easily into the trap.

Lured by the promise of work to a ‘traveling merchant’s’ wagon, as soon as he opens the box that was supposed to contain the books he knows something is wrong.  _There’s only straw-_ 

An explosion of pain in the back of his head heralds a deep unconsciousness.  

***

Whitewater’s impromptu investigatory party rides and walks out of town, heading upstream along the Roaring River and then northwest past Heartbreak Hill.  The high grass all around them bends as the wind passes over it, blowing the hot air of late summer across the band of would-be heroes.  As they move forward, Dahlia suddenly cries out, “Hey, stop!  Watch out!”

“What is it?” Goer draws to a halt.  

“A web,” she answers, “not far in front of-“

Before she can finish her sentence, four spiders burst from the tall grass and attack!  They are of truly monstrous size- as big as a baby goat!  Cries of dismay and panic come from our would-be heroes; except for Dahlia, they have never seen things like this before!  Goer gives an agonized yelp as one of the spiders chomps down on his leg, while the others attack Cedric’s horse (or rather, one of his father’s horses), Dahlia’s mule and the donkey that Kyle brought.  The beasts bray and whinny in fear as the massive spiders pierce legs and forebody, delivering deadly poison to them!

Our heroes dismount as best they can, trying to get into fighting position.  Goer whips his sword from its sheath and hacks at one of the spiders, but to no avail; but then Jorgen slices out with his sword and wounds one of the bests severely.  Cur slays another, and Cara leaps in with a flourish, jabbing her rapier into one of the hairy arachnids.

Then Otis gestures, weaving his hands in the air, and pronounces a series of incantations- and a bolt of pure force streaks out and blasts the last remaining spider to bits!

The others stare at him.  

“What?” he asks.  His padded armor is strapped on slightly incorrectly, and he holds his spear as if it’s a live snake.

“Let’s search and see if they had any other victims,” says Kyle, circumventing any problems that might arise from such a blatant display of magic.  After a moment, the others begin fanning out, kicking through the grass in the area. Indeed, the group finds the withered husk of a small humanoid with features both reptilian and canine.  It wears serviceable leather armor, but it is about half the size of a man.  Our heroes take it in the hopes of selling it later anyway.

Then they turn to the hill that rises before them.  Atop it is a ruined keep.  

“Well, let’th go,” Cedric declares, unlimbering his battle axe.  As the party makes ready to climb the hill, Cur suddenly hisses and turns behind them.

“Over there, lads!” he cries.

A figure is descending Heartbreak Hill and coming towards them, holding his head.  He moves like he is injured.  As it is dusk, our heroes cannot make out his features until he is fairly close.  Then, Goer recognizes him.  “Why, it’s the bookkeeper!” he exclaims.

Lazarus groans.  “Where am I?  What’s happening?”

“You tell uth, thir,” Cedric commands imperiously.  “What are you doing out here?  Conthpiring with banditth, perhapth?”

“Being victimized is more like it,” Lazarus groans.  “I was lured out from the festival and hit from behind.  The next thing I know, I’m waking up with a headache like you wouldn’t believe.  I must have forgotten my place somehow,” he adds.  “It is surely a judgment from the gods.”

After a thorough questioning, the group informs Lazarus that they are planning on climbing the hill to Castle Laagos and, with any luck, capturing a bandit or two themselves.  They explain about Bangus Redcoat’s dilemma.  Lazarus says, “Well, especially if these are the same bandits that hit me and took my money, I’d like to remind them of _their_ place.”

“Agreed!” Cedric declares.  “Then welcome to our hunting party.”

By now night has truly fallen.  Our heroes start to make a cautious approach, but then they hear something: the sound of dogs barking, coming down hill.

“We weren’t really subtle when we approached, were we?” sighs Jorgen.

The group takes cover.  Otis moves ahead, crawling up slope until he can hear them very near up ahead.  Then, as quietly as he can, he begins casting a spell.

“What’s that?” comes a voice.  Then, “Get ‘em, boy!”  The barking of two dogs suddenly erupts, racing forward towards Otis’ hiding place.  He can hear the panting of a pair of humans coming too.  

Otis pops up, sand trailing through his fingers as he completes the spell, as both dogs and both approaching bandits drop into a sound slumber.  Quickly, he moves up and runs one of them through with his spear; but the others stop him from killing the other man.  “He may be able to answer some questions,” points out Kyle.

“Should we continue on now?  It’s dark, but they’re obviously expecting us at this point,” remarks Cara.  

“True,” Otis answers.  His voice is even, calm, reassuring.  He is exceptionally polite.  “I, myself, would be far more effective given a night’s rest.”

“Oh, come on, let’s just go,” urges Goer.  He takes a single step in the dark and his foot comes down on a loose piece of rubble.  He gasps and collapses with a whimper.  “Ow, my ankle!”  Cedric helps him up and they examine it; it is badly sprained.

“I could use a day to rest too, frankly,” Lazarus admits.  He kneels down, nausea and dizziness overcoming him.  “Urgh...”

“He’s got a concussion,” remarks Dahlia.

“It sounds like we’ll have to wait til morning to attack, but that’s probably a good thing.”  Jorgan glances at the prisoner, who is starting to stir.  

Quickly and quietly, they hustle him down the hillside.  Dahlia finds a thicket that they can hide in in case there are more patrols, binds their prisoner thoroughly, and then the group falls asleep.  In the morning Goer’s ankle is swollen impressively and Lazarus is no better, so the two of them, along with Kyle and Cur Sed Seed, head back to Whitewater and to Sir Martin’s estate to report in.  Meanwhile, the others check out their situation.  Dahlia finds the tracks of someone who had been wandering around last night- “probably someone quiet,” she allows, “since he got not thirty feet from us.  But it doesn’t look like he noticed us.”

“Tho, then- let uth athend the hill and find thith look-alike for Banguth Redcoat!”  So saying, Cedric leads the party over to one of the trees on the hillside, where they tied their prisoner, promising to return to get him before too long.  Then they head up the hill, circumnavigating the walls and examining it from all sides before beginning their assault.  The western face holds a portcullis, which is raised about 3’ off the ground and suspended by a combination of loose rusty chains and creaking ropes.  

Along the north face, one section of the wall is partially collapses.  This looks promising but treacherous, and our heroes elect to assault the portcullis first.  

As they approach-

_Spang!_  A sling stone pounds into Jorgan’s pate!  “Aargh!” he cries.

Dogs are barking, sling stones are flying- suddenly everything is happening at once.

_*Next Time:*_ Do or die against the entire bandit troupe!


----------



## the Jester

Here's the complete party roster (though you'll rarely see them all together):

Cedric Whitewater (knight 1)
Dahlia (elfblooded druid 1)
Cara Reed (bard 1)
Fwaigo "Goer" Smith (fighter 1)
Jorgen Boatwright (fighter 1)
Kyle Goldenbow (elfblooded rogue 1)
Cur Sed Seed (half-orc ranger 1)
Otis Optimus (wizard 1)
Lazarus of Kamenda (priest 1)


----------



## Spider_Jerusalem

Hey Jester, nice work so far.

Cedric is my favourite so far, for obviouth reathons. But seriously, whenever he talks I get that damn priest from The Princess Bride in my head - not that it's the same speech impediment, but hey, whatever. I'm so shallow  

Anyway. Good writing so far - looking forward to the party going into action against the bandits... lets see if all those fighters are worth a damn  .

Spider J


----------



## the Jester

Hey Spider, glad you're enjoying it!  My group is always a lot of fun, and Cedric's player has a thing for funny voices (you should hear his efreeti when he dms!).


----------



## the Jester

*Battle of the Bandits*

It is pure chaos as the party edges up towards the portcullis, under fire by a barrage of sling stones.  Most of them flatten against the wall, out of direct sight.  The sound of barking dogs coming closer sends a chill through our heroes.  

Cedric moves up, crying, “Foul banditth!  Thurrender and we will be merthiful!”  

Otis, hanging back, cries out as a sling stone hits him in the arm.  A bandit’s voice retorts, _“You_ surrender and _we_ will be merciful!”

The barking dogs- four of them- have stopped just on the other side of the portcullis.  Cedric glares at them, but moving forward to engage them would expose him to sling shots through the portcullis.  The dogs are well-trained, it seems; they remain on the far side of the partially-raised portcullis.  Dahlia tries to charm one with her witchy ways, but the dog is loyal to its masters.  Cedric whistles at one of the other dogs.  “Here, boy!” he calls.  “Come here, boy!”  He coaxes it, and the dog starts towards him.  As it passes beneath the portcullis, it suddenly drops, impaling the dog and killing it instantly!  Worse, it now blocks passage.  The sling stones still zing forth from the bandits in the courtyard beyond, and now they are moving up, trying to get a better angle.

“I knew it wath a trap!” Cedric chortles, “It wath too obviouth.”  

Jorgen, meanwhile, has begun to scale the wall, pulling himself up along its rough surface hand over hand.  Below him, he can hear Cedric starting to pull himself up after him. 

Otis, still hanging back, finds himself the target of several sling stones.  They whiz past at first, but eventually one strikes him hard in the temple.  For a moment Otis sees stars; then he staggers away.  _Got to get help,_ he thinks, his head spinning.  _The Lordship will help us... he will help his son._  Otis begins to jog away, heading towards the distant Whitewater estate.  He rapidly disappeared in the distance.  

Meanwhile, Cara Reed took up station before the fallen portcullis, her rapier at the ready, and began thrusting at the four bandits beyond, resulting in a duel through the portcullis.  One of the bandits notes the climbing pair and cries, “To the wall!”  Two of the bandits broke off their melee and rushed towards an outbuilding.  Meanwhile, more sling bullets pounded down towards the party, smashing off the wall shielding them.  Another of the bandits rushes to the mechanism used to raise the portcullis and begins slowly cranking the wheel.  “Uh-oh,” Cara mutters to herself as her cover begins to rise.  Then she cries out in pain and there is a blow she cannot parry and everything goes red and black.

Jorgen pulls himself onto the wall as two bandits rush out on top of the wall.  He scrambles to his feet just in time, dodging a blow on the narrow walkway atop the wall.  He turns his blade, hooks his leg around the ankle of one of the bandits, and trips him.  His follow up blow cleaves through the man’s skull, slaying him instantly, and Jorgen feels his stomach lurch.  _I’m a killer,_ he thinks crazily, and then- “Whoof!”- he’s on his back, as the other bandit trips _him!_

“Two can play at that game, lad!” the bandit cries wildly, bringing a massive bastard sword down at Jorgen’s face.  “You should never have crossed Jared o’ the Highway!”

Cedric hurls himself forward and barely manages to parry the death blow.  “Foul bandit!” he cries, as the sound of metal clashing on metal rings inches above Jorgen’s terrified eyes.  “We will defeat you thoundly!”

Down below, Dahlia and her badger scuttle around the corner of the building towards the ruined wall, hoping for a more discrete way to enter, but they jerk to a stop.  The section of the collapsed wall appears to be infested by ants the size of a- well.  About the size of a badger. 

_I guess I’d better go back to the portcullis,_ Dahlia thinks.  She turns and she and her badger move back towards- Cara’s crumpled form?!  She exclaims in Elven.  _Oh no!  Cara!_  Dahlia’s heart palpitates with fear.  She has never done anything like this before, and the terror and excitement are nearly overwhelming.

Only a single bandit is now at the portcullis, grinning wickedly.  He stops grinning as a determined Dahlia, armed with a club, and her fierce badger both lunge to the attack.  In an instant the bandit is retreating, step by step.  Then he stabs the badger in the side and the badger goes _nuts,_ tearing at the man until he is a bloody mess on the ground.  

On the wall, Jorgen has managed to gain his feet.  Cedric and he duel with Jared o’ the Highway, the obvious leader of these men.  “We only want one of you!” cries Cedric.  “But if you continue to rethitht, we will take you all and adminithter juthtithe to you all!”

“Bah!” sneers Jared.  “You’ll never take us!”  He flicks the tip of his bastard sword at Cedric’s face, then alters his blow as the young would-be knight moves to parry, and in an instant Cedric is disarmed.  Before Jared o’ the Highway can fully take advantage of the situation, however, Jorgen beats him back.  Even as Cedric scoops up his axe, Jorgen hacks at the bandit leader again- and Jared, off-balance, misses when he parries.  

_Schluck!_

Jorgen quivers as his sword penetrates deep into the bandit’s head.  With a scarlet gurgle, Jared o’ the Highway crumples to the ground.  Jorgen stares at his body for a moment disbelievingly.  _I... I have killed _two men, he thinks.  His stomach is acting as if it were one of the Amazing Longleap Sisters.

“Foul mithcreantth!” screams Cedric.  “Thurrender or be dethtroyed!  We have already thlain your leader, Jared o’ the Highway, who we know hath mithled you badly.  If you thurrender to uth, we promithe to enthure that the law treatth you gently!”

Cedric and Jorgen clamber down the wall into the courtyard, ready for more trouble.  Immediately, Jorgen’s stomach gives way.  He vomits as the realization that he is a killer goes round and round his head.  Dahlia and her bloodied badger have slain the remaining bandit at the gates and the dogs rapidly fall to the combined fury of Cedric, Jorgen and Dahlia (and her badger).  Then the three warily turn to face the main building across the courtyard. 

A lone bandit comes out with his hands up.

“Hello!” he cries.  “We- we don’t want any more trouble...”

“You had better not!” Cedric says sternly.

***

There are seven bandits left, and all surrender.  The one they seek- named Bros- tries to flee once he realizes that he is the goal of the expedition, but he is brought down quickly and sternly.  

Cedric, Dahlia and Jorgen bind their prisoners in a line and lead them back towards the estate.  Soon they have imprisoned them save for Bros, who they take to Tumenore and his men.  The sun is just going down on the last day of the festival.  

Tumenore and his men, especially the fellow who fingered Bangus Redcoat as a bandit, are abashed.  “Well, I’ll be,” Tumenore says laconically.  “I guess you were right.”  He apologizes to Bangus and gives him a gold piece as compensation for the rough treatment.  

Then he leans in towards Bros.  “But you,” he says with a feral grin, “are _ours.”_

_*Next Time:*_ The party receives great rewards for their victory!  Then they return to the ruins of Castle Laagos to investigate further!


----------



## the Jester

*Rewards; plus, the Great Ant Debacle*

Sir Martin Whitewater is as proud of his boy as he has ever been.

The sun rises into the sky over his family estate as late morning comes on.  The servants and the family are all in attendance- even Lady Raven, though bedridden, has been carried out on a litter by her nurses.  She would not miss this for the world.  All of them, as well as several of Cedric’s friends from town, are assembled in the wide open courtyard.  Several large shade trees provide some protection from the late summer sun.

The ceremony commences, with Cedric (_at last!_) taking his vows, pledging himself to valor and the service of his father and Lord.  And then, at the end, the dubbing; and Cedric is now _Sir_ Cedric, a knight at last!  As an added bonus, Sir Martin allows Sir Cedric to choose one of the horses as his own.

Grinning, the lad thanks Sir Martin effusively; and after a warm embrace, the father tells the son to summon his companions (or at least those of them who have come to witness his dubbing into knighthood) within the castle, to the audience chamber.  Soon they are assembled around the high-backed cherry wood chair that Sir Martin uses when he hears petitions.  Speaking formally, Martin thanks his son’s companions for their aid and gives each of them a unique reward.  

To Dahlia he gives a writ asserting that she is a friend an ally of the Whitewaters.  “I know the people of this area can be superstitious,” he says.  “It is all too common for the peasants to lose their heads in fear over some foolish thing.  If you should be assaulted or imprisoned, this should carry some weight.”

Jorgen is made sheriff, officially, and given both a wide-brimmed high sheriff’s hat and a seven-pointed star forged of tin.  Never has he been prouder.  “I will execute my duties faithfully, my lord!” he exclaims, nearly tripping over his own tongue.  The combination of nervousness and excitement is wearing him out- it is not easy, being close to a noble like this!

Otis first pledges his allegiance to Sir Martin, then is given a license to cast spells.  Though not always strictly necessary, it certainly should help him avoid any difficulties with superstitious peasants.  “Thank you, my lord!” he declares.  “Have you any need of my skills, you need only ask at the tower of Lady Xastys.”  Sir Martin politely inclines his head in reply. 

Then Sir Martin asks Cara Reed to come speak to him privately.  They are gone for a few minutes, and when they return Cara looks flushed and happy.  A wide grin is on her face.  She glances shyly at Cedric- no, _Sir_ Cedric now.

“Son, come speak to me,” Sir Martin says.  Cedric immediately joins him, and the two go to a sitting room.

“What ith it, father?  Some more banditth that we mutht thtrike down?  Thieveth, in the town?”

“No, no my son.”  Sir Martin looks pensive for a moment; then, with a sigh, he states, “Son, I’m not going to live forever.”  His strong blue eyes lock onto Cedric’s.  “Your mother is very ill, and the same could happen to me.  I must look to my line.”

“I underthtand, father.”

“No, son, I don’t think you do- not entirely, at least.  Son, I have to ensure not just that I have an heir, but that my heir will _continue_ the line.  Do you understand?”

“Of courthe, father.”

“Therefore, I have decided that it is time that we found you a good wife.”

Sir Cedric is thunderstruck.  “But, father, my older brother-“

“Your brother seems... unable to sire children.”

“Oh, I thee.”  Sir Cedric gulps.  He can see where this is going, and he doesn’t really like it.  On some level, he has always been attracted to boys, though he does not admit it to himself.  But it is his duty to serve his father in all things... and certainly, the line must go on- it must not be allowed to die out.

“Therefore, I have decided that, assuming she is fertile, you shall be married to Cara Reed.”

“Oh.”  Sir Cedric ponders this for a moment.  Then, he asks, “But father, ithn’t her blood rather... common?  Would it be proper?”

Sir Martin sighs.  “This is indeed something that concerns me, but in an area this size we must take the noblest blood we can find.  She is a beauty; I think her blood might help invigorate ours.”  Still, he looks unhappy at this aspect of the arrangement.

“Very well, father.”

Sir Martin nods.  “Good.  Say nothing of this until I formally announce it.  We must first ensure that she is... fertile.”

***

The bandits’ money mostly goes to Sir Martin for distribution to the peasants, though the lord pays the group generously from the takings.  Jorgen takes the suit of chain mail that Bros, that bandit that looks like Bangus Redcoat, had been wearing.  Sir Cedric takes Jared o’ the Highway’s bastard sword.  Several of the others take a weapon or shield from the pile of loot.  Sheriff Jorgen takes the unclaimed weapons and armor to start a town militia.

“I really don’t like how two dozen armed men could ride in here and almost take over the town,” Goer comments.  His ankle is still swollen, but almost healed enough for him to walk.  He reluctantly declines the trip the party is planning to Castle Laagos.  He can’t walk well quite yet.

***

Dahlia knocks on the door.  She is standing before a rude shack with not-quite square walls.  Impressive gardens of herbs, flowers and vegetables are outside.  

After a moment the door opens.  An old woman stares out at Dahlia.  “Yes?” the woman asks.

Dahlia says, “Hello- uh- my name is Dahlia.  I was hoping... that is...”  She sighs.  “I was hoping you could watch my badger.  He got hurt fighting bandits, and...”

The old woman’s face goes sour.  “You allowed your animal to get hurt?  Fighting??”

“We were fighting to save Bangus Redcoat.  He had been falsely accused of being a bandit at the festival- you probably heard all about it-“

“Skipped it.”  

“Oh.  Er...”  Dahlia gulps.  She came here, to this hovel, because of the reputation of the Three Weird Ladies.  It seemed to her that if anyone in town was likely to aid her in keeping her badger safe for the nonce, it would be them.  Now that she thinks about it, that may have been simply a vain hope that they would be somewhat like her.  Finally she says, “Well, I’m trying to avoid taking him into danger again.  I thought, maybe, you could help watch him while I go back into danger myself.” 

With an icy glare, the old woman answers, “We will watch him for you.  But I think you need to re-evaluate your priorities.”

***

Though the bandits had surrendered what they claimed was all of their treasure (which the party turned over to Sir Martin, hoping he could redistribute it to the peasants from whom it was stolen), the party decides to return to the ruins of Castle Laagos.  “There might be more,” points out Cara.  “They might have left stuff behind.”

“Yeah, I’ve been thinking about moving out there, if it’s safe enough,” Dahlia comments.  This comment, of course, makes the rest of our heroes wonder just how crazy you have to be to want to live in a ruined castle.  Then again, the bandits did it too, so apparently either there are a lot of crazies running around or it’s a fairly normal thing to do.  Hmm.  “We should exterminate those ants, too,” suggests the strange woman.  She can almost picture her badger snuffling along beside her as the group walks through the afternoon warmth towards the ruin. 

They must first pass through town in order to cross the Raging River, and while they are near it, Otis hurries to the tower of the sorceress Xastys, whose apprentice he is.  He reports to her the nature of his activities.

She is hardly supportive.

“Don’t get killed!” she declares.  “You are far too valuable, and not well-trained enough to take care of yourself yet.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“And if you find any old writings, books or scrolls, bring them to me.”

“Yes, my lady.”  Smoothly, he pulls forth five gold pieces from his pouch.  “A contribution for your research, my lady.”  He hands it to the surprised Xastys.

“Thank you,” she says, quite surprised.  “Go, then,” she adds.

Otis hurries back to the rest of the group before Xastys’ mercurial temper changes and she saddles him with chores.  As he leaves he cannot help but think longingly of his mistress’ _power._  He finds both the power and the woman most... exciting.  If only she were open to his advances!

When the group reaches Castle Laagos, they find that the portcullis has dropped shut again; from the looks of things, Otis surmises that the old chains holding it up finally snapped through.  After a moment, our heroes move around to the side with the crumbled wall, where the ants are moving about, apparently scavenging.  “We should destroy them so they pose no threat later,” comments Otis sagely.

“Well, if I’m going to live here I don’t really want them trying to carry off my food or something,” admits Dahlia.

The group takes up positions around the rubble.  They decide that Sir Cedric will attempt to lure the ants out, away from the rubble (wherein Jorgen spots several holes that might easily house many more ants).

But of course, things go awry.

Missiles and a galloping horsemen strike down the first ant, and then Sir Cedric wheels his mount to retreat, hoping to lure the ants out.  That is when the smell from the dead ant hits the group.

_”Piss ants!”_ shouts Jorgen.

More ants come swarming out of the rubble, and these ones are much bigger than the little ones.  They are about 6’ long!  Suddenly there is chaos as the ants move rapidly in and battle is joined!  Cedric hews at them, Jorgen stabs and slashes with his sword, Cara sings and stabs, Otis fires off _magic missiles._  Dahlia whirls her club and smashes it into the ants, but the ants are fierce, biting with huge mandibles.  In moments the stink of the ants fills the air, and soon Cara and Otis are both down.  Cedric has cut down two more of the small ones.  Hard-pressed, our heroes slay one of the large ants, then another; but then Cedric is pulled down, overwhelmed with a bloody gasp.  And then Dahlia, too, falls, having taken the last small ant with her.

Jorgen fights alone against two large warrior ants, his new armor turning several bites.  Then one of the ants rips wound in his thigh, and he staggers, barely catching himself. 

With a groan, he swings his sword again, cleaving the head of the ant that bit him.  Then he catches the other one’s bite on his shield and stabs it.  Limping forward, starting to see spots, fatigue starting to settle into his arm, he approaches the last ant.  It scurries forward, tearing at him with its mandibles, and though his armor turns the worst of the bite, it still rips his other leg.  Barely standing, Jorgen swings again- and misses!  The ant is quick, dodging away and then darting back in!  It bites at him again, but he manages to interpose his shield.  Its mandibles grasp onto the edge of the shield, and while it is right there he hacks with his sword, cutting right into the ant’s head!  Bug juice sprays and the thing collapses.  

Jorgen wrenches his shield free of the dead mandibles and hurries to bandage his bleeding friends.*

“Now what?” he groans to himself.  

There is no real choice.  Clearly, he cannot carry all his friends himself; and he doesn’t feel that it would be safe to leave his friends unattended for long.  He could go into town to try to get help, but if there was something left in the ruins, especially something that saw the battle- no, it seems unwise.  And there are probably more ants, too...

Wincing as his wounded legs move, Jorgen slowly hauls his friends into the ruin, finding a bandit sleeping quarters, and settles them in.  It takes him over an hour, and in the end he is exhausted.  He dozes off for several hours and wakes hungry.  Eating a few pieces of goat salami leaves him sated, and he spends the next few hours hunting up a little wood for a fire and a few wild vegetables.  The area immediately around the castle has been mostly cleared of vegetation, so he must walk a fair distance (considering the wounds in his legs).  When he returns, he is in considerable pain.  He groans and collapses on some of the bandit bedding, falling into a shaky sleep.

Jorgen spends the next two nights in the castle, eating rations and conserving his strength.  He tends his friends faithfully, and finally, Dahlia and Otis come to a sort of groggy half-consciousness.  Immediately Jorgen tells them where they are and declares that he will be back with help as soon as he can.  His legs have healed enough that he does not aggravate the wounds anymore as he walks, and he moves- perhaps a trifle slower that before- to town, where he gets Goer; and together they manage to assist the wounded back to town.

“Perhaps we should see Ovina,” suggest Jorgen.  Ovina, of course, is the local priestess.  Our heroes agree that this seems like a good idea, and so they go to the temple.  Ovina is there, and gladly heals Dahlia and Cara, but then she declares that they must work in the field from sunrise to sundown for 20 days come spring.

“Such is the price of Belthizar,” the priestess intones.

Cara protests, but Ovina insists that she will pay the farm god or he will not help her again in the future.  Grumbling, she agrees.  

Then it is Otis’ turn, but he refuses her healing touch.  

***

The party spends the next week in town.  Several of them spend the time training.**  Cara studies under the Old-Timer, an elfblood old man who claims to have been the first baby born in Whitewater.  He has many stories and is an incredible fiddler; he has many performance tricks to teach, and teach he does.

Goer spends the week crafting a longsword and putting it up for sale.  Otis gives Xastys another five gold pieces for “research purposes”.  Dahlia retrieves her badger from the three Weird Ladies.  One of them is Drendlin, who won the chicken-plucking contest at the harvest festival.  Again, they scold her; but it is clear that they treated the badger well, and he is hale and healthy.  Dahlia thanks them humbly.

Finally, a week after their return from their disastrous misadventure with the ants, a number of our heroes assemble at the Fat Mallard to head back to the castle and try to finish exploring it.  After all, if they wait too long, any bandits that escaped might return and make off with any loot that was hidden away.  The group hardly wants that to happen.

So it is that Dahlia, Goer, Cara, Otis, Cur Sed Seed and Sir Cedric head back to the ruin outside of town to try their hand at exploring it again.  And this time, they vow not to mess with the ants- or at least, not from up close.  

_*Next Time:*_ Our heroes try Laagos again! 


*At the end of this fight, every pc had burned a Wyrd (which is something like a fate or action point).  This was definitely an ‘in over their heads’ encounter- it was *EL 6.*  But that’s what happens when you disturb a nest of giant ants.  Obviously what we have here is an example of ‘status quo’ encounters (vs. ‘tailored’ encounters)- let that be a note as to the style of the campaign.   We’re using a Cling to Life variant- instead of dying at -10, you can reach a negative total equal to your con score plus level, so at this point most everyone dies around -12 or -13.  Everyone but Jorgen and Otis were 1 point away from death and stable via burning Wyrds.

**Cara, Cedric, Dahlia and Jorgen leveled after the ant fight.  I’m using training rules in the Year 271 Campaign, so it takes 1 week/level being gained of training to gain all your level up benefits.  It takes longer and costs xp to do it without a trainer.


----------



## the Jester

At this point we are in the third session that we played with this group.  The party now in action and headed for the ruin consists of:

*Dahlia*, elfblood druid 2
*Goer*, fighter 1
*Cara*, bard 2
*Otis*, wizard 1
*Cur*, half-orc ranger 1
*Cedric*, knight 2

(An 'elfblood' is, in game terms, a half-elf, but they are almost all of mixed elven-human ancestry rather than having one elf and one human parent.  The elves are gone.)

I am working on another update- maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow.


----------



## the Jester

It is about noon when our heroes arrive at the ruin.  The sun is warm; it still feels like a summer day well enough.  The crumbled wall crawls again with ants.  Our heroes carefully move away from that area.  

Goer clambers up the wall on the east face, where damage from several strikes by catapult or other siege weapon have left the wall cracked and badly damaged.  Some of the crumbling rock slips out from beneath him, and he falls to the ground with a huff.  Picking himself up, the squire shakes his head.  “Let me try that again,” he says with a cough, and the second time he moves more carefully, pulling himself up to the top of the wall 25’ above.  There he attaches a rope to a crenellation, then tosses the other end down to the party.  They start to climb upward while he surveys the scene.  

From the top of the wall, especially now, on a clear hot day, the view is great.  Goer can see probably for miles.  More importantly, he can clearly discern the layout of the keep.  The walls have a walkway all the way around, interrupted where the portcullis squats at the main entrance and by the square watch tower that rises fully 50’ from the ground.  _That’s where they shot their slings from,_ he nods to himself.  A ladder descends to the courtyard below- that was where Bangus Redcoat’s look-alike had tried to flee from.  

The walled area was probably around 100 yards square.  There was no moat, but the wall was around ten feet thick- a staunch discouragement against assault.  Still, the walls and buildings showed signs of a siege.  There were two areas of the main castle that filled half the courtyard that had been blasted to rubble by catapult stones.  Goer even fancied that he could see one of the stones buried in the building below.  There were the two outbuildings, plus the well.  From here, Goer can see that the larger outbuilding has a stairway leading out of it to the top of the wall. 

The others have clambered to the top by now.  They, too, survey the scene.  Then Otis suggests they examine the tower.  The entire group agrees easily to this suggestion; there appears to be a door entering the tower on this side of the wall, and perhaps it has a way down.  “There’s always the ladder,” comments Dahlia, “but I like the tower.  Maybe there’s something interesting in the tower.” 

The tower is a little disappointing: there are several bandit bedrolls, but no bandits in evidence.  The place looks like it has been undisturbed for a week or so.  “This is probably where some of the bandits we killed or captured slept,” comments Cur.  They do find a deck of cards, and they play a couple of hands before growing bored with it.  They also find a window with a good view of the ants down below and consider taking a few shots into one of them.  They wound one ant, but soon grow bored with the sport.  Back out the tower to the ladder they go, then down into the back end of the courtyard, behind the main castle.  The spot where Goer fancied he saw the catapult rock is not far away, so our heroes head in that direction.  

They find themselves facing a shattered chunk of wall, and indeed there is a stone present of unusual roundness.  The pounding that the floor took has created several low depressions, now filled with stagnant water overgrown with algae.  Chunks of broken masonry are strewn about the chamber, but on the far wall there is a door.  Otis starts to move towards it when a sudden, wispy buzzing sound starts to rise.  Otis falters.

Before him, rising from the stagnant ponds, come an incredible number of mosquitoes.  The noise is their buzzing.  They swarm forward, enveloping Otis and biting him everywhere.*  He cries out in distress and dashes back away from the mass of bloodsuckers.  They drift forward in pursuit, overtaking Goer for a moment.  He gives a choked cry of despair as he realizes how itchy he is going to be for the next few days.  Then he bolts, flapping his arms, and the others are either ahead of him or following suit.  The mosquitoes are fairly slow; they give up the chase almost immediately.  

“Right, that’s not the way in,” Dahlia states firmly.

“No doubt, lassie!” agrees Cur Sed Seed most emphatically.

The party moves on to the other section holed by a catapult stone.  This time they find nothing dangerous barring their entry.  They move in, finding a number of different sets of living quarters.  One disturbing area holds many children’s toys and a shattered crib.  A few bones are also in the room.  

“The poor dearth,” Sir Cedric says mournfully.

Sleeping quarters, and abandoned ones at that; there is almost nothing else to see, at least at first.  A few things here and there worth taking- a nice pair of boots, a few coins, a dagger hidden beneath a bedroll.

As the party explores, they find a kitchen, piled high with dirty dishes and containing a goblin roped to the wall.  The goblin proves to be a cringing coward, terrified of the big humans and convinced that they are going to beat him for some imagined failure or slight.  With a big hopeful grin, the goblin starts rubbing a filthy rag across a plate, first dipping it to some disgustingly dirty water.  

“Aw, a goblin,” says Cara.  “How cute!”

“I will take charge of him,” declares Otis.  He fixes the goblin with his eyes and shakes a warning finger at him.  But the goblin- Shazo turns out to be his name- only cringes.  With a shake of his head, Otis manages to free the end of the rope that is tied to the wall.  Then he takes the end in his hand, figuring he can use it like a leash.

Soon our heroes move on again, this time with a nearly naked, shivering goblin on a rope with them.  They try to treat him nicely, even paying for his services, but do they convince him that they mean him no harm?  

“Hey, look here!” exclaims Cur Sed Seed.  “This door’s blocked by rubble.

“How long has it been blocked, do you think?” asks Goer. 

“A long time...”

“We could clear it out,” suggests Cedric.  “It will take thome time, but we could do it.”

The party generally agrees, at which point Sir Cedric bellow, “PEATHANTTH!  Clear the rubble!!”

And the peasants set to their task.

_*Next Time:*_ 


*Yes, that’s right- it was a (homebrewed) _Mosquito Swarm!!_


----------



## the Jester

“Whew,” breathes Goer.  He wipes his brow. 

The blocked door has at last been uncovered.  The rubble has been moved away, accommodating our heroes’ desire to see what is sealed away in the room.  

“Open the door,” Otis barks in Goblin to the meek captive he has on a leash.  The goblin cringes and moves to the door.  He pulls at it, and for an instant the door sticks; but then it opens- and the smell hits them: corruption.  The stink of rotting flesh- and the sight of it, too: for a terrible, snarling beast that was once a man springs forth, biting the goblin savagely in the shoulder.  The goblin screeches in fear and struggles to throw the beast off of him.

Its flesh is the sick grey of untended corpses.  Its tongue is long and black, swollen and cracked.  Tatters of clothes still cling to the horrible monster.

_How can it move if it’s dead??_

Otis knows the answer.  He casts _disrupt undead,_ and a crackling bolt of eldritch energy shoots out and blasts the monster.  It does not falter, though, instead merely taking another bite of the goblin.  The little captive screams in pain and terror and the bloody-lipped monster chortles and flicks its black tongue.  

“RAAAGH!!!”  Cur rushes forward, swinging his sickle.  It whistles through the air, but the monster darts aside, snickering.  It looks at the goblin again, who is quivering in fear and cowering against the wall.  

Then Sir Cedric intervenes, shoving the goblin out of the way and moving in front of the terrible creature.  “Foul fiend!” the knight cries.  “We thall dethtroy you!”

The monster darts to the side and takes another cruel bite of the goblin.  The rest of the party shouts in anger as the poor little prisoner collapses limp to the ground.  Cedric jabs the monster with his longspear, even as Otis steps up with a slightly shorter spear.  As they pin the horrible corpse-thing, Goer moves in and hacks it ruthlessly with his sword.  A moment more and the monster is dead on the end of Otis’ spear.  The wizard shakes the creature off the end and the party stares at it.  Goer touches an amulet around his neck and makes a sign to ward off the evil eye.

“That thing was... unnatural.  Disgusting,” comments Dahlia.

“I’ve never ekthperienthed anything like it before,” admits Cedric.  “But clearly, we are the equal of any challenge that thith plathe might throw uth!  What could withthtand thuch a powerful group ath uth?”

“Hey, the goblin’s still alive!” exclaims Cara.  “He’s breathing, and his eyes follow me, but he can’t move.”

“He ith paralythed,” Cedric says in wonder.

But only for a moment more.  In less than a minute, the goblin- his name is Shazo- can move again.  He is badly wounded, however, with major wounds from the filthy mouth of the undead creature.  “Maybe we shouldn’t make him open the next door,” remarks Cara.  “That didn’t work too well this time.”

The dead monster wore a pair of tarnished silver rings and a gold necklace covered in filth.  The group gathers the jewelry up and then continues on their way.  More empty chambers that show the signs of being recently inhabited by the bandits testify to the thoroughness of the group’s victory over them.  The group finds an old trophy room, with the mounted heads of various creatures including a dragon on the wall.  

Our heroes keep exploring, and soon they find a chapel.  The icons and images indicate to the more learned of the group that the place is dedicated to the god Clymorian.  Sir Cedric enters the place and starts exploring, but when he glances over his shoulder, he finds that the others have hung back: whenever any of the others of them tries to enter, lancing pains force them back out.  Finally, Cur Sed Seed straightens his kilt and leaps into the room.  Immediately he screams in pain and his eyes bug out.  He starts bleeding from his ears, eyes and mouth, and then a great gout of scarlet blasts out his nose.  Staggering, Cur manages to make it to the threshold and collapse just over the threshold, groaning.  Our heroes try to help him, but he’s shaking and sore, covered in small cuts.  But the bleeding has stopped- he has survived it. 

Sir Cedric stares, dumbfounded.  _Why am I the only one who can enter?_ he wonders, then shrugs.  “I thall thearch,” he announces, and after looking through everything he finds a book of prayers to Clymorian in the altar.  He passes it around the group, but nobody finds it especially noteworthy, so he enters the room again and replaces it in the altar, and the group moves on.

Soon the party finds the door to the chamber that is home to the mosquito swarm that they encountered previously, entering from outside.  As soon as Jorgen opens the door, a buzz rises up from the dank pools in the rubble, and the cloud of bloodsucking bugs rises up.

Wisely, Jorgen slams the door shut.  

“We can’t fight them!” exclaims Jorgen.  “What good will our swords do?”

“Perhapth you can help, withard?” Sir Cedric says, looking at Otis, but the mage shakes his head.  

“I am afraid that my spells are not suited to such a disgusting concentration of vermin,” he answers gravely.

“Well, maybe we can smoke ‘em out,” suggests Goer. 

”Surely they’re vulnerable to fire,” points out Cara.

After some discussion and argument, Goer finally collects some bandit bedding and piles it against the wall near the door.  “All right,” he declares, “I’ll light the blankets on fire.  Once they’re going good, we can open the door and throw them at the mosquitoes!”  

”Wait a minute, is this a good idea?” Dahlia asks, scratching her chin, but Goer is heedless, piling the blankets together and sparking a flame.

“Sure it is,” he grins.  Soon the pile of bedding is blazing merrily.  Jorgen throws open the door dramatically, and Goer looks at the flaming blankets (beginning to catch the wooden interior wall) and frowns.  “Er, there isn’t really any way for me to grab it,” he comments.

The buzz of the mosquitoes rises.

“The wall, you fools!” shouts Dahlia, and she turns and rushes away, towards the exit.

“What?  Oh no!” cries Jorgen.  He lurches to the burning area and tries to pull the blankets away from the wall, but-

Otis walks a few steps backwards and then turns and flees after Dahlia.  “Run!” squeals Cara, “The place is on fire!”  She runs away after the spellcasters.

“Ah...” Goer goggles at the flames.

”Let’s get out of here!” shouts Jorgen.

“Yeth, our work ith done here,” declares Sir Cedric, trying to muster as much dignity as he can.  “Perhapth the thmoke will drive them out.”

***

Our heroes flee back to Whitewater as smoke rises from the edifice behind them.  “Well, we thall thee what hath become of our fine cathle there on the morrow,” Sir Cedric announces.  “For now, we mutht wet our whithles.  Let uth head to the Fat Mallard.”

Cara begs off, going home instead.  It is evening, and she wants to check in with her mom.  When she gets home, her mother is sitting on the porch with a glass of wine, watching the sunset.  She smiles at Cara.  “I’m glad you’re in one piece.”  Her tone is light, but there is a clear undercurrent of real concern.

“Everything went okay, mom.  Mom... we need to talk about something.”

“What is it, honey?” her mother asks.

Cara takes a deep breath.  “I’m engaged.”

Her mom’s jaw drops open.

”To... to the knight’s son.”

“That’s great, honey!” her mom cries.  They embrace.  “Tell me how this happened!”  Her mom beams at her.  And they talk for several hours.  Cara’s mom is the town’s retired adventurer; she settled down to have children, and the loss of Cara’s dad still pains her greatly. 

As she has before, Cara’s mom admonishes her to always carry a missile weapon.  Ah, motherly advice. 

Night embraces the sky, and eventually sleep settles upon everyone in their own place.  

_*Next Time:*_ Our heroes return to Laagos!  Will there be anything left to explore?  Will there be anything worth finding?  We’ll get the answers next time!


----------



## Brain

the Jester said:
			
		

> “Well, maybe we can smoke ‘em out,” suggests Goer.
> 
> ”Surely they’re vulnerable to fire,” points out Cara.
> 
> After some discussion and argument, Goer finally collects some bandit bedding and piles it against the wall near the door.  “All right,” he declares, “I’ll light the blankets on fire.  Once they’re going good, we can open the door and throw them at the mosquitoes!”
> 
> ”Wait a minute, is this a good idea?” Dahlia asks, scratching her chin, but Goer is heedless, piling the blankets together and sparking a flame.
> 
> “Sure it is,” he grins.  Soon the pile of bedding is blazing merrily.  Jorgen throws open the door dramatically, and Goer looks at the flaming blankets (beginning to catch the wooden interior wall) and frowns.  “Er, there isn’t really any way for me to grab it,” he comments.
> 
> The buzz of the mosquitoes rises.
> 
> “The wall, you fools!” shouts Dahlia, and she turns and rushes away, towards the exit.
> 
> “What?  Oh no!” cries Jorgen.  He lurches to the burning area and tries to pull the blankets away from the wall, but-
> 
> Otis walks a few steps backwards and then turns and flees after Dahlia.  “Run!” squeals Cara, “The place is on fire!”  She runs away after the spellcasters.
> 
> “Ah...” Goer goggles at the flames.
> 
> ”Let’s get out of here!” shouts Jorgen.
> 
> “Yeth, our work ith done here,” declares Sir Cedric, trying to muster as much dignity as he can.  “Perhapth the thmoke will drive them out.”




That was some pure adventuring genius right there.  [hannibal]I love it when a plan comes together.[/hannibal]


----------



## the Jester

*The Ruins of Castle Laagos- concluded*

Half-expecting to find naught but a smoking ruin, our heroes are pleased to find that Castle Laagos still stands.  Better yet, the smoke _did_ drive out the mosquitoes.  Fortunately, the general dampness has preserved the building from the fire.  Our heroes elect to continue their exploration, though there are no signs of renewed bandit activity- or indeed, any activity since their last foray.  By now summer has left them behind; the days are cooler than they were, and where there are trees their leaves are just starting to turn colors.

Our heroes explore the ruin.  Otis looks pensive; he has lost the goblin in the night, after Lady Xastys refused to allow him to keep it in the tower.  Instead, he tied it up; but in the morning, he found the rope cut and Shazo gone.  Otis suspects that Tad Ranger has something to do with it; Tad hates goblins, and lives on the outskirts of town.  He chews his lip for a moment.

Well, he has instructions, in any event.  “Your pardon, my lord,” he says to Sir Cedric.

“Eh? Yeth?”

“I was hoping I could persuade you to retrieve that book for my Lady Xastys.  She instructed me to try to retrieve any books or writings possible from the ruins.”

Sir Cedric glances at him.  “Hm.  It ith a work of religion, not of thorthery.  What uthe can the have of it?”

“She is a scholar, and a pursuer of knowledge,” Otis remarks softly.  

“Thertainly.  I thee no reathon why the thouldn’t have it,” Cedric replies.

“Thank you, my lord,” Otis says gratefully.  He bows deeply.

Sir Cedric does indeed retrieve the book for Otis who buries it in his backpack with relish.  _Surely this will please Lady Xastys,_ he thinks with a mental sigh.

The party finishes their search of the ground floor of the castle ruins, finding both a narrow stair leading down to the dungeon and a spiraling staircase that ascends to a shattered second story.  They are attacked by a pack of hungry rats, but this is no real trouble.  They fend the vicious little rodents off with sword and club.  After a search, the upper level proves empty.  Then they descend the stairs.

The squeaking of rats echoes as vermin scatter before our heroes.  They are truly in a dungeon.  The entry chamber houses a desk that holds ruined papers and a ring of rusty iron keys.  A single claustrophobic passage leads away.  Carefully, Sir Cedric leads the way.  Goer follows with a torch.  The others are close behind.  It is not long at all before the party reaches a damp wooden door set in the left wall.  The flickering torchlight reveals another beyond it, on the right, and yet another on the left past that.  

The first door yields to one of the keys on the ring, and suddenly something within the cell gives out a blubbering scream and pushes out into the hall!  The stench of death rolls out, and the walking corpse snarls and bites at Goer, who gasps as the fangs sink into his shoulder.  He groans, his sword dropping from his hand to clang on the ground as he collapses.

“It hath paralythed my thquire!” shouts Sir Cedric, driving the bastard sword that the party took from the bandits into the monster.  It staggers back, nearly cut in two, but then snarls and starts to retreat- grabbing Goer’s limp for by the arm!

“No you don’t!” cries Cara, lunging forward with her rapier.  The blade stabs into the monster’s chest, impaling it.  It collapses with a groan and sick, wet thud. 

“Is he all right?” worries Dahlia.  

“He will be fine,” declares Sir Cedric.  “Remember the goblin?  He came around after a few momentth.”

And Cedric proves correct.  Shaken, Goer rises to his feet after a minute or so.  He shudders when he binds his wound.  “That thing _stinks,_” he complains.

There is nothing of note in the cell, so our heroes move on down the hall.  One of the chambers smells so badly that our heroes decide to avoid it completely.  The other yields rats, some as big as a housecat.  After the group dispatches them, they search the litter of the nest the rats have created in the straw and refuse of the cell and find a few pennies.  

The final chamber holds a metal cistern.  Once it was probably an efficient way to keep a fresh source of water, but now the cistern has cracked, spilling a small flood of water out across half the chamber.  The floor in this area slopes downward to the south, and a variety of strange subterranean growths dot the wet floor.  

“Other than the ants, it looks pretty safe here,” comments Dahlia.  “I _am_ going to move out here.”

_*Next Time:*_ Dahlia receives a mysterious visitor!  Cur meets an aged orc!  Otis angers his mistress, Lady Xastys!  All this and more!


----------



## the Jester

*In Between Adventures*

Lazarus squints at the books open before him and sighs.  He is half done, probably, but not much more.  He leans back and stretches, sighing as bits seemingly frozen in place pop and shift for the first time in hours.  A glance out the window reveals that evening has fallen- nay, full night.  He missed the evening completely, so wrapped up in his work was he.  Bemused, he glances again at the books.  _If only Bevin Tanner kept neater records, this would be much easier,_ he thinks wryly.  _Then again, if he kept his books well he would have no need of my services.  I must count myself lucky- and must remember that my place is there, pouring over the books._

Still, before Lazarus gets back to work, he takes a moment to gather a bowl of stew.  Settling before it, he devours it quickly.  Chunks of goat, peas and potatoes and carrots- it is a filling and delicious meal.  

Or so he tells himself.

In reality, the broth is thin, the chunks are smaller and the flavor is blander than he might have wished, but for the nonce there isn’t much he can do about it.  Not until he gets paid, and that won’t happen until he finishes the books for his client.  

Nonetheless, Lazarus maintains a cheery disposition as he returns to his labors.  Ever since his youth in Kamenda City, he has shuffled papers for a living.  It is his only way to make up the money he was robbed of at the festival.  

His quill jabs into the inkwell, then slashes across and down the paper in a long list of items sold, their prices, their cost, the time that Tanner put into them and the value of the time he spent on the item.  He is deep in his work when a gentle rapping comes at his door.  Surprised, Lazarus answers- and he finds that it is Otis, a local scribe and apprentice to the sorceress of the tower.  The two have long since made each other’s acquaintance.  A scribe and a bookkeeper have a certain natural affinity for each other, and a tendency to need the same things for their professions.

“Greetings,” says Otis.  “I have acquired something that I think you might find interesting.”  With that, he pulls a book from his backpack- the book that only Sir Cedric could retrieve.  

As he sees the script on the front of the book, Lazarus looks up at Otis.  “This is fairly old,” he remarks.

“We found it in the ruins of Castle Laagos,” Otis replies.  “My Lady Xastys bade me retrieve it, but it is in a somewhat archaic style.  I thought you might be able to make more of it than I.”

“It’s a book of prayers,” Lazarus says, wonder tinting his voice.  “To Clymorian!”  He looks at Otis.

“Lady Xastys wishes to study it, but I thought I could leave it with your for a day.  Perhaps later, she might be persuaded to part with it...”

Lazarus turns the book over in his hands and then returns his eyes to Otis.  “By what right does she claim it?  I am a priest of Clymorian.  I would think that gives me more right to it than her.”

“She is very powerful,” Otis says tactfully, “and she commanded me to retrieve it.”

“You think she would blast me over it?” Lazarus demands.

“I think she would blast _me_ over it.”

”I see.”  Lazarus puts the book down on his writing desk.  “Well, then, a day will have to do.”  He glances ruefully at the books he was working on; he knows that they will now wait for another day.  His think stew will have to do for a little longer.

He sits and begins to read.  After a minute Otis leaves, heading towards the tower, past the swimming hole, out north past the east edge of town.  When he arrives, he finds Xastys sitting up, reading a book.  She glances at him.  “Ahh, you return.  How did it go?”

“It went all right,” Otis allows.  “We captured or killed the bandits and fought a couple of intriguing undead creatures that-”

“Did you retrieve the book?” Xastys demands.

“Yes.  I did more than retrieve it- I have begun the process of translating it into a modern vernacular.”

“Let me see it.”

“I don’t have it.”

“What?  You fool!  Who does?”

“The- the bookkeeper, Lazarus.  I thought he-“

“He is a priest of Clymorian.  That book could be very valuable to him!”

“Exactly.  And I thought that if he had a chance to study it-“

“He might learn its secrets for free!  Go retrieve it at once!”

Chastened, Otis hurries from the tower.  He spends several bitter hours wondering what it will take to win Xastys’ affections.  Then he returns to the bookkeeper’s house, where Lazarus reluctantly turns the book over to him.  “When she’s done with it, I want it!” he affirms.  _There is some sort of curse upon the enemies of Clymorian in the book that I could learn,_ he thinks ruefully as he watches Otis hurry off.  _What does a sorceress want of it anyway?_

***

Autumn is truly settling in.  Cur is striding along under cloudy skies one minute, and the next he is in a deluge.  The first true rain of the season has begun.

Moving through the deepening shadows as evening sets in, Cur Sed Seed sets about looking for shelter.  After a few short moments, he spies a flicker of firelight against a boulder, and upon giving it a closer look he finds a small shelter and fire, with a single figure huddled in it.  There looks to be just enough room for two.

”May I join ya?” Cur calls in Kamendan.  There is no answer.  He switches to Orcish.  “It’s a devil of a storm- may I share in yuir shelter?”

To his surprise, a deep, gravelly voice answers in the same tongue.  “An you mean no harm, come in.”

Cur crawls in next to a burly orc.  The two eye each other across the tiny fire.  They are filling the shelter so much that their feet are out in the rain.  They must lie down, for there is no room to even squat or sit.  

“A half-blood, huh?”  The orc’s snort rankles Cur.  “What’s your name, boy?”*

“I am Cur Sed Seed,” replies the half-orc.  “An’ now I’ve given ya mine, how about you give me yuirs?”

“I’m called Skeetles.  What are you doin’ out in this?”

“I am an outcast,” growls Cur.  “I have no home.  I live off the land, wanderin’ from place ta place, huntin’ my own meat.”

“You must be pretty tough,” remarks the orc with what sounds suspiciously like a sneer.  “Tell me, boy, how many men ya killed?”

Cur licks his lips.  “Well, there was this dead guy- and we’ve killed lots of rats-“

“No, how many _men_ have you killed?  Human, dwarf, orc, whatever?”

“Well, none, but-“

“Then you’re just a boy.”  The sneer is stronger now.  “Until you kill a _man_ all you will ever be is a boy.”  

“What about you?” demands Cur Sed Seed.  “How many men have you killed?”

The orc shrugs in the shelter.  “I don’t know.  More than my fingers and toes.  More than twice that.  Maybe more still.  Plenty.”

_That’s a lot of men,_ Cur admits to himself.  “Well, why are you out in this?”

Skeetles laughs softly.  “I’m _old._  No matter how many men you can kill, eventually you start to slow down.  I stay with my old tribe, and some young buck will come along eventually and put me down.  That’s why I left.”  

The two lay in silence beside the tiny fire for nearly an hour.  Finally, Skeetles observes, “Rain’s letting up.”

“Yep,” agrees Cur.

“Once you’ve killed a _man_ or two, why don’t you come seek me out,” suggests the orc.  “Maybe we’ll talk more then.”

_Or maybe we’ll dance,_ thinks Cur.

***

Dahlia is staring at the fireplace in her hut.  She still hasn’t really decided to move to Castle Laagos’ ruins; those ants are still there, and they are potentially a very dangerous threat.  She is daydreaming when the knock on her door comes.  Startled, she almost spills her tea.  _A visitor?_ she wonders.  _Did I imagine-_

_Knock, knock._ 

Dahlia answers the door and finds a heavily robed, muffled figure standing on her doorstep.  “Good evening,” the figure says in a clear, feminine voice.  “Ah, you must be Dahlia.”

“Uh- who are you?”

The figure bows.  “I wish a moment of your time.  I wonder if you might perhaps be able to help me with some questions about my heritage.  May I come in?”

“Reveal your face,” Dahlia insists.  “Nobody needs to come into my home hiding their face.”

After a moment’s hesitation, the figure throws back her cowl.  She appears to be a human woman, probably in her late twenties or early thirties.  As she steps in, she introduces herself as Persiparie.  Soon she has drawn Dahlia into a deep conversation.  She claims to have a certain amount of elvish blood, “though much less than you,” she tells Dahlia.  Still, she is very interested in elven culture, any elvish ruins or elf blooded folk that Dahlia knows, etc.  She answers vaguely when asked about her origin, claiming merely to be a traveler and to have wandered from somewhere far to the north, but she makes no threatening moves.  

Ultimately, Dahlia tells Persiparie, “You know who would know a lot about the elves?  The old-timer!  He claims to be the first baby born in Whitewater, and he’s definitely an elfblood.”

“Really?  Hmm... I have an errand to run first, but perhaps we could meet at Whitewater in a couple of days.”

“What sort of errand?  Maybe I could help you,” Dahlia offers.

“Oh, I’m afraid I can’t say,” Persiparie demurs.  “It is something... held in confidence.”  She smiles reassuringly.  “But as I said, why don’t we meet in a couple of days?”

“...All right,” agrees Dahlia after a moment.

But, a couple of days later, Persiparie never shows up.

_*Next Time:*_ Brandon Mallard makes a sad announcement!  Our heroes find a new adventure!  Find out what it is- next time!


*At this point all the jokes about prison sex started from the other players.  “You got a purty mouth!”


----------



## the Jester

For the record, this party has three 'outrageous voices' in it:

Sir Cedric, with his lithp (played to perfection by omrob)
Kyle Goldenbow, with an over-the-top American interpetation of an Austrailian accent (played by seance)
and Cur Sed Seed, with a thick Scottish brogue (played by Dave, who I don't think posts on ENWorld, though I know he reads the story hours)


----------



## the Jester

*Our Heroes Find a New Mission (or two, or three, or...)*

Otis has stacked boxes, dusted shelves, arranged books alphabetically and by language, washed dishes, washed laboratory beakers, flasks, vials and bottles, copied over correspondence, repainted faded walls, weeded the garden, monitored experiments and a hundred other things over the last week.  He is tired but happy: mistress Xastys has released him for a day.  

So it is that he walks into town in the evening, after doing the morrow’s chores.  He wanders about, looking for something to do, but of course there isn’t much in a town the size of Whitewater.  There is the swimming hole... but it’s already almost dark, and cool enough that the bugs will be out.  That pretty much leaves the taverns as a place to go.  _Well,_ he thinks, _perhaps I will run into some of my friends there._  That thought gives him pause for a moment: for years he has not had any friends.  Since entering the Tower of Xastys, his life has been dedicated to magic.  Nothing else has entered the equation for him- or at least, not until the recent events surrounding Castle Laagos, the bandits and Bangus Redcoat.  For most of his life Otis has served the mercurial, capricious Xastys, hungrily consuming all the knowledge of the hidden world that she could provide.  But with his adventure against the bandits, Otis had made friends- people who risked their lives with him.  

When he reaches the Honest Man, he finds some of those friends: Cara Reed is singing a melody, accumulating a few copper pennies, while Cur Sed Seed drinks sips on a mug of ale.  Goer, Dahlia and Jorgen are all finishing a meal- the smell of Goer’s shepherd’s pie is _delicious._  Otis nods to them and walks to their table to join them.

“Greetings, Otis,” Jorgen declares.  “Please, join us.”  The wizard pulls up a chair and murmurs polite greetings to his friends.  “We were just discussing some rumors that a couple of us heard,” the sheriff tells him.  “There was a fire in Cotton Hill a while back, and we’ve heard that it might have been started by some sort of winged devil.”

“A devil,” muses Otis.  “That would be... most unfortunate.”

“Especially for the cotton crop,” remarks Goer. 

Dahlia adds, “And for anyone whose home burned down.”

“Anyhow,” Jorgen continues, “we were considering going to Cotton Hill to investigate the matter.  I think that your aid would be invaluable- especially if it is some sort of devil that started the fire!  Why, our weapons might not even have any effect on it.”

Otis nods hesitantly.  “My lady has had much for me to do lately,” he says.  “I must check in with her.”

“Of course,” Jorgen replies.  

“I’m still worried about the Old-Timer,” Dahlia says.

Goer asks, “What’s wrong with the Old-Timer?”

“Well- er- there was this lady who came to my hut and asked a bunch of questions.  At the time I thought she was okay, but now I’m not so sure.  She was supposed to meet me here today, but she never showed up.  And she said she had an errand to run first, but she wouldn’t tell me what it was.”

“Why do you think she’s after the Old-Timer?”

“Well, I don’t _know_ that she is, but she asked a bunch of questions about elves and elfbloods, and I know he’s an elfblood.  And I mentioned this to her.”

Jorgen thinks out loud, “Well, that’s interesting.  Why would someone be so interested in elves?  I wonder if the crazy old lady got her name.  Hey, Dahlia, did you get her name?”

Dahlia stares at him for a moment.  Then she answers, “Her name was Persiparie.”

The group sits and chats for a few more minutes.  Dark has fallen outside.  Dahlia grows increasingly worried.  Cara, her performance over, comes and joins the party at their table, ordering up some wine.  They tell her about the subject of their discussion.  “Unfortunately, none of us know the Old-Timer, or exactly which house he lives in,” remarks Goer.

“I do,” Cara says.  The others turn to her, surprised.  “I trained with him,” she adds.  “He’s a hell of a fiddler, you know.”

“Well, do you know where he lives?” asks Jorgen.

Cara nods.  “He’s actually right next door.”

“Then let’s warn him!”  Dahlia springs to her feet.  “Who knows what terrible things Persiparie is plotting!”

The party pays their tab, then exits the Honest Man.  Next door is the house the Old-Timer lives in.  It is a small, homely place, with a few ill-tended gardens.  The door is shut and the windows are dark and shuttered.  The group spends a moment listening for signs of trouble or life, and hears nothing, so they begin pounding on the door and calling for the Old-Timer.  Eventually, they wake him up; he is safe and sound, but very irritable when awoken.  He yells at the group to go away and let him sleep, and after a few moments of trying to calm him down the group realizes just how senile the Old-Timer is becoming- he seems to have little, if any, recollection of training Cara, for instance- they determine that coming back in the morning is their best course if they wish to question him as to whether he has been visited by the mysterious Persiparie.

Afterwards, Goer remarks, “Well, we can at least make a journey to Cotton Hill.”  Then his face falls.  “Although I may not be able to go.  Sir Cedric is enraptured by some tales of a land covered in ice.  I may have to stay with him, if duty requires it.”*

But as it turns out, Sir Cedric is happy to allow his squire to go along with the party to represent him.  In the morning, therefore, he hurries the dangerous mile between the Whitewater estate and the town of Whitewater, joining his friends at the Fat Mallard.  They have breakfast together, then go out to speak to the Old-Timer, who is in a much better state of mind now that he’s already awake.  He doesn’t seem to remember last night’s intrusion, but he does know Cara after a little prompting.  He claims that he has not been visited by any strange people (other than our heroes) lately.  

Then, when Dahlia explains why the group is concerned and remarks that Persiparie had seemed interested in old elven ruins, the Old-Timer’s demeanor changes.  Cara asks him if he has been to any- Dahlia mentioning the rough location of the one she’s aware of, in the Ashen Valley beyond Goblin Gorge- and the old elfblood begins muttering direly.

“No, no, no, no,” he growls.  “Bad, bad idea.  No, no.”  He shakes his head over and over again.  “Not for a long time.  Don’t go.  No, no, no, no.  Bad.  Bad idea.”

The party, puzzled by this change, tries unsuccessfully to draw more out of the old man, but to no avail.  He clearly does not want them to seek the ruins, and just the mention of them seems to have shaken his grip on sanity.  The party thanks him for his help and withdraws to the Fat Mallard in order to talk it over (and have lunch).

Otis purchases a bottle of the finest wine that Brandon Mallard has on hand as a gift for Xastys, hoping once again to win her affections.  Then he sets to his fish stew, think with chunks of potato and cabbage.  It is Cara who notices Brandon Mallard heave a sigh.  He reaches up and pulls out another bottle of fine wine, twin to the one that Otis just bought, and uncorks it.  He takes a lingering sip and sighs again.

“Hey, everyone,” Brandon says.  “Take a sip and pass it along.  This is my last bottle of the fine Kamendan wine.”  Sadly, he adds, “I won’t be getting it any more.”

“Why not?” asks Cara Reed.

“Oh, it just... doesn’t turn a profit like it used to,” Brandon replies.  

“What do you mean?  It doesn’t sell so well anymore?”

“Oh, it goes as fast as it should- it just doesn’t bring in enough.”

“Well, did your cost go up?” Jorgen asks.

“No, no- it just...” Brandon stops, puzzled.  “I don’t understand it,” he admits.

“Maybe you should have the book keeper look through your books,” suggests Goer.  

Brandon shrugs helplessly.  “What good would that do?”

“Well, at least you would know where the loss is happening.”

“Maybe someone is stealing from Brandon,” the sheriff muses aloud.  “Or is it possible that he is being shorted on his shipments?  Well,” he says to Brandon, “let me know if you turn up any evidence of thievery.”

Brandon looks like he’s been given something to chew on.  He nods.  “You’re right.  I’ll hire Lazarus to go over everything with a fine screen.”  He sighs yet again.  “But I fear the fault is my own- I’m too generous sometimes,” he admits.

“But generous with _that?_” Goer says doubtfully.

“Aye, yeh’ve given me beers before, but never that fine wine,” Cur remarks in his thick brogue.  “At least, not afore now, when it’s yuir very last bottle.”

Brandon Mallard nods again.  “I’ll hire Lazarus,” he repeats.  “Thanks for the advice.”

Our heroes return to their previous discussion.  “Well, so far this Persiparie person doesn’t seem to have done any harm,” Jorgen points out.  “We have no idea of where to find her, what she’s after or if she’s a danger.  Let’s put that on hold.  Now, this fire in Cotton Hill sounds worth investigating- especially if there’s some kind of devil running around.”  He shudders.

”A devil!” yawps Cur.

“Yep,” nods Goer.  “It could be very dangerous.”

“Well, danger’s my middle name, then, innit?”  Cur grins, showing uneven teeth.  “Don’t forget, lad- I run with the Outcasts.  We’re a tough bunch!”

“It’s decided, then- we’ll go to Cotton Hill,” declares Jorgen.

And the party sets off.

_*Next Time:*_ Our heroes journey overland through a very hostile world!  What will they encounter?  And what will they find once they reach Cotton Hill?  Find out next time!


*omrob, Cedric’s player, was on vacation in Iceland.  Goer’s player actually said something along these lines in game, and it was amusing enough to deserve mention and this footnote here.


----------



## the Jester

*Cotton Hill*

Dahlia unfolds her map, squints at it, then turns it right side up.  “Aha,” she breathes.  The others cluster around her.  She points out Whitewater and then traces a line to Cotton Hill, probably 20 miles away or thereabouts.  “We’ll have to follow the edge of the rise of the land, but it should pretty much take us right there,” she says.  “We’ll probably get there tomorrow.”

“Fair enough,” Cara answers.  

So far the journey has been uneventful.  To the party’s left, the ground slopes upwards, eventually rising into the distant mountains.  Hills punctuate the area.  It is cooler than it was just a week ago; our heroes know that winter is not far off.

“You know, I was thinking,” Goer says.  “Maybe after this we should take a trip to Kamenda City sometime.”  The others shrug noncommittally, and he scowls.  He didn’t get a much better response when he suggested it to Sir Cedric, either. 

The band trudges through the morning and into about noon without event.  They are all too aware of the dangers of the wilds between communities; bandits, goblins, gnolls and worse all lurk in the shadows of the hills, the forests, the mountains.  Why, even between the Whitewater estate and the town, sometimes people are assailed.  Traveling in numbers- such as our heroes are doing currently- is one way to lower the odds of trouble.  So far it has worked.

Unfortunately, our heroes’ luck on that score runs out about half an hour after lunch.  The sun is high in the sky, with clouds scudding in, when Dahlia calls out a warning, “Look out!  There’s something moving in the bushes!”

The party pulls out weapons and begins strapping on their shields, and suddenly there is movement in the manzanita bushes along the side of the hill.  About half a dozen small creatures burst forth and rush down the hill at the party.  Cara begins singing as the others brace themselves.  The creatures appear to be small shrubs with a bare semblance of arms and legs.  Cur whips his sickle into the first of the creatures to reach the group, but he barely scores its bark. 

Then, with a crash and a thud, the monsters reach our heroes.  Cara’s song abruptly cuts off in a scream as one of them smashes her from behind, breaking one of her arms!  Shaking and crying in pain, she uses her other hand to draw forth her rapier and she sticks one of the monsters in what might pass for an eye.  It trundles about for a few seconds and then collapses into a pile of sticks.  

The battle rages fierce about her, but Cara is dizzy.  She sinks to her knees as she stabs another.  From the corner of her eye she can see Dahlia club one of the wooden creatures down.  “Help,” she croaks.  “I’m hurt... help!”

Another of the creatures is bearing down on her.  Goer leaps in front of it and swings his sword, landing a mighty blow that hews the thing in half like a piece of firewood!  He flashes her a quick smile before yelping and defending himself as another presses him.  He, Jorgen, Kyle and Dahlia form a line, driving the manzanita monsters back.  And then it’s over: the plant things withdraw to fight another time.  Panting, our heroes mop their collective brows.  Dahlia does what she can for Cara, who winces in pain as the weird old lady sets her arm and constructs a crude splint from some of the wood the fallen monsters left behind.  Then she feeds Cara a few _goodberries,_ hoping to alleviate the worst of it.  When all is said and done, Cara’s arm, though not fully healed, is much better; a day or two of rest should suffice for it.  Still, it throbs and itches, and the pretty young bard has to periodically bite her lip against a particularly harsh wave of pain.

Our heroes continue along.  

Of course, now that they are wounded, it is inevitable that more trouble will find them.  As they travel along, they notice movement atop a hill to their left.

”Uh-oh, I hope those aren’t bandits,” muses Jorgen aloud. 

Indeed, riders are beginning to emerge from a area concealed by thick undergrowth.  First one, then a handful, then a dozen... then more.  And more.  They keep coming, headed towards our heroes, more than two dozen strong- more like _forty._

“Crap,” breathes Goer.  Cara bites her lip.

“Let’s not mess with these boys, all roight?” Kyle urges in a low voice.  “Crikey!  We’re outnumbered!”  Cur growls low in his throat.  

“Good day to you,” calls the leader, reining in a few dozen paces from our heroes.  The ruffians behind him draw up as well.

“Good day,” Jorgen answers pleasantly.

“You have the look of travelers about you,” the other observes.  “Surely you know how dangerous these wilds can be.”

“Ah yes?” 

“Unless you travel in, shall we say, significant numbers.”

“Ah, I see.”

“Yes, you see,” the horseman replies, “there are bandits about.”

“So we understand,” Goer says sardonically.

“However, as you can see, we number quite a few.  I’m sure that, with the right inducement, we could ‘persuade’ these bandits to leave you along.”

Jorgen scratches his chin.  “Oh, really?  What sort of inducement?”

Kyle leans towards him and stage-whispers, “They want a bribe.”

“A few good coins,” the man responds dismissively.  Behind him, several of the ruffians chuckle.  One guffaws.  

“And in return you will escort us to where we’re going?” Cur asks.  Just below the surface there is a dangerous note in his voice, but the spokesman of the group ignores his tone.

”Oh, no.  In return we will make sure the local bandits don’t molest you.”

Jorgen ponders for half an instant, and then replies, “Actually, we’re on official business of Lord Whitewater.  I’m the sheriff of Whitewater, actually,” he taps the metal star on his breast, “and we recently took care of one group of bandits.  I doubt whether we have much to fear.”

“But you are so few,” the spokesman says.  “I would _hate_ for an accident to happen to your fine group.”

“Well,” acknowledges Jorgen, “we are a small group here, but my _friend_ Tumenore and his band are also nearby.”

It’s half a bluff; Tumenore and his band of bandit-hunters probably are still nearby somewhere, but they have no fondness for our heroes.  Still, this band of horsemen are clearly brigands themselves; several of them blanch at the mention of the half-orc’s name.  

“I see,” the horseman says after a moment’s reflection.  “Well, in that case, sheriff, we’ll trouble you no more.  It sounds as though you’re safety is already assured, at least for the time being.”  He smiles and tips his hat to Jorgen, then wheels his horse back to his men.  After a minute’s low conversation, the group gallops away.

Jorgen lets out a long breath.  “Whew!  I didn’t know if that would even work!”

“Good job, sheriff,” Kyle smiles at him.  “Now let’s be on our way, shall we?”

***

That evening, back in Whitewater, Lazarus begins going over Brandon Mallard’s books.  It doesn’t take long to confirm a few key things: Brandon is using more of certain supplies than he used to, yet he is not making as much money on them as he should be.  It’s puzzling.  

_Well, he’s known to be too generous from time to time, but surely there’s more to it than that,_ Lazarus thinks.  

He keeps investigating until deep into the night, and finally grins in triumph.

“It’s all one merchant’s wares!” he says to nobody in particular.  With a grin, he closes the books for the nonce and rubs his eyes.  _I’ll finish going through them in the morning,_ he thinks, _but I believe I have half the answers already.  

Brandon, you’re dealing with an unscrupulous thief._

***

Early the next day our heroes can see Cotton Hill in the distance- Cotton Hill, and the signs of much fire.  Large swaths of the ground are blackened, and many of the manzanitas have burned to ashen husks.  The fire clearly reached town, too.  When our heroes finally reach the outskirts, they have walked over a mile and a half of burned ground.  

Stabling their animals is first; fortunately, the stable is just next to the Pair o’ Dice Inn.  The party then enters the inn itself and begins asking around about anyone who saw any kind of fire devil.  “Haven’t heard anything about that here,” says the bartender, surprised by the question.  “From what I heard, the fire was started by stupid travelers.”

“How do you know that?” wonders Jorgen.

“Couple of the local boys checked it out and found the site,” the barkeep replies.

Otis, meanwhile, wanders over to a table in the back where several of the locals are playing a dice game, and soon he’s losing money hand over fist. He wins a few, too, and the man running the table (named Tiberius) keeps enticing him to stay in the game by occasionally offering better odds on specific hands.  (“Bet at least 2 sp and I’ll give you 4:1 if you win,” he tempts.)  Even after out heroes wander over to tell him that they’re getting ready to leave (and Cur plays a hand or two), Otis lingers for a while, seemingly unable to resist the itch to gamble.  Finally, noticing that his friends have left, he hurries after them, his purse a little lighter than it was before.  

The group walks back towards Whitewater, first hiring someone to show them where the blaze started.  Indeed, in the midst of the devastation there is the remains of a campsite, with one especially long blackened log that runs from the firepit in the camp to what must have once been a clump of dry grass.  Dahlia swears in elven.  Cur shakes his head and mutters, “Idiots.”

Convinced that the tale of the fire devil was just rumor, our heroes return to Whitewater.  This time they are uninterrupted, and not long after dark they reach the town.  They variously retire, agreeing that on the morrow they shall meet again at the Mallard.

***

“Drougal Traveler,” breathes Lazarus.  “He’s your man, Brandon... he’s your man.”

_*Next Time:*_ Our heroes help Dahlia move!  Lazarus tells them more about Brandon’s money problems!  And our heroes learn a valuable lesson about the dangers of the wilds!


----------



## the Jester

Fwaigo Smith goes down on one knee and bows respectfully to his lord, Sir Martin Whitewater.  Goer (as Fwaigo is called) is nervous; the topic he is about to broach could be... sensitive.  Nonetheless...

“Well, Fwaigo, what is it?” Sir Martin asks.  “You wished an audience with me?”

“Yes, my lord, thank you,” Goer responds.  “I... I am aware that Lady Raven is very ill.”

Sir Martin’s face blanches a little.

“I... I do not wish to bring up a painful subject, my lord, but I wanted to tell you- Cedric and I, and our friends- well, we’ve already made the trip to Cotton Hill and back successfully.  We’re willing- that is, if you know of anything that could help, we would be willing to make a journey.  Perhaps there is a physician or herbalist in Kamenda City we could hire to look at her, or-“

“Fwaigo... Goer.”  Sir Martin sighs heavily.  “Believe me, we have searched far afield.  We have checked Kamenda City.  We have checked with the priests and the herb-mongers.  We have even,” he adds dryly, “checked with your friend Dahlia.  My wife’s ailment has no known cure.”  He sighs again.  “I appreciate your offer, and if I hear any word of anything that could help her, I will not hesitate to employ you and your friends, or whatever other method I feel is warranted, to gain that help.  But for now...”  Trailing off, he shakes his head.

Goer bites his lip.

“Thank you for the offer,” Sir Martin says tonelessly.  His face is a stoic mask, but there is pain in his eyes.

***

Lazarus and Brandon Mallard emerge from the office of the Fat Mallard, talking in excited tones.  They shake hands, Brandon passing over a purse to the book-keeper, and then Lazarus spies Otis sitting with Cur, Cara, Dahlia, Kyle and Jorgen.  He heads to their table; Otis is one of the only friends he has in this little town.  _Ah, for the city,_ he thinks regretfully.  He has made mistakes in the past; it seems to be town for the near future for him.  _Well, that’s what I get for forgetting my place,_ he chastises himself.

Burgeoning with pride, Lazarus tells the others what he has discovered.  “There’s one merchant in particular that has been shorting Brandon,” he announces.  “His name is Drougal Traveler, and he usually comes through town three or four times a year.  In fact, he was just in here about a week or so ago.”

“How thorough is your evidence?” Jorgen- Sheriff Jorgen, that is- asks.  

Lazarus nods firmly.  “Oh, it’s pretty good.  Brandon has been buying a certain amount of goods, but not all of it is selling.  He may be too generous for his own good, but not on this kind of level.” 

“How much has this merchant stolen from him?” inquires Jorgen.

Lazarus fixes him with his eyes and pronounces, “Almost _eighty gold.”_

A shocked silence settles over the table.  No wonder Brandon can’t afford to keep the nice wine on the menu!  _Eighty gold pieces_- that’s as much money as any of them have ever seen at one time (with the exception of Lazarus, but hey, _mistakes were made_, all right?).  

“Well, it seems to me,” Jorgen says slowly, “that if this merchant is victimizing people in my town, it is fitting that I bring him to justice.”

“Do you think he’s done it to anyone else?” wonders Cara.

“Who else in town does he serve?” asks Jorgen.

“Well,” Brandon puts in, meandering over, “I know the Honest Man buys some of the same things that I do from him.”

“Let’s check their books,” says the sheriff. 

As the party leaves the Mallard, they spot Goer headed their way.  Jorgen and he clasp hands in greeting, and the sheriff fills the squire in as they walk.  When they reach the Honest Man, the proprietor (one Jimmy Goodman) has no complaints about the merchant in question, one Drougal Traveler. He shrugs and lets Lazarus examine the books when questioned, and there is no sign of his being defrauded like Brandon.  

Several minutes later, the party has taken a table in the corner.  They are talking over the best way to proceed with their investigation of the situation.  “Could it be related to the feud between the Cookers and the Gardens?” Jorgen muses aloud.

“Why would a traveling merchant be interested in their feud?” objects Dahlia.  “Wouldn’t he get more money by serving them both?”

“Then why just steal from one of them?” points out Goer.

“Opportunity,” Cur Sed Seed answers flatly.  “He’s probably got more of a chance to do it to Brandon, plain and simple.  And if he only steals from one of them, he still has business in town even if he gets caught.”

“The only way to really know is to ask him,” Dahlia says.  She rummages in her backpack and pulls out a map of the Barony.  After some discussion and a hurried trip back to the Fat Mallard, the party ascertains the rogue merchant’s most probably route.  “He probably went up to Cotton Hill first,” Dahlia murmurs, tracing the route with her finger.  “Then almost due northeast to Lumber, on the woods here.  Then he will follow the road to Kamenda City.”

“Cotton Hill?” exclaims Goer.  “We were just there!” 

“I wonder if he had anything to do with the fire,” Cur speculates.  That shuts everyone up for a few minutes.

“Well,” Jorgen finally picks up the conversation, “I think I’ll have to go up there, probably to Lumber, and see if I can pick up his trail.”  He looks the others over.  “Is anyone willing to come with me?”

“When are you going?  I’m going to be moving,” Dahlia declares.

“You’re moving?  Where, into town?” Cara asks.

“No!”  Dahlia looks almost offended at the idea.  “I’m going to move in to Castle Laagos.  It’s pretty nice there, except for the ants.  And hey, maybe sometime we can get them to leave somehow.  Maybe we can come up with some way to lure them away, or something...” 

“Well, not for a day or two,” Jorgen answers Dahlia’s original question.  “I have to see Sir Martin first- I have an audience with him this afternoon.”

“Really?  I just had an audience with him too!”  Goer beams.  “What are you talking to him about?”

“Defending the town,” the sheriff pronounces.  “I want to see what he thinks about trying to train up the peasantry.”

***

When Jorgen’s audience comes, Sir Martin nods at his concern.  “I’ll think over the training issue,” he says.  “And I want you to start surveying the town for possibly building a wall.  That would be a major project- but it might be one worth doing.”

Thus it is, the next day, that Goer and Jorgen go to visit the sorceress, Xastys, for she is the only person in town that they can think of who might know more about architecture than how to build a simple sod hut.  Indeed, she takes their commission, agreeing to do some planning with Jorgen’s surveying information.

The next day, Dahlia moves.  Cur, Goer, Cara, Kyle, Jorgen and Otis all help her haul the strange collection of things she has from her tiny hut along the river two miles downstream from Whitewater to the ruins of Castle Laagos.  Along the way they are suddenly assailed by a giant praying mantis taller than any of them that leaps out from behind a screen of brush and almost kills Cur in an instant, then tries to flee with him in order to feast on his unconscious form!  But Jorgen is having none of that, and in a pair of mighty blows he single-handedly slays the terrifying thing.*  Afterwards, the others look at him with respect-filled eyes.  “Good job!” Kyle enthuses.  “Crikey, that was a hell of a bug!”

When they reach Castle Laagos, the party helps Dahlia move stuff in.  Kyle sidles up to her and tries to sweet-talk her into bed, but in the end the most he can manage is for Dahlia to allow him to sleep in a separate room on abandoned bandit bedding.  The others return to town in a group, dragging the unconscious Cur on a litter, and no more dangerous predators attack them.

***

The next day, when Kyle is heading back to town, he runs into Otis, who is headed back to town himself.  Kyle chatters incessantly while Otis remains more aloof; but then the scream of a hawk above them gets their attention.

Not a hawk; _hawks._  Three of them, circling Kyle and Otis as if they were prey.  And then-

Blood-red, they dive in.  Otis and Kyle cry out as the vicious beasts rip at them with their razor-sharp talons, inflicting terrible, bleeding wounds.  Desperately, Otis casts _mage armor,_ then blasts one of the scarlet terrors with a _magic missile._  But then one of the hawks slashes Kyle across the face and he stumbles into a heap on the ground, blood pouring out of him.

Ashen-faced, Otis struggles to retain his calm.  Deep breath.  His head is going light.  He’s bleeding badly- the talons of these hawks inflict _terrible_ wounds.  With a groan, he blasts the hawk with another _magic missile_ and it falls in an explosion of feathers.

As the others swoop past him he casts himself aside.  His head is pounding.  His vision is getting blurry.  “I can’t take much more,” he croaks.  His leaden fingers pluck his sling from his belt.  He drops a stone in the cup and starts twirling it.  The birds are curving back towards him.  

He lets fly.  

The stone pegs one of the hawks in its shoulder, and the bird lets out a scream of anger, and then Otis feels a terrible wound open as the hawk’s talons rip into him.

Then he feels like he’s floating, and then he feels nothing.

***

Late that afternoon, Dahlia is finally satisfied with her current arrangement of oddments.  She smiles happily and gathers her things for a trip to town.  She is going to meet her friends and they are going to go to Lumber.  She likes that idea- the idea of being around so many trees.  Maybe there are surviving elf-ruins in there, or maybe even an elf hidden deep in the woods!

She daydreams about elves as she sets out, but her daydreams crash to a halt when she sees the bloody fields before her.

“Kyle!  Otis!” she exclaims.  “What happened here?”

Neither one of them can answer her.  There is blood everywhere; she can’t even tell if they’re still alive.  Quickly, she casts a _cure minor wounds_ on each of them, then starts examining their wounds.  

Talons, as of a bird.  And then- it looks like the bird, or perhaps birds, must have taken the time to _feed on them._

Feeling ill, she checks to see if her friends yet live.  Otis is clearly in better shape- Dahlia detects his breathing after only a moment.  Kyle, on the other hand, teeters on the very edge of death.  Only some strange intervention of fate has kept him alive so far.**  And he will show the scars of this experience for life.  Yes, the birds fed on him: they ate out his left eye and took one of his fingers.

_*Next Time:*_  Our heroes head to Lumber while some knights visit Sir Martin and bring terrible news!


*Which is to say, he hit- everyone else missed- he hit and killed it.

**I believe I have mentioned Wyrd before.


----------



## the Jester

At this point our heroes are:

Otis, wizard 2
Dahlia, elfblood druid 2
Cara Reed, bard 2
Kyle Goldenbow, rogue 1
Lazarus of Kamenda, priest 1
Cur Sed Seed, half-orc ranger 1
Sheriff Jorgen Boatwright, fighter 2
Fwaigo "Goer" Smith, fighter 1
Sir Cedric Whitewater, knight 2

I hope to have an update done today before we play this game again- I would hate to fall behind, since it's a new story hour!


----------



## the Jester

*Journeys to Lumber*

It takes several days for Kyle and Otis to recover enough to travel.  Otis spends the time being badgered and harangued by Xastys; finally, his heart aching, he confronts her.

“Once, you were a teacher to me,” he tells her.  “I thank you for all that you have given me and all the mysteries you have opened before me.”  He takes a deep breath.  “But lately, you seem to want to harm more than help.  You seem to want power for its own sake, not for the good of others.  You set me pointless tasks, yet my skills have gone beyond alphabetizing your tomes and dusting your shelves.  I am a wizard in my own right, now.”

Slowly, he counts out five pieces of gold.  “My last contribution,” he announces gravely, “to your research.”

“If you walk out that door, you won’t be returning,” Xastys declares.

With a nod, Otis turns and gathers his bags to depart the Tower of Xastys for the last time.  On his way out, Nodding, one of Xastys’ other apprentices stops him.  

“Fool,” Nodding sneers.  “You will be back here in a few months, begging Lady Xastys to take you back.”

“I will be _beyond you_ in a few months,” Otis retorts tartly.

“I look forward,” Nodding chuckles, “to seeing you fail.  You’re going to need Lady Xastys’ help, and I will enjoy seeing her cast you out.”

“I look forward to seeing _you_ fail!” snaps Otis.  “Someday, you will need my help.  And when you do- I will _give it to you.”_  With that, he makes his exit.

***

Dahlia, Cara, Kyle, Cur, Jorgen and Otis begin their journey before noon, heading directly across country for Lumber.  There is no real road or path, though (according to Dahlia’s map) there is a road that connects Lumber with the capitol of the Barony, Kamenda City.  

“It looks like it will only take us a day or two to get there,” Dahlia comments.  

_While we’re out here, I’m going to keep my eyes open for that orc,_ resolves Cur silently.

***

The sun is about to touch the tops of the western mountains when our heroes encounter the goblins.  As soon as they come into view, Sheriff Jorgen gives a warning cry and charges forward, sinking his longspear deep into the chest of the first one before the goblins even have a chance to draw weapons.  Then the grasses start entwining around them.  The scrubby arms of the red-barked manzanitas seize the little red-skinned humanoids. 

The goblins scream in terror.  One of them manages to throw a javelin at the party, but it is caught by the wind and flies wide.  No one can even tell which of our heroes it was aimed at.  Two of the goblins manage to squirm free of the entangling plants and wriggle out of the area of effect; another, not caught by the plants at all, turns and runs away.  Jorgen thrusts into the ribs of one of the ones escaping the _entangle_ and strikes him down in a single forceful blow, and then, as another attempts to flee through his reach, he strikes it through the head, destroying the goblin’s black brain in an instant.  

Another of the little humanoids manages to claw his way out of the grasping plants and starts to run away.  Otis blasts him with a _magic missile,_ but the goblin continues to stagger away.

Kyle smirks.  _Persistent little cuss, ain’t he?_ he thinks cockily, whirling his sling.  He draws back his arm to fire- not as easy to line up a shot now, with the eye gone- and somehow, the straps on his pack come undone!  The backpack collapses off of him, throwing his aim off; his sling stone bounces into the air pointlessly.  He almost trips as the pack catches on his belt and nearly pulls his pants off.*

One of the goblins screams out in crude Kamendan, “We surrender!  Please no hurt!!”

“Drop your weapons,” Cur Sed Seed commands.  After only an instant’s hesitation, two of the goblins give up while the last one- Kyle’s persistent little cuss- manages to flee.  Our heroes let him go while Kyle re-straps his backpack, buckles his pants again and generally straightens out his kit.  

By the time the goblins have been thoroughly searched and bound, it is dusk.  Jorgen interrogates them at length.  “What are you doing here?” he demands.

“We sorry,” the one that speaks Kamendan says, cringing.  “We mean no harm.”

Otis glares at him.  “You mean no harm!  You are _goblins!_  You steal babies and goats and raid and kill our people!”

The goblin only cringes.  Jorgen walks Otis aside and settles him down, then returns to the questioning.

“If you mean no harm, why are you here?”

“We flee Goblin Gorge.”

Kyle cocks an eyebrow.

“Why?” asks the sheriff.

“Something terrible came,” the goblin answers.  Then, “You... you kill us?  We mean no harm, we just run...”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do with you,” Jorgen responds soberly.  “It will depend.  If you tell me useful information, and you don’t lie to me, and you truly mean no harm- well, then, I will probably release you in the morning.”

“Please!” the goblin squeaks.  “Me tell!”

“What happened?” Jorgen asks.  “What came?”

“One night it comes,” the goblins gasps, his face contorting in fear.  “From old elf ruin, something comes.  Fire and death!”  The goblin stares at Jorgen, fear on his face.  “Monster, burns goblins, fear and flight.  Goblins on south side of gorge driven out- some go north, some run away.  We run away.”

“This must be why there have been so many rumors of increased goblin activity lately,” muses Jorgen aloud.  He nods.  “Very well.  In the morning we shall decide your fate.”

***

Meanwhile, that same evening, about a mile west of the town of Whitewater, from whence our heroes came, lies the estate of Sir Martin Whitewater and his family, including Sir Cedric.  It is here that we find both Cedric and Goer, in conference with Sir Martin and a visiting group of knights from Kamenda City.  They have come with a message of great concern.

“It appears that Sir Bors has gone rogue,” one of the visiting knights announces to the Whitewaters (and Goer, Sir Cedric’s squire).

Sir Bors was always a knight of some repute, but recent tales have him performing more and more abuses on the peasants and even killing in cold blood.  

“He must be found and stopped, before he besmirches the name of knighthood everywhere,” declares Sir Martin.

“Of course.  That is why we have come.  We would like you and your sons to join us as we comb the surrounding lands for him.”

“You think he ith here?” Sir Cedric says incredulously.

A shrug.  “Perhaps.”

“We should also inform the sheriff,” Sir Martin states.

“Thquire, you mutht go track him down and let him know of thethe developmentth poththathte!” orders Sir Cedric.

Thus it is that, the next morning, Goer uneasily begins a lone journey, borrowing a horse from Sir Martin and getting Tad Ranger to point out the way to Lumber.  His heart pounding, Goer kicks the horse into motion.  Going alone... across country... for a day’s journey is a very risky proposition. 

He shudders, thinking of Kyle and Otis and their brutal encounter with the hawks, and anxiously fingers the hilt of his sword.

_*Next Time:*_ A midnight encounter on the road!  The fate of the goblins is decided!  And Goer breaks the horse!

*This was a particularly bad fumble.


----------



## the Jester

The sky is black, pierced by the blaze of the stars above.  A few wisps of fire burn sullenly in the ashes of the campfire.  

Otis glances meaningfully at the goblins, bound and sleeping.  He looks at Kyle.  “They are a threat,” he insists quietly.

“That’s why we’ve got ‘em tied up,” Kyle points out.

“We should ensure that they are not a threat,” Otis returns.

“Oh, we will.”

There is a moment of silence.  Then, “We should slay them,” Otis clarifies.

“Well, that’s up to the sheriff, then, isn’t it?”

Otis scowls.  “True.  But what if they attempt to overcome us in the night?”

Kyle glances at the bound, sleeping and helpless goblins dubiously.  “Not bloody likely.”

Otis shrugs.  For the next few minutes he stares into the fire, brooding.

***

It is midnight when Jorgen jerks to awareness.  Someone is shaking him- 

“What’s going on?” he whispers. 

“Listen,” Cur grunts back to him.

There is a sound in the dark night: crying, as from a child.  The party is rising, buckling on weapons and pulling up shields.  Otis casts _light_ on his spear and he and Cur begin cautiously creeping towards the sound.  The eerie sound seems to be coming from a clearing not far off, and the rest of the party reluctantly follows Otis and Cur as they move towards it.

Then the two leaders break into a clearing amongst the scrub.  In the pale eldritch light emanating from Otis’ spear, the party can see what appears to be the figure of a hideously ugly child who appears to be about six years old.  

“Help me,” the lad snuffles.  “I lost my red cap.”

Nervously, the party draws to a halt.  “Where are your parents, little child?” asks Kyle.

“Help me find my lost red cap,” the child repeats plaintively. 

“I don’t trust him!” declares Otis.  “Something is wrong!”  The wizard strides forward and begins to move his hands through the intricate gestures of a _sleep_ spell.  When he sees this, Cur Sed Seed grins and springs forward, attempting to attack the boy, but his foot catches and he stumbles, almost falling on his head!  

“HELP ME FIND MY RED CAP!!!” the child screams, and suddenly a length of gut is in its hand, whirling- and a sling stone flies at Cur!  The half-orc gives a surprised grunt as the stone cracks into this head, knocking him back a pace and leaving stars dancing before his eyes. 

“Child, what are you doing out in the middle of the night?” cries Jorgen, unable to believe what is happening.  “Where is your mother?”  He draws forth his sword as the child slashes at Cur with a scythe that seems, frighteningly, to appear from nowhere.  The wide blade slices into his back, cutting deep into his body!  In a spray of blood Cur falls to the ground, nearly cut in half!

“Stop your attack and we’ll help you find your cap!” Kyle yells, but the ugly child is not listening.  Screaming and wailing, it attacks, its scythe glowing a marshy green.  Jorgen parries a blow with his sword and then stabs deep into it- but not as deep as he would have hoped!  Meanwhile, Otis curses the failure of his _sleep_ spell, and, yelling imprecations at the monstrous lad, starts slinging stones of his own at the weird youth.

“You’re _ugly,_” Cara declares, and she stabs the lad in the face.  Her rapier pierces the thing’s upper lip and knocks out more teeth- as if it weren’t ugly enough without her help!  The child screams and staggers back, but Jorgen is attacking it now, pressing it with his blade.  And then Otis charges in with his spear; and even though he doesn’t even know how to use it, he nonetheless lands a blow so mighty to its face that he removes its lower jaw!!*  With a last wail, the boy falls dead to the ground. 

“What the hell was that?” Jorgen asks into the following silence.  “Was it a v... v... vampire?”

“Whatever it was, it was horrible,” Cara replies.  

***

When dawn breaks, Goer stares balefully at the horse that he borrowed from Sir Martin.  He is having a great deal of trouble already.  

_I broke the horse,_ he thinks miserably, and winces as the horse limps again as it takes a step. 

He sighs.  _Sir Martin is going to kill me,_ he groans to himself.  

Well, there’s no helping it- and certainly he can’t simply leave the horse out here.  Gingerly, he begins leading it across the fields towards Lumber.  He made good time yesterday; if he could still ride (wince) he would be in Lumber by ten.  But walking the horse- well.  It will slow him down.

He ends up leaving the horse with a farmer in the outlying area around the town, paying him a few silver and then hurrying away in the hopes of finding a... a... a horse doctor?

Goer sighs.

When he reaches the town gates, he is utterly consternated to find that they require that he _pay_ to enter the town.  “It’s a toll,” one of the guards tells him helpfully.

***

Jorgen releases the goblins with a stern admonishment to behave and not to cause any trouble again.  They cower and simper and quickly scamper away.  

“I can’t believe you released them,” Otis says.

“They’ll cause no harm now,” replies the sheriff. 

“They are _goblins,_” the mage answers.

The group breaks camp and makes for Lumber.  They reach it soon enough, early in the morning, and enter Lumber through the gate, grumbling a little at the fact that they have to pay to do so.  

“What do they have that we don’t have in Whitewater?” complains Cur, despite the fact that he doesn’t actually live in Whitewater.

“Lots of wood,” says Jorgen.

“Too many people,” adds Dahlia.

***

Four pennies lighter (one for his person and three for the weapons he bears) Goer enters the town.  Wooden buildings, rather than the sod he is used to, seem to be the rule.  There are many trees that dot the outskirts of the town, though most of those within the walls have been felled long ago.  Just a few hundred paces from the gate is a tavern called the Howling Wolf, to which the guards had directed him.  Goer passes through the door and into a room full of conversation and the smells of breakfast- and there, chatting at a table, are Dahlia and Jorgen. 

_The first place I checked!_ he thinks elatedly, then realizes that it is simply the first place one can have a drink after passing through the gate.

“Goer!” exclaims Jorgen.  “What are you doing here?”

“I came looking for you, sheriff,” the squire replies.  “I have terrible news.  There is a rogue knight somewhere in the area.  Sir Cedric, his father and some knights from Kamenda are searching for him, but his lordship wanted you to be aware of the situation.”

“A renegade knight!” Jorgen says, shocked.  “My goodness!  Well, did they say how we would recognize him?”

“Well, he’s a knight,” Dahlia points out.  “Probably he’ll be mounted, and he’s bound to be armed and armored.”

“That’s true,” the sheriff answers, nodding.  He strokes his chin.  “Well, it sounds like we should probably keep our eyes and ears out for him.  We’ve just secured rooms- you might want to do the same.”

“There are too many people here,” Dahlia mutters to herself in Elven.

***

The group stashes the gear they don’t want to carry while they’re in town in their rooms.  Then they head out into Lumber’s commercial district.  They have three basic goals here.  First is the renegade knight, Sir Bors; clearly, he is a danger to any people he might be around.  Second is the corrupt merchant, Drougal Traveler; if they can, they would like to catch him as well.  He owes Brandon Mallard a great deal of money, after all!  Finally, they are going to inquire about the price of wood while here- the idea of building a wall certainly requires a great expenditure, but how great?  Nobody in Whitewater knows, as nobody in Whitewater has ever tried to buy such a humungous amount of wood before.  While they are there, Goer manages to sell a sword he forged at home, as well as a pair of axes for his father.  

And they hear rumors- among them rumors of a black-hearted bastard of a rogue knight running around the town.  “I don’t think he’s a real knight, though- I think he’s just a bully in armor,” one man says scornfully.

Still-

“That sounds like our man,” Jorgen muses aloud.  “But if he’s a fully armed and armored knight, we’re probably no match for him!”

“Well, we haven’t even found him yet,” Cur Sed Seed points out.

But that afternoon they do.

_*Next Time:*_ The rogue knight, Sir Bors!


*Both Cara and Otis rolled crits to the face!  _Ugh!_


----------



## the Jester

Though I don't often post the stats for npcs where pcs can see them, I'm going to make an exception in this case and post a preview of "Sir Bors."

There's a twist to him, as you can plainly see, and you shall soon discover just how deep it goes.

*‘SIR BORS’* 
Human knight 1/rogue 3
CE medium humanoid (human)
*Init* +6; *Senses* Listen +5, Spot +5
*Languages* Kamendan 

*AC* 21, touch 11, flat-footed 20
*Hit Dice* 1d10 + 3d6 +4 (22) 
*Fort* +4, *Ref* +5 (plus evasion), *Will *-1

*Speed* 20 ft. (4 squares) 
*Melee* bastard sword +6 (1d10+2/19-20)
*Ranged* dagger +5 (1d4+2/19-20)
*Base Atk* +3; *Grp* +5
*Atk Options* immediate charge 1/day, sneak attack +2d6
*Combat Gear* vial of acid

Str 14, Dex 15, Con 12, Int 13, Wis 6, Cha 9
*SQ* evasion, trapfinding
*Feats* Exotic Weapon Proficiency (bastard sword), Improved Initiative, Weapon Focus (bastard sword)
*Skills* Bluff +3, Handle Animal +3, Heal+2, Hide +3, Listen +5, Move Silently +3, Ride +9, Spot +5, Survival +5
*Possessions* combat gear plus Bors’ full plate armor, Bors’ heavy steel shield, Bors’ bastard sword, thieves’ tools, dagger, purse of 14 gp, 55 sp, 12 cp, 11 farthings (quarter-coppers)

*Edit:* He really is a 'rogue knight!'


----------



## the Jester

*Sir Bors*

The tavern is called the Lumberfell Inn.  It is smoky from the pipes of the various drinkers within.  The sour smell of lumberjack sweat permeates the place, mixing with the aroma of ale and cooking potatoes.  Sawdust on the floor soaks up wasted drinks.  Here and there something scuttles across the ground.

In the back corner of the place is a table where a card game is being played, and dominating it is- Sir Bors?

He is dressed in the heaviest armor our heroes have seen.  He also has the biggest sword they have seen- a monster of a blade, just waiting to hack through flesh and bone.  

Plainly, he’s winning at the table. 

The party wants badly to identify him for sure, and they aren’t at all certain that they want to confront him.  (Look at that sword!)  But he is suspicious and almost as soon as they try to talk to him he gives them a very dangerous look.  Mere moments afterward, he punches one of the gamblers playing against him, takes all the money and leaves.

“Do you think that was him?” Dahlia asks breathlessly.

“Well, it matches the description, at least initially,” admits Jorgen.  

“Should we confront him?” wonders Cur.  

“Maybe we should _follow_ him,” suggests Kyle, and Dahlia darts out the door to the Lumberfell Inn to get a glimpse of him.  Almost immediately, she screams, and the others bolt after her.

But she is unharmed, at least so far.  The party draws up short.  The man (Sir Bors?) has mounted his horse and drawn his massive sword.  He points it at Dahlia warningly, then wheels his horse and trots away.

“Are you all right?” asks Jorgen.  Dahlia, her face pale, nods.

“I’ll follow ‘im,” Kyle volunteers.  “I might be a little more stealthy than you.  The rest of you, stay a little ways back.  Maybe we can find out where he’s going.”

“And what do we do about him?” asks Goer.  “It’s not like he’s going to surrender to us.”

“Don’t worry, mate- we’ll figure somethin’ out!”  With that, Kyle dashes away after the horse, and the others follow a little more slowly.

“What _do_ we do about him?” asks Goer again, and Jorgen frowns.

“Perhaps we could capture him somehow.  Maybe he will surrender if we arrest him.”

Goer guffaws.

“Maybe we could poison him somehow,” suggests Cara.

“We can’t do that!” Jorgen exclaims.  “Poison is for evil people!”  Cara shrugs by way of reply. 

The party follows Kyle, who is following the mounted figure, and unfortunately, they soon pass a badly wounded man on the side of the street.  A small crowd has gathered around him; the party can hear from their conversations that the man was brutally cut by the armored horseman just a moment ago, for no crime greater than not getting out of the way fast enough.

“This guy is _brutal,_” Cara breathes while Dahlia administers a _goodberry_ to the wounded man.  Then they hurry on after their quarry.

Moments later they find Kyle walking back to them.  “He’s in that hostel,” gestures the elf-blooded lapidary.  “His horse is in the stables next to it.  And it’s Sir Bors, all right- I asked ‘em in there.”

“Well, great- now what?” murmurs Jorgen.  “If we try to take him, he might well be able to slaughter us all...”

“Did you see the size of that sword?” Kyle interjects.  “It’s huge!”

“We can’t just let him go,” Dahlia objects.  “He’s hurt a couple of people just in the last hour!  Who knows what he’ll do given more time!”

“We can send word back to the Whitewater estate and see if the knights can come subdue him,” Goer suggests.  He frowns.  He certainly doesn’t look forward to crossing swords with a knight!

“That will take a couple of days.  By the time they get here, he could be long gone.”

Sheriff Jorgen sighs.  He looks at the entrance to the hostel.  “Maybe we could slow him down if we took his horse,” he muses.

“I bet he’d come out if we took his horse,” comments Kyle wryly.  

“Hmm...”  Jorgen rubs his jaw.  “I think I’ve got an idea.”

***

While Dahlia moves into the stable, Jorgen and Kyle crouch on either side of the door, a rope stretched between them.  Their hope is to lure out Sir Bors and trip him.  Hopefully, Dahlia will be able to cause enough of a distraction to bring the corrupt knight forth.

Dahlia enters the stable and pauses.  There’s a groom there too.  She starts clucking and whinnying at the horse, and the groom stops brushing the horse he’s working on.  “Hey, what are you doing?” he asks suspiciously.

“Oh, ah- nothing, it’s all right,” Dahlia bluffs, then starts trying to take the horse from its stall in the stable.

Outside, the groom’s cry of, “Help!  Thief!” is loud and clear.  So far things are going well, and then it all changes.  

Sir Bors’ head pops out a second story window and his visage darkens until it goes purple.  One second later he drops from the window, fully armored, right on top of Jorgen.  There’s a terrible crash and Jorgen stumbles back, nearly knocked from his feet!  Goer gives a cry and draws steel, but the blow he directs at Sir Bors deflects with a clear ring from his breastplate.  The sound of Cara’s singing suddenly fills the air, harmonizing with the ringing of metal on metal as Goer and Sir Bors fence.  

Jorgen leaps forward.  Time seems to slow down as he sweeps the knight’s leg with a spinning kick, and with a crash Sir Bors collapses to the ground.  Then Jorgen makes a valiant attempt to disarm him, but the knight maintains his grip on his sword. 

“Hey, I’m over here, I’m stealing the horse!” Dahlia shouts, and the screams of the groom are still ringing out from within the stable.

With a curse, Sir Bors tries to lever himself to his feet, but both Jorgen and Goer strike as he does.  Jorgen slices open a great hole in the knight’s breastplate.  Worse yet, Goer thrusts and sticks him through the neck!  Sir Bors collapses, twitching, and it is clear that he is dead.

“He wasn’t so tough,” Goer comments bravely.

“We got lucky,” replies the sheriff bluntly.

“Damn fine armor ‘e’s got there,” Kyle remarks.

“We’re going to have to return that to his family,” says Jorgen.  

“What?” Kyle exclaims.  “It’s got to be worth a thousand gold or more!  What are you talkin’ about, return it??”

“Yeah, and it’s covered in his heraldry.”

“Besides,” Goer adds, “there’s a reward for bringing him down.”

“Well, let’s have it!” chortles Kyle.

“It isn’t from _me,_” Goer says patiently.  “You’ll have to talk to Sir Martin.”

“Well...”  Jorgen pauses, thinking aloud.  “We should get back and tell his lordship about this.  Then he can send word to Kamenda and let the Baron know.”

“What about Drougal Traveler?” asks Kyle. 

“Drougal Traveler will have to wait.  This is more important.  Besides,” Jorgen adds, “he comes through Whitewater about thrice yearly.  He’ll come to us if we just wait.”

***

The party makes their exeunt from Lumber.  Goer is relieved that Dahlia can mostly heal the horse’s leg; though its gait is a little funny, it is able to walk and even to support his weight.  Nonetheless, he often walks it instead out of sheer caution.  At noon of the next day they cross paths with a dusty looking but formidable man.  They pass a word or two and the man proceeds on his way (towards Lumber, it would appear).  About two hours later it starts to rain, the first cold rain of the season.  Winter is coming soon.  

The next day the party easily overcomes a pair of weasels afflicted by a terrible, often lethal disease called the frothing madness.*  Kyle suffers a bite, as does Dahlia’s mule.  This makes everyone nervous; the frothing madness can take hold and overwhelm one’s senses.  Kyle tries to laugh it off, but it’s a sort of forced, frightened laughter.

A few hours later, at dusk, as the rain thins and becomes intermittent sprinkles, the party reaches Whitewater.  The Roaring River seems already to have risen on its banks a few inches; the influence of the rain upstream, no doubt.  The sky is getting cloudy.  They cross the bridge and head immediately for the Whitewater estate.  The corpse of Sir Bors is slung over the back of his horse.

It’s a long mile to the estate, especially through the rain in the dark.  And winter is coming; it’s much colder than it has been in months.  As the party moves along, they suddenly here strange barking noises in the bushes.  Dahlia recognizes them right away, but before she can say anything Otis has lit up the scene with a _light_ spell cast upon his robes.  Perhaps it provokes them- for it is then that the pair of dire badgers within the scrub burst forth and race to the attack!

“Oh no!” cries Dahlia.  “We’re being attacked by badgers!”

And they are _much_ bigger than her badger companion.

They charge forth, moving towards our heroes with obvious harmful intent.  Dahlia gestures and can feel her energy shifting as she calls out wordlessly to the oncoming badgers.  One of them falters, then squats calmly on its haunches, panting.

The other charges forward and tears into Kyle with a savage bark of glee.  Kyle gives a shout of pain as the badger nearly guts him, and he collapses into oblivion.

“Oh no!” cries Dahlia, “Kyle!”

Otis chants his own magic, and a blazing bullet of question mark-shaped force shoots into the attacking badger.  It _yeeps,_ then _arfs!_ and continues its forward rush, engaging Dahlia, who fends it off with her club, delivering a stinging rebuke to its nose!  But it presses forward at her and she is hard pressed to defend herself, taking a wound along one leg.  Behind her she can hear Goer struggling to dismount from his horse- he isn’t much of a rider tonight- and she divines from the _thump!_ that he has fallen from the saddle.  

Then Hrar, Dahlia’s badger, leaps at its dire cousin and begins fighting against it, chittering madly!  A moment later Goer is finally there, stabbing the dire badger deep in the body.  It is clearly enraged, and if not for that... if not for that, it might fall.  But screaming in fury, it instead fells Goer for his impertinence!  

Another _magic missile_ blasts the thing, and it weakens; and Otis presses forward with his spear.  _It’s do or die,_ he realizes.  Still, he maintains his calm.

Side by side, Otis, Jorgen, Dahlia and Hrar force the dire badger back.  Finally, Hrar strikes it down with a well-placed flurry of furry fury!**

Panting, our heroes make to rest for a moment, but Dahlia warns, “The other badger will only remain calm for a couple of minutes.”

“Uh, can’t you make it go away or something?” Jorgen asks awkwardly.  “All the rumors say that you can speak to animals.”

She smiles briefly.  “I can try.”  Turning to the calm badger, she mutters to herself for a moment, then speaks to it.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hello,” it answers.  It yawns.

“What are you doing here?”

“We saw the light.  Yeah, the light,” the badger says.

“Oh, but what were you doing before that?”

“Umm... I don’t know.”  The badger seems a little confused.  “I like to fight,” he adds.  

“Really?”

“Yeah, it’s fun.  It’s fun to fight.”

“Oh, well, um, you don’t want to fight us.”

“No... I did a little while ago, but then, hmm, I decided not to.”

“Well, I bet there’s a good fight over there,” Dahlia suggests, pointing away from the group’s path.

“Oh, I don’t want to fight right now,” the badger replies.  “I don’t feel like it.  Hmm, maybe I’m hungry.  But I like to fight!” he adds brightly.  Shortly, the dire badger wanders away to its burrow to seek a meal.  Jorgen just shakes his head.

Soon the party reaches the Whitewater estate.  Goer instructs Sir Martin’s footman, Bartholomew, to rouse him at once.  Moments later, Sir Martin arrives in his bed robe, a sword strapped to his side.  “What is it, Fwaigo?” he demands. 

“My lord, we believe we have slain the renegade knight, Sir Bors!”

Sir Martin stiffens.  “Ahh...”  He takes a deep breath.  “Bors was once a good man,” he says sadly.  

“You knew him, my lord?” Jorgen asks softly.  At Sir Martin’s nod, the sheriff says, “Perhaps you could positively identify the body.”

Again Sir Martin nods, and he accompanies the party out to the stable, where Bors’ horse stands happily munching oats.  The body is laid out on a blanket next to it.  

Sir Martin takes a deep breath.

“His horse... his armor... his shield and helm and sword.  And yet,” he says, “that is _not_ Sir Bors.”

_*Next Time:*_ Who was Sir Bors really?  Will Kyle survive the frothing rage?  And what will be our heroes’ reward?

*Yes, call it a dnd-ized rabies. 

**I’m sorry.  I couldn’t help it.


----------



## the Jester

*Winter*

*“NYARRGHH!!!”*

Kyle twists against his restraints.  The nurses mop his brow and carefully avoid putting anything within reach of his bite.  Froth dots his lips.  He is a weak man, but his little muscles strain to tear him free from the bed he is in.

Dahlia shakes her head.  “There isn’t much we can do for him,” she comments. 

“Except hope,” returns Goer.  

***

It takes most of a week, but finally Kyle Goldenbow manages to fight off the disease.  Sweaty and exhausted, he falls into a deep slumber for almost a full day; and when he awakens, his color has begun to return.  His eyes are clear.  He coughs and vomits out the remaining sick bile and froth that lingers in his mouth, throat and stomach.  Finally, he is released and staggers weakly to his feet.  

It is only a day later when the band of brave heroes that overthrew the villainous knight in Sir Bors’ regalia are called back to Sir Martin’s estate, where they learn what happened to the _true_ Sir Bors: he had been betrayed and murdered by his squire, who then took his place.  Henceforth to be known as Bando the Black, the squire is the fellow that our heroes defeated.  

“As to the _real_ Sir Bors,” Sir Martin declares, “his family has at last found... his body.”

Despite this unfortunate turn of events, the Baron of Kamenda has sent along the agreed-upon reward of 50 gold crowns, to be split amongst the party.  Sir Bors’ family has also sent a reward: a large, brass-bound chest holding some 800 sp.  Between the gold and silver, our heroes are richer than they have ever been!

But there is not much to be done with the money, at least for the present, for the weather has truly turned and the long days of winter have set in.  Rain begins to come down regularly, and soon there are the first flurries of snow.  Winter has come for real.

Over the course of the winter, Jorgen, at Lord Whitewater’s request, begins working to establish a group of a half dozen or so trusty deputies- a cadre that can defend the town, build additional forces, and seek out dangers to the folk of Whitewater.  He manages to find Skeetles in the wilderness months after a conversation with Cur Sed Seed about him, but the old orc is completely uninterested.  Nobody is quite sure what motivates him.  Tad Ranger agrees to help at need, but declines actually being deputized.  Greybold, an old veteran warrior, won’t do it either; “I’ve killed enough men,” he states flatly. 

Goer starts to train his brother Valkor how to use the longspear, but he doesn’t have much natural talent for it.  Nonetheless, once he gets a little experience with it he will probably do all right.  Scowling, Goer reflects that he hopes his brother never has to get any experience with it- it’s a bloody, dangerous business.  _But then, it’s better to fight than to knuckle under if those damn bandits come and try to carry off our wares and our women,_ he growls to himself.  The last year has really shown him just how helpless his little village is against any sort of force in numbers.  

Dahlia has plenty of shelter in the ruins of Castle Laagos.  The storms make puddles here and there, but the giant ants seem to mostly stay in their holes during the cold and wet, and the strange hermit manages to be mostly undisturbed during the bad weather.  This is how she prefers it; there is a reason she does not live in town.  She spends a great deal of time frolicking among the trees in the courtyard and chatting with her badger.  No monsters that the group missed rise from the rubble; nothing disturbs her solitude.

Cur Sed Seed, on one of his trips into town, finds himself offered a position as a deputy to the sheriff.  After pondering for a few moments, he says, “Well, it might be kinda nice to have a job...”  He accepts, although he understands that the position does not come with a salary per se.  Jorgen reassures him that Sir Martin has been more than generous so far, and Cur smiles as he realizes that he is actually _part of a community_ now.  Sure, he has grown up with the Outcasts, but they are less a community than a loose band of backbiters.  You can’t turn your back on your own ‘brothers’, although they would trust their lives to each other when relating to outsiders.  Now Cur abruptly has a foot in both worlds.

The winter sweeps on, cold but not too cold.  Nobody freezes to death by New Year’s Eve, and as always, both the Gardens and the Cookers have phenomenal parties.  Cur and Jorgen go to Castle Laagos to see if they can rustle up Dahlia for the events, and the hermit allows herself to be coaxed out into town for some fun.  The Garden party has a great deal of entertainment, including some from out of town (they must have paid well to get someone to travel through the winter!).  Cara performs for them, singing and strumming her lute.  She goes through more than a dozen traditional New Year’s songs, several drinking tunes, a couple of original compositions and even a song or two about her mom’s adventuring career.

Dahlia and Kyle eventually move drunkenly to the Cooker party.  It’s already late, and things are winding down, but the remains of a veritable feast of goat and chicken is in evidence.  There is plenty of drink, too; and before the night is done, Kyle ends up coining the term ‘dwarven breakfast’ for puking.  He also continues to flirt incessantly with Dahlia, who is a little put off by his forwardness.  However, when he starts mumbling drunkenly in Elven she shows a little more interest.

Spring comes to Whitewater.  The river rises higher, higher on its banks, filled with the melt water from the mountains upstream.  There is still some snow on the ground, but the paralysis of winter is broken.  

One morning, as Jorgen walks along the river’s banks on patrol, he is hailed by one of the Cookers’ hands.  “Sheriff!” he cries.  “We’ve been looking for you!”

“What’s going on?” asks Jorgen.

The hand looks angry.  “Last night we had a major goblin raid.  They took a bunch of our goats.”  He glares at Jorgen.  “Junior wants to talk to you.”

Jorgen nods immediately.  “Goblins!” he curses.  _They can’t be trusted.  Maybe Otis is right- maybe we _shouldn’t_ have let those ones we captured go.  Now look what has happened!_

***

Meanwhile, at the Whitewater estate, Sir Martin is speaking urgently to his son, Cedric.

“Has she quickened yet?” demands the father.

“Well, we have no, uh, conthummated the relathionthip yet.”  The son looks uncomfortable.  For some reason, images of boyish thighs and firm buttocks keep flashing in his mind.

Martin Whitewater sighs.  “Remember, son- we must be sure that she is fertile.  As I have told you, there is no shame in a child’s birth being six or seven months after the wedding.”

“Of courthe not, father.”

“And before we... formalize the arrangement, we must ensure that she can continue the line.”

“I underthtand, father.”  Cedric stifles a sigh.  “I will move things forward more quickly.”

Sir Cedric nods, his face serious.  “Good.”

***

Cara and Kyle are eating breakfast together at the Fat Mallard.  The place is abuzz with rumor and speculation.  “There was a raid on the Cookers last night!”  “Was it the Gardens?”  “I heard it was goblins!”  “They stole a bunch of goats!”  “I hear they killed ten people!”  “I heard that it was a witch that did it!”

After they eat, the two of them decide to go take a look at the ranch.  They stroll west along the north bank of the river until they reach the Cooker Ranch.  The guard there, easily swayed by Cara’s beauty and persuasive ability, directs them along the west edge of the fence.  “They cut a hole,” he spits, “and got away with quite a few of the goats.  But we got a couple of ‘em.”

When the two start heading along the fence, they can hear a great haranguing taking place.  It appears that a few of the Cookers- especially Blake Jr., a man of middle years and foul temperament- are giving Sheriff Jorgen a tongue-lashing he’ll not soon forget.  “Are you stupid?” Junior barks.  “Can’t you do your job?  This was a full patrol of goblins, mounted, and you didn’t even notice?”

“I-“

“I demand you do something about this immediately, ‘sheriff’!”  The way he pronounces _sheriff_ is filled with disdain.  Junior’s face is purple with anger and his voice booms like thunder.  Clearly, this is a man used to having his way.

“We’ve come to help,” announces Kyle.

Blake Jr. whirls on him.  “You?” he sneers.  “You’re a lapidary!  What can _you_ do?”

“We can help,” says Cara.  “Just as we fought against the bandits and cleared out Castle Laagos.”  

“Yeah, we were just collectin’ the sheriff so we could go get our tracker,” Kyle adds.

Eventually, after a fair amount of disparagement, Kyle and Cara manage to rescue Jorgen from the Cooker haranguing.  “Whew!” he says, “Thanks!”  _Damn goblins,_ he thinks.  He has just grown a significant hatred of them.  “Now what?” he wonders aloud.  “I guess we should inform Lord Whitewater, and then we can see if Dahlia can track the goblins for us.”

The group sets out for the estate.  A short while later, they reach it, inform Sir Martin of the situation, and leave again with Sir Cedric with them, mounted upon Thunderpuss, his bold palomino.  As the group heads back towards the ruined castle where they will find Dahlia, they discuss the situation.  

“We already know that thomething drove the goblinth from the thouth thide of the Goblin Gorge,” comments Sir Cedric.  “Maybe we thould look into it.”

“Goblin Gorge!” exclaims Kyle.  “Crikey!  That sounds dangerous!” 

“Certainly, it can’t be more dangerous than letting the goblins run loose all around our town,” points out Jorgen.

They reach Laagos, collect Dahlia- who is only too happy to help, as she thinks of the terrible mistreatment the goblins might subject the goats to- and head back to the ranch, where they pick up the trail.  By now it is early afternoon.  “They have quite a head start at this point,” comments Dahlia.  “But there were quite a few of them- their trail is easy to follow.”

“Not to mention the fact that they’re herding goats,” adds Cara.

_*Next Time:*_ Our heroes encounter some of the goblins in question!


----------



## the Jester

The party present at the last session (which starts with spring in the last update):

Dahlia (druid 2)
Cara Reed (bard 2)
Kyle Goldenbow (rogue 2)
Sir Cedric Whitewater (knight 2)
Sheriff Jorgen Boatwright (fighter 2)

The others are, at this point:

Otis Optimus (wizard 2)
Cur Sed Seed (ranger 2)
Fwaigo "Goer" Smith (fighter 2)
Lazarus of Kamenda (priest 1)


----------



## the Jester

*Parlay with the Goblins*

The treacherous ambuscade reinforces Jorgen’s growing dislike of goblins.  

Lurking in the brush, a group of nearly a dozen goblins, with six riding dogs with them, bursts out and waylays the group.  The engagement is very dramatic, with the plants suddenly coming alive to grasp the dogs’ and goblins’ legs, preventing them from carrying the attack forward.  They struggle and squirm, trying to get free, but they are now fatally divided.  As Sir Cedric rides past them again and again, hewing goblin after goblin down, Dahlia draws her scimitar (acquired at the beginning of the winter) and rushes to the attack as well.  Kyle springs in, jabbing with his shortsword, while Cara sings and fires her bow.  

It is the dogs that prove deadliest, rushing in, barking and growling.  Frightened, Kyle attempts to tumble away and use a goblin for cover.  Unfortunately, his foot snags on a root and he tumbles down to the ground.  A dog leaps in, savagely biting him into unconsciousness and then, mercifully, turning away to deal with Hrar, Dahlia’s badger.

But the dogs are no match for a concerted effort by our heroes, and Jorgen and Cara end up side by side against a wall of dogs, parrying bite after bite and occasionally getting a telling slice or stab in.  Then Dahlia somehow manages to calm the dogs, and the party manages to regroup for a moment.  Cedric slides off of Thunderpuss and swiftly binds the worst of Kyle’s wounds, using his healing skills to good effect. 

But, though several goblins remain in the _entangle,_ two of the ones that are free of it prove to be able skirmishers, moving and hurling throwing axes at Cedric and Cara.  Both suffer wounds, though Cedric’s armor stops the worst of his.  

Then our heroes press forward.  It’s only another moment before there are only two goblins left, and they surrender (though a third manages to make his escape).  

“We should kill them, my lord,” Jorgen tells Cedric.

“Perhapth.  But perhapth they can tell uth thome utheful informathon.”

“Can we speak to them?” wonders Cara.

“Cur speaks goblin,” remarks Dahlia.  

The group spends a few minutes trying to communicate with the goblins, but they deduce that it will have to await Cur’s presence.  They do discuss the possibility of finding someone else in town who might speak the language, but they don’t really know who to talk to about it (though they suppose Tad Ranger is a good bet).  For the time being, they take their pair of prisoners to the Whitewater estate’s dungeon.  Jorgen also manages to rope an _entangled_ dog, and the group drags it along as well.  

After delivering their prisoners, the group splits up.  Sir Cedric visits the town’s cleric, Ovina, in the hopes that she will be willing to heal him.  Dahlia warns him that Ovina made her and Cara work 20 days in the fields in exchange for a healing previously, but Cedric merely shrugs.  He shoulders Kyle’s unconscious form and heads to the church of Belthizar.  When he reaches the place, he asks Ovina if she might be able to aid in the tending of his wounds (and those of his companion) so that they might pursue the goblins besetting the community, and she gladly does so, asking nothing in return for her prayers of healing.  Kyle is still sorely wounded, but between the _goodberries_ that Dahlia fed him earlier and Ovina’s prayers, his eyes flutter and open. 

Meanwhile, the others go to visit Tad Ranger.  He is at home, and when they tell him that they just fought some goblins, he nods.  “I’m not surprised,” he grunts.  “There is a large group of them not ten miles from Whitewater.  My sons and I have been keeping an eye on them.”  Unfortunately, as it turns out, he does not speak their tongue.  “I don’t talk to them much,” he admits with a wolfish grin.  

By now night is falling.  Our heroes meet for a quick drink at the Fat Mallard and decide to meet in the morning at the Honest Man (Whitewater’s other tavern).  “We shall seek out and destroy these goblin brigands!” announces Jorgen.

“We thall have to thee, theriff,” replies Sir Cedric (who is in his cups yet again).

The band is still largely wounded; Cedric attends to everyone’s bandages, making sure that their injuries are treated as best he can.  His father and his mother’s nurses have trained him well.  After he tenderly re-bandages everyone, he murmurs, “I hope my bandageth are thoothing to your thucculent thkin, Kyle- er, ahem!” he abruptly coughs, as if caught thinking out loud.

“What does _that_ mean?” wonders Jorgen aloud.  (But then again, he thinks out loud as a matter of course.)

***

In the morning, when the group meets at the Honest Man, Sir Cedric makes a point of buying a delicious glass of wine for Cara.  He begins to woo her over breakfast, and she smiles prettily for him.  Beneath her tunic is the necklace his father gave her- a token of familial affection, surely. 

The group heads north after breakfast.  Dahlia takes the lead, leading the party towards the goblin camp the Ranger family has been keeping an eye on.  She keeps an eye open for signs of the trail of the raiders and their stolen goats, and sure enough, here and there she spies droppings.  The party follows her over the rolling plains, moving around low hills and winding between scrub oaks and manzanita bushes.  The group manages to avoid hazards of all sorts as they travel across the fields, and finally, early in the afternoon, after an 8-mile trek, they come upon a large group of bandits. 

“How many are there, do you think?” asks Dahlia.

“At leatht two dozen, perhapth more,” Sir Cedric replies. 

“We should charge and kill them all, my lord,” Jorgen snarls.

“There are a lot of them,” Cara points out.

“They are _goblins,_” the sheriff sniffs.

“So what?  They think and eat and breathe, just like us,” Dahlia opines.  Jorgen just snorts again.

Cara suggests, “Maybe we could parlay with them.”

“Yeth, I think tho,” Sir Cedric says.  “I will approach them under a flag of truthe.”  He dismounts.  “What do we have that ith white, to uthe for the flag?”  The group digs around for a few moments and ends up empty.  “Well, I will thimply go forward open-handed.  They will thurely thee that I mean to negothiate rather than to fight.”

“I can’t let you go out there alone, my lord,” Jorgen chokes.  “I will come with you to guard against treachery.” 

So it is that, instead of a white flag, Sir Cedric brings forward a bottle of liquor.  Once he and Jorgen are detected approaching, a good dozen goblins eventually surround them, and there is some jabbering while they search for a common language.  One of the goblins turns out to speak Pellinsian,* so the two negotiators manages to hold a dialogue that eventually leads to the coming of a much larger goblin, obviously a leader-type, and a painted, shaman-looking goblin of more typical stature.  The big fellow- looming twice as tall as the 3’ goblins- is introduced as “the great and powerful Brart” by the painted fellow, and the negotiations begin in earnest.

The goats, meanwhile, are chewing the grass obliviously amongst the goblins.

The problem seems to be that the goblins have had their crops destroyed and have been driven from their home.  It seems to Sir Cedric that the best solution would be to help them go home again, but first there is the issue of the goats.  When Brart offers 4 cp for the 16 goats the goblins took, Jorgen shakes in outrage and cries, “They insult you, my lord!”  He nearly draws his sword right then, but Cedric’s cooler head prevails (aided by having shared a hefty shot of liquor with the goblin leader).  

Obviously, that is not an acceptable price for the goats.  After some reasonable discussion, it turns out that what the goblins are really worried about is living through the next winter; with no crops, and nowhere to plant any new ones, they are going to starve without help.  Cedric definitely sympathizes, while Jorgen simply points out that the goblins all starving would solve problems in the future.  

The goblins eventually offer to return the goats and serve as protection for Whitewater for the winter as long as they are fed through the winter, but neither Cedric nor Jorgen think much of that deal.  “They are cowards, my lord!” cries Jorgen, and Cedric has to admit to himself that this is true.  Besides, they are hardly trustworthy even without taking the cowardice into account.  

In the end, as a gesture of good will, the goblins return half of the goats to the party, who promise to convey their demands to Sir Martin and return on the morrow.  Then they return to Whitewater, reaching the town just before sundown.  They return the eight goats to the Cookers, who rail against Jorgen again, suggesting to Cedric that “you and your father should consider replacing the sheriff!”

Jorgen bites his tongue, but his face turns purple.  For once he _doesn’t_ think out loud.

Afterwards, Sir Cedric invites the others to dinner at his estate.  When they reach it, they have a good meal and most of them drink quite a bit.  Sir Martin joins them for a report.  Upon hearing the goblins’ demands, he snorts.  “Impossible,” he states.  “Tell them that we will _sell_ them chickens for a penny each.  That way they can have eggs as well as meat.  And offer to let them keep the remaining goats for a silver each- if they agree, return the money to the Cookers.  If they object, tell them that it was _my_ decision.”

The discussion continues for a few more minutes before Martin hies himself off to bed.  Then our heroes retire, with Cara and Cedric going to his room together. 

She passes out, but wakes up again as he fondles her.  Despite the fact that the thighs of young boys keep flashing before his eyes, he manages to find his way with her.  

Well!  Neither of them have ever done _that_ before!

_*Next Time:*_ Will our heroes manage to make a deal with the goblins, or will it turn to open battle??

*Pellinsia was the kingdom that the Barony of Kamenda was a part of; Pellinsian is sort of a mother tongue to Kamendan and several other languages.  Pellinsia is now pretty much defunct, alas.


----------



## hippiejedi2

Jester your an updating madman, keep it up.


In the tavern Lumberfell Inn, Sir Bors punched out a fellow cardplayer. Shortly thereafter, Cara was approached by drunk who tried to take her to his room. Fortunately, when the drunk called or alluded to her as a whore Goer and Sheriff Jorgen stepped in and demand he leave her in peace. As the drunk walked past, the Sheriff tripped him so that he stumbled into the midst oof the cardgame. Sir Bors then proceeded to knock out the drunk and claimed all of the money on the table because the winnings got mixed up. After Sir Bors left, Dahlia and Kyle followed while Goer, Sheriff Jorgen, and Cara attempted to gather information on the knightly gambler from some of the Lumberfell patrons. I believe we learned his name from one of the patrons.


----------



## omrob

*Shennaigans*



			
				the Jester said:
			
		

> She passes out, but wakes up again as he fondles her.  Despite the fact that the thighs of young boys keep flashing before his eyes, he manages to find his way with her.
> 
> Well!  Neither of them have ever done _that_ before!




Poor Cedric thought he was going to have the martial life of being the second son, and not have to deal with all the propriety of preserving the family. He was really looking forward to  being surrounded by his "Brotherth in Armth!" and so this development with Cara has got him all confused. So he took the only approach he knew how - alcohol. He still likes to ride behind Kyle, Goer, or the Sheriff tho...

So know we are all awaiting the results of the J's percentile based conception check. 

Whee!


----------



## the Jester

*Goblin Gorge*

In the morning, before joining their friends, Cara and Cedric have a second passionate lovemaking session.  They’re both still a little drunk from the knight- er, night before.  It helps.  Sir Cedric, immediately afterwards, finds himself pining for his brothers in arms, and brusquely dresses, then gallantly helps Cara into her clothes before the hungry couple emerges for breakfast.  

Sir Martin beams at his son, but for the nonce he says something.

Jorgen has a large lump on his head.  He’s a little embarrassed about it, but when asked, he admits that he was sleepwalking and Bartholomew, Sir Martin’s footman, thumped him with a sap, mistaking him for an intruder.  Kyle continues his attempts to woo Dahlia, giving her a haiku written in Elvish:

_I see Dahlia
Her hair flowing like water
If I could but drown._

She finds herself moved more by this thing than by anything else that Kyle has tried so far. 

It is still mid-morning when our heroes set out for the goblin camp.  The eight miles goes much more quickly since they know where they are going this time.  Just shy of noon they reach the goblins, and again Brart and the painted goblin (that they take for a shaman of some kind) enter into negotiations with them, and once again the negotiations are fruitful.  Brart is quite reasonable, purchasing both the goats and the chickens.

“Now then, we shall invethtigate thith creature that hath come into your gorge and driven you forth.  And then,” Sir Cedric admonishes with a shake of his finger, “you shall go home.”  Jorgen scowls threateningly at the goblins, and our heroes depart.

“I still say we should have killed them, my lord,” grumbles Jorgen. 

***

Goblin Gorge is several days upstream, away from the more civilized areas of the Barony of Kamenda.  Our heroes know already that the journey will be dangerous, with many wild animals, renegade goblins, bandits and worse prowling the foothills.  Nonetheless, they bravely move west, following the gradual rise of the hills towards the mountains.  Though none of them have ever been there, they have all heard many rumors about it: Goblin Gorge, a terrible area overrun by the little red-skinned monsters.

Although, perhaps, not anymore.  At least, according to Brart, not on the south bank.

So our heroes travel along the south bank of the river, looking for trouble.  There are still bits of snow on the ground here and there, where the shade is deep and the sun rarely touches.  Our heroes disregard it; it is nothing special.  Soon it will be gone, melting into the ground and the burbling river that seems to climb fuller every week as the runoff from the mountains continues to make its way down, down, down towards- eventually- the sea.

It is fear of what is in the dark, rather than fear of the dark itself, that provokes our heroes to keep watch.  They are rewarded for their efforts, for the first night of their trip they are beset by four bloated things like a cross between bats and mosquitoes.  Long proboscises stab and suck while our heroes struggle to defend himself, and though both Dahlia and Jorgen does manage to stab themselves at various points, the party does manage to slay all four of the beasts.  

Despite the night’s misadventure, and despite growing misgivings, the group moves on in the morning.  And by the next day at noon, Cara, Kyle, Dahlia, Sir Cedric and Jorgen have reached Goblin Gorge. 

To either side of the river the land rises, with the water slicing a canyon between.  On the opposite bank, the north side of the gorge, our heroes can see a number of small mud and sod huts and wooden fortresses.  But here to the south, there is virtually nothing except burnt ground.  Something lies along the ground; it is too far away to identify but something about it makes our heroes profoundly uneasy.

Cara gestures.  “Look at that- it’s like a whole village burned.  And all their crops, too.”

The party cautiously advances into the burn zone.  Their boots crunch on the cracked earth and leave footprints on the ground.  Dahlia takes the lead to check for tracks, and soon she is frowning, her forehead creased in concentration.  Finally, she reports, “There’s been _something_ here since the fire...”

“An animal?” wonders Kyle.

“No.  Some kind of humanoid.”

“Goblins?” speculates Cara.

“No,” Dahlia says, puzzlement obvious in her voice.  “Something with a foot like I’ve never seen.”  She studies the tracks carefully.  “Its foot is almost as wide as it is long, and it... it kind of splays open.”  She shakes her head.  “I have never seen anything like it,” she repeats slowly. 

“Hey, look over there!”  Jorgen points towards what appears to be the rough center of the area that had been a village. 

Our heroes turn and see a small area with life- but something about it looks _wrong._  It is like a single 15’ diameter area of bizarre garden remains, choked with writhing weeds of strange hue- orange, magenta and chartreuse.  Six sunflowers with red centers and white petals loom six feet high.  Two long, thin, flesh-colored tendrils lie coiled like intestines near the edge of the thing.  

“What the hell is that?” Cara asks, disgusted.

“Dahlia, you know a lot about plants, roight?” Kyle queries.  “What is it?”

“I have no idea,” the hermit admits.  

“Let uth ekthamine it in more detail,” suggests Sir Cedric.

The party approaches, but as they get within about 60’ of it, there’s a chiming sound and something appears next to them!  Similar to a humanoid beetle, it appears to be made of a shimmering iridescent substance.  Strange mucus-like slime drips off of it, but it evaporates almost faster than it can reach the ground.

“What the-?” Kyle cries, startled, just as the thing begins squelching through its own slime towards our heroes.

_*Next Time:*_ ‘What the-?’ indeed!!  Our heroes fight- er- that is- what the hell is going on here anyway??


----------



## the Jester

*Goblin Gorge- pt. 2*

Sir Cedric does not hesitate as the slimy, beetle-like thing starts to trundle towards him and his friends; he charges. 

Thunderpuss, his horse, gives a loud whinny and her hooves pound the earth.  His battle axe draws back, raises up, and then smashes down, crunching into the monstrosity’s shoulder with a splash of translucent goo. 

The beetle-thing is silent.  It swipes a thick claw at Cedric, smashing into his leg and leaving a rapidly-evaporating trail of disgusting slime on him.  He gives a wordless cry of pain and anger as he is almost knocked from the saddle.  He swings his axe again, but misses.  He curses as the thing charges past him at sheriff Jorgen.  Jorgen has his longspear out; as the thing rushes towards him, he jabs at it, but its thick carapace turns the point away and it smashes into him, pushing him backwards towards the bed of strange flowers.  

The strange sound, almost like breaking glass, occurs again and again, and Dahlia and Kyle both wheel to look at the sunflowers.  “Hey, I think the noise is coming from the sunflowers!” he exclaims.

_Maybe I can counter it,_ thinks Cara.  She begins to trill out a song, hoping to override whatever the sound is doing.  Of course, so far it has had no real effect that she can discern, but still- better safe than sorry!

Sir Cedric wheels Thunderpuss about.  “Oh indeed?” he cries, and puts his heels to her flanks.  The horse lunges forward, moving next to both the sunflowers and Cara, and Cedric whirls his axe up and over his head, landing it with a terrific _crunch!_ in the stalk of one of the flowers.  This seems to draw the beetle-thing’s ire, and it rushes back towards him.  Both Jorgen and Kyle stab it as it retreats, but it does not bleed anything other than more of the vanishing slime.

“What _is_ that thing?” wonders Kyle.

Cara lunges forward, her rapier pricking the beetle-thing dead center, and she runs it through.  It collapses immediately into a liquid mass of goo, which vanishes completely in only seconds.  She stares in shock; she didn’t even think she hit it that hard.  

Dahlia, meanwhile, has retreated and drawn out her sling.  She drops a stone into it and prepares to fire on the sunflowers, but suddenly a great cloud of stinking gas appears from nowhere all around her!  Gagging, she nearly drops her weapon as she staggers away.  And then Cedric gives a cry of pain and clutches at his head.  Blood starts to pour from his ears and nose.  “AAARGH!!” he screams.  

“Oh my god,” gasps Kyle.

Suddenly the sunflowers seem morph into an even more bizarre form, a heaving boil on the earth splattering reddish, blood-like liquid everywhere.  In this form the petals become tentacles, the seeds of the sunflowers become hundreds of tiny staring eyes, and great brain-like bulges keep forming fleetingly in the roiling flesh of the monster, a seething combination of flesh and woody material.  None of our heroes have ever seen anything even remotely like this before. 

Cara is the first one to recover, lunging with her blade, but she can’t seem to penetrate its thick... hide?  Trunk?  Whatever it is, she can’t seem to hurt it.  Cedric reels again as another wave of intense pain shoots through him, and he crumples, falling unconscious from the saddle to land in a heap on the ground.  Meanwhile, suddenly neither Kyle nor Cara can reason.  Roaring in anger and confusion, they both stagger around as if drunk, seemingly no longer in full possession of their faculties.  

Jorgen screams and stabs at the- the thing, whatever it is.  Over and over he thrusts his spear deep into it.  Kyle shakes his head and throws a bottle of whiskey (purchased earlier at the Fat Mallard) at the thing, crying out, “Burn it, burn it!!”  Cara, too, seems to recover her wits, but she finds her rapier ineffective.  

Dahlia has stumbled out of the stinking vapors (_smells like a sick room,_ she thinks) and hurries over to the pale form of Sir Cedric.  He is sinking rapidly towards death.  She lays her hands on his head and murmurs, and the power of nature flows from her, stopping his descent into oblivion.

Jorgen keeps stabbing with all his might.  He can feel washes of mental pain wash over him.  He feels something deep within him struggle to overcome his reason, to force him into a state of confusion.  He grits his teeth and resists with all his might.  The stench of sickness all around him threatens to overwhelm him.  He refuses to succumb.

Dahlia glances from Cedric’s fallen form at the battle.  _We can’t even tell if we’re hurting it significantly,_ she thinks.  _It looks like raw meat as it is.  How badly damaged is it?  What are we facing?_  She shakes with fear as she grunts and manhandles Cedric until he is draped over the snorting Thunderpuss.  Then she pulls herself awkwardly into the saddle and draws out her scimitar.  _Fight or flee?_ she debates. 

Jorgen staggers and grits his teeth.  He shakes his head and notices blood pouring from his nose.  _I can barely stand,_ he groans inwardly.  _But I cannot fail now!  It’s weakening, it _must be!

He stabs again, feeling his spear sink deep, deep into the mass of bizarre flesh and wood and pulp before him, and with a shudder the thing collapses into its previous sunflower-like state.  Suddenly there is quiet.  The flowers are trampled and cut to pieces; the fleshy tendrils have been mashed into pulp.  The only sounds are the wheezing of our heroes’ breath.

“Is... is it dead?” asks Kyle cautiously.

“Or dormant,” replies Dahlia, sheathing her scimitar.

“Either way, I think we need to get the hell out of here,” Jorgen groans.  

“Agreed,” Cara nods. 

The party retreats, Sir Cedric still shallowly breathing but far from conscious.  They hurry away from the burnt goblin territory, electing to return to the place where they camped the previous night.  They arrive there in short order and do their best to set up a hidden camp.  

“That thing was _disgusting,_” comments Kyle. 

“Well, hopefully we killed it,” Cara replies.  

“Have you ever heard of anything like it?”

“Never.”  Nor have any of the others.  

“Maybe if Otis was here,” murmurs Dahlia.  “This seems almost more like his area of expertise.”

Aching, exhausted, our heroes set up watches and rest.

_*Next Time:*_ Our heroes meet a living goblin in the wreckage!  Plus: what made those footprints??


----------



## the Jester

The fight above was the end of a session.  The pcs involved in the next session were:

Sheriff Jorgen- fighter 2/rogue 1
Dahlia the Crazy Hermit- druid 3
Cara Reed- bard 3
Kyle Goldenbow- rogue 2
Sir Cedric- knight 2
Otis Optimus- wizard 2
Cur Sed Seed- ranger 2

Sadly, due to not being able to make it to many games and even then for only short periods, Lazarus is still a 1st-level priest.

Edit: of course, at this point Kyle only has *6 frickin' hit points at full.*

Low con, rolled a 1 when leveling up.


----------



## the Jester

Meanwhile (and a few days earlier), back in Whitewater, Fwaigo “Goer” Smith wakes up and has breakfast with his family in preparation for a long day at the forge with his father.  On the wall is a crude wooden slat that his father uses as a calendar and makes note of various business transactions and appointments.  Goer’s father, Brackburn, spends a few moments hmm’ing over it this morning before finally smacking himself in the forehead.

“What is it, Dad?” asks Goer. 

“I knew I forgot something important today!” Brackburn replies, shaking his head.  “Blast!”  He turns to his son.  “Well, lad, I’m going to need you to take care of something for me.”

“What’s that?”

Brackburn explains that, during the autumn, he had made arrangements to purchase some supplies for the smithy from a dwarven merchant with whom he trades every year or so.  “But I’ve got to meet with Sir Martin today.  He’s been talking about having us produce a fair-sized order of weapons and such.  I think, since the incident last fall with Tumenore’s men, that he’s been considering building up something of a local force for protection.”

Goer nods.  “That’s a good idea.”

“But the dwarves don’t come to town- they’ve had bad experiences in the past.  I’m supposed to meet them most of a day’s journey away... but I have to meet Sir Martin at noon today instead.  You’ll have to go to the dwarves in my stead.”

Goer nods again.  “I understand.”

So, about an hour later, Goer finds himself driving a rented donkey-pulled cart southwest, along one of the Roaring River’s minor tributaries.  The land gradually rises as he heads into the foothills.  He is a little nervous about making such a journey on his own, but as the cool, invigorating air washes over him his concerns fall away, and he sings little ditties he has heard in the taverns.  The flowers of early spring are to either side of the bare game trail he is following, scenting the air with their perfumes.  His voice is neither sweet nor awful, but it is loud enough that he does not notice the buzzing sound until he steers the donkey almost into a four and a half foot long bee!

His singing stops suddenly as the donkey screams, and the giant bee stings it directly in the chest!  With a wordless cry, Goer scrambles from the cart to more firm footing, pulling the spear he purchased just this morning (in preparation for this very journey) with him.  But the bee, when it pulls back, leaves its stinger behind in the screaming, rearing donkey.  The great insect’s entire hind quarters tears in two, and the thing falls to the ground dead.

But there’s more buzzing... and two more bees arise angrily from behind some of the flowering scrub brush around him.  Goer goes pale as the two bees buzz towards him, and one splits off to continue harassing the poor donkey!  As it stings the animal in the back, the donkey rears again, straining against its harness, and breaks free, tearing the harness apart!  Still screaming in pain, the donkey lunges into the water of the creek they have been traveling beside, seeking to sooth the burning pain.

The other bee, meanwhile, darts towards Goer.  With a cry, he thrusts at it, jabbing a hole in its thorax, and it wobbles in the air, trying to reach him with its stinger.  Goer backpedals, trying to keep some distance between him and it, and jabs it again, this time impaling it completely.  Its wings make one last loud buzz, and then it dies.

Wildly, Goer pulls his spear free, looking and listening for any more signs of trouble.  

Nothing.  

Panting, his face drawn with worry, he hurries to the donkey, spending a minute or two to calm it, and pulls the stingers from its flesh.  They are as long as daggers, and a yellowish ichor- clearly the stings’ venom- seeps from the wounds.  The donkey is shaking with fear and pain, but Goer packs mud on the wounds and gradually soothes the donkey.  After a time he ties the broken harness back together as best he can and soon he and the donkey have resumed their journey.  Goer no longer sings; he keeps his eyes and ears open more fully.  

At about mid-afternoon he passes a friendly- but somewhat suspicious- fisherman, who offers to share some fish with him but is evasive when asked who his lord is.  Goer shrugs and politely declines, stating that he has an appointment that he must keep, and tells the man (who says his name is Sooth) to look him up if he’s ever in Whitewater.  He continues along his way.

Evening is rolling in when Goer finally reaches the dwarves.  Though they are suspicious of him at first, when he declares that he is Brackburn’s son and that his father had to meet with his lord, the dwarven leader (named Thurbardin) nods sagely.  “We dwarves understand duty,” he declares.  Still, they require that Goer demonstrate that he is a smith, and as the sun goes down Goer finds himself politely forced to demonstrate his skills with a hammer and tongs using a large flat rock as an improvised anvil.  Once he has straightened the bent horseshoes and sharpened the dull blades before him, Thurbardin nods again and the dwarves seem to become much more accepting of him.  They transact their business, Goer handing over a bag of coin from his father and receiving an inventory of metals and tools from the dwarven group.  Afterwards, they share a bowl of disgusting fish gruel with him, which he gladly eats (being quite hungry after his day’s journey) and then offer him some dwarven ale, which Goer is extremely impressed by.  They disdainfully wave his little wooden mug aside and loan him a dwarf-sized stein, which is as large as any drinking vessel Goer has ever seen. 

After an amiable evening around the fire, Thurbardin offers to let Goer sleep by their fire.  “We’ll keep watch, no fear,” he rumbles.

“Oh, I could take a watch if you want,” Goer offers.

“No need.  There are five of us- we have a routine.  No need to disturb it.”

With a shrug, Goer goes to sleep, and the night passes without event.  In the morning, he packs up and prepares to leave, checking the donkey’s wounds.  They are healing but still tender.  “Damn giant bugs,” grumbles the squire, shaking his head and thinking of the giant ants in the ruins of Castle Laagos. 

Before he leaves, he invites the dwarves to come into Whitewater some time, but Thurbardin snorts.  “We’ve had trouble there in the past,” he responds.  “The lords of your town didn’t much care for us.  Damn Laagos family...”

“Well, they are long gone,” Goer explains, “and the current ruling family is, er, much more reasonable.”  Still, the dwarves seem uninterested.  Relations between humans and dwarves are fair at the moment, but Thurbardin seems convinced that there is no reason for them to stay that way for long.  Goer shrugs.  “Well, if you ever change your mind, look me up,” he says with a smile.

***

That evening, back in Whitewater, Goer spends several silver at the Fat Mallard, telling the tale of how the donkey and he fought off a swarm of almost a dozen giant bees.  He impresses the other patrons with his tale, and soon he discovers that one of the folk in the tavern is Cara Reed’s little brother, Mane (who is somewhere around 14 or 15 years old).  Buying him a drink, Goer asks Mane to tell him about his sister. 

“She’s a bitch,” Mane says immediately, and proceeds to rant about his sister in the way only a 14 or 15-year-old little brother can.  He rails against his mother, too, but when he starts to mock Sir Cedric Goer warns him off.

“Watch it!” he snaps.  “He’s my lord.”

“Oh, of course, of course...”  Mane Reed backs away from his affected lithp and becomes immediately more respectful.  Goer claps him on the back and buys another ale for him.  As the night starts to turn late, the two chat amiably, and Mane mentions that his mother was a member of some order of knights in her younger days called the Order of the Paladin.  He doesn’t know much- really, anything- about said order, however.  

Eh.  Goer calls it a night.  

***

A few days of hard work at the forge pass uneventfully for Goer.  Apparently Sir Cedric has left town for a little while to work on some sort of goblin problem, but the details are lost on Goer.  Then, one morning, Bartholomew, Sir Martin’s footman, summons him to the Whitewater estate.  After quickly washing, Goer follows him to the estate.  Sir Martin greets him from behind his desk and pulls a book entitled The Natural History of Plants of the Foothills and Mountains from a drawer.

“Fwaigo, last fall you offered to help me with my wife’s illness,” Sir Martin begins.  “I have had so many hopes dashed, but I am no quitter.  I will never give up!”  His face is fierce.  “I have recently had something new brought to my attention.  There is a flower that grows further up in the mountains that I am told might be able to at least help treat some of the symptoms of the wasting disease that has taken hold of her.”  He flips the book open to a dog-eared page and points at a picture.  “That one there.”

Sir Martin goes on to explain that his son, the sheriff, and several of their companions have set out to try to deal with whatever has driven the goblins from Goblin Gorge.  “We’ve sold them animals to help keep them fed through the winter,” he adds, “and we wish to get them to return to their gorge.  Goblin Gorge is halfway to the flowers.  I want you to proceed to the gorge, link up with the sheriff and Sir Cedric and the others, and thence- after completing their current mission- go further up the mountains until you can retrieve the flowers in question.”

Goer nods.  “Yes, my lord,” he replies.  He proceeds to make a few suggestions (“perhaps we should lead the goblins to deal with their own problems”) that are rejected (“it would not be proper for goblins to follow a Whitewater banner”) and ask a few questions (“no, we don’t have any dogs- we had to eat them in the famine of 262... no, I’ve never heard of the Order of the Paladins”) before heading back to town to prepare.

Soon he is back in Whitewater, gathering his gear and making ready to depart.  The question of this Order of Paladins still has his curiosity piqued, though, and so he heads to the Old-Timer’s house before leaving.  It turns out, according to the Old-Timer, that the Order of the Paladin is a group of knights that protect the weak, defend the downtrodden and generally comport themselves with the highest moral stance they can.  _Interesting,_ Goer thinks.

Then he sets out on yet another lone journey, looking for game along the way.  _I would _love_ to find some venison,_ he thinks, his mouth watering, but alas, the best he can do is some quail and coneys.

***

“Hey, look- an intact building!”  Kyle gestures, and indeed, amongst the rubble and burnt remains of the goblin village there is one structure that still stands.  Cautiously, weapons drawn, our heroes move towards it.  The stone building, 25’ square, has been touched by flames, and the thatch roof that was once upon it has been burned off, but the building itself is otherwise in good shape.  Some kind of white powder is on the ground within and immediately around it.

“Salt,” announces Jorgen after putting a small amount of it on his tongue.

“Durka zishoza!” comes a voice.  “Maglube dis durka!”

Our heroes are most surprised to discover a living goblin within the place.  She is filthy and covered in soot but seems unharmed.  The interior of the building is dominated by a statue of a great, burly-looking goblin with a shield and a club.  

“Durka jeehaw!  Sherpik del durka Maglube!” the goblin says excitedly.

“Doeth anyone here thpeak Goblin?” asks Sir Cedric.

There is a moment of silence.

“I think Cur does,” Cara says at last. 

“And maybe Otis,” adds Kyle.  “Crikey!  Where are those two when you need them?”

“Durka Zeem del Maglube ix jershova!” the goblin says, and gestures at the big statue.  “Maglube durka!”

“How did she survive here?” wonders Cara.

“I wonder if the salt has something to do with it,” Jorgen muses.

“Maybe we should gather some up,” suggests Kyle.  Carefully watching the goblin- who manages to communicate via gesture that her name is Zeem and that the statue is Maglube, but nothing else- the group gathers a few pouches of the salt.  

“Where do you suppose all the salt came from?” wonders Dahlia.

***

Meanwhile, the two members of the group that speak Goblin have begun their own trek up the river towards the Goblin Gorge.  Otis broods as he and Cur travel along the north bank of the Roaring River.  _According to the lord’s men, Sir Cedric and the sheriff and the others are trying to find and drive out whatever drove the goblins from their homes,_ he thinks.  _And it sounds as though whatever it was came from an elf ruin up there!  Well, clearly, I shall have to investigate that ruin.  Who knows what arcane secrets might remain there?  Secrets that perhaps even my old mistress knows nothing of- the secret powers of the lost elves.  

I wonder what happened to drive the elves away.  Do they still exist somewhere, or are they all dead?  If they exist yet, where have they gone?  Why?  There are many unanswered questions about them.  I hope to plumb the depths of the mysteries of the elves, and perhaps Dahlia can aid me with them.  I know that she is interested in her elf heritage as well.  And she seems to have a crude talent for nature magic.  Well, with any luck, we’ll find out something up here..._  He sighs.  _Since I have broken with Lady Xastys, I _must_ find a way to discover new spells.  The costs of research and scribing spells are almost prohibitive.  I _must_ discover the secrets of the elves- I must!_

It takes about a day and a half to reach the gorge from Whitewater, and when Otis and Cur do they spy a long fence rising uphill to the north.  A wooden fort guards the gate, and the two approach it.  Soon they find themselves in negotiations with the leader of this particular group of goblins, whose name turns out to be Glourkin Scrimmercut.  Fortunately, both Cur and Otis speak the crude tongue of goblins, so they have no difficulty expressing themselves.  They declare that they come in peace to find their friends, and they explain the mission that the others are on.  

Glourkin chuckles and tells them that they are on the wrong side of the gorge.

“Surely you have a way to cross over,” Otis says, half a question.

“We knocked out the bridge when the horrible thing came,” Glourkin replies.  He goes on to describe the terrifying day when the horrible beast came into the goblin territory across the gorge, slaying and burning and driving out the lucky ones.  “It almost made it to the bridge- we had to knock it out with dozens of our own kind still on it!” 

Cur is appalled.  “Did you at least kill the monster?”

“No- it escaped.  As far as we know, it still lurks across the gorge.”

“That’s terrible!” Cur exclaims.

After some negotiations, and paying Glourkin a bribe, the goblins dispatch two scouts to escort Cur and Otis.  “They’ll take you to someone who might be able to help you cross over,” declares Glourkin, pocketing the coins he was given.  He squints at them.  “Good luck to you- but beware!  The monster is terrible!”  However, our heroes are forced to leave their weapons behind.  Glourkin assures them that he will provide them with a single weapon for their journey, but this turns out to be nothing more than a pointed stick.  Somehow, they feel as though this is not the most effective weapon they could have been given.

As the two goblins assigned to guide them lead them uphill beyond the line of the fence, Otis and Cur confer, being careful to speak in Kamendan rather than Goblin.  “We must find a way to get across the water,” Otis states.

Cur nods.  “The goblin seemed to think that heading further upstream and crossing through the valley just past the gorge is our best way.  I wonder if they can provide us with a boat?”

“Would you _trust_ a goblin boat?”

“Good point.”

_In fact,_ thinks Otis, _I don’t trust these goblins at all._  He glances at the two small red-skinned humanoids ahead of him, then at Cur’s pointed stick.  

_It is fortunate,_ he thinks, _that I am a weapon myself._  Soon... but not until they are out of sight of the fort.


_*Next Time:*_ Goer battles a giant frog!  Otis and Cur betray their escort- and land in some serious trouble because of it!  The others find a disgusting area like nothing they’ve ever seen, and the source of the strange tracks!


----------



## Once a Fool

Mmm.  A thoroughly enjoyable read with lots of low-level goodness.  I especially enjoyed the parlay with the goblins.


----------



## the Jester

Once a Fool said:
			
		

> Mmm.  A thoroughly enjoyable read with lots of low-level goodness.  I especially enjoyed the parlay with the goblins.




Ahh, glad you're enjoying it!  Expect another update in the next couple of hours.


----------



## the Jester

*Goblin Gorge: the Cyst*

It is disgusting, whatever it is.  It is also huge.  It looks- and smells- like someone with badly-polluted lungs had coughed up a ball of phlegm as big as a meadow and spat it upon the ground.  A whiff of that dizzying, sick smell makes out heroes’ heads swim.  

“Those weird tracks seem thicker towards it,” Dahlia gestures, making a face full of distaste.  She can’t stop staring at the weird... growth?  Cyst? 

The closer they get, the worse the stink becomes.  The party circles around the cyst through the ruins of the goblin village, and they spy a number of nostril-like openings in the thing, big enough to easily accommodate them.  “Do thingth _live_ in there?” Sir Cedric says, aghast.  The cyst itself is irregular in shape but well over a thousand feet across.  It is not too high off the ground; this must be the strange smear the group saw as they first entered the ruined village.  When they nervously approach the cyst, they find themselves entering a layer of stomach-turning foul air once they are within about a dozen feet of it.  Moreover, a strange, unearthly sound seems to emanate from it, a weird low warbling screech that sets the party’s hair on end.  

“I don’t know about this,” Dahlia mutters, barely able to keep her gorge from rising.

The party retreats for the moment.  “Perhapth we thould watch it from up the hill, from a pothithion of conthealment,” suggests Sir Cedric.  “We can thee if thomething emergeth.  And if not, we can alwayth go invethtigate it tomorrow.”

The others agree that this seems a wise course, and so they retreat up the slope of the hill closest to the alien blemish on the ground.  _Is that the source of the goblins’ troubles?_ wonders Cara.  _What is it?  I’ve never heard of anything like it..._  She shakes her head.  _I wonder if Mom ever saw anything like this._

***

Meanwhile, on the road to the Goblin Gorge, Goer continues his journey, whistling happily.  He gnaws on a piece of jerky as he walks.  He kicks a stone along for a time, then leaves it behind as it bounces off the side of his path and into some manzanita.  The air is chilly, but not cold; the day is pleasant for walking.  _I wish I had a horse,_ thinks Goer, not for the first time.

That evening, as he is setting up camp and debating whether to slow his journey in order to hunt for game on the morrow, he hears a loud _ribbit_ coming from the direction of the river.  He glances off into the gloom, seeking the source, and catches a glimpse of movement- _large_ movement.  A frog almost as big as Goer himself is hopping towards him.  It croaks again, its throat ballooning out.  

Goer drops the firewood he is carrying and grabs up his longspear.  “_There’s_ dinner right there!” he sings to himself, and he charges forward, skewering the giant frog!  It makes a different, agonized noise, and shoots its sticky tongue at Goer.  The squire dodges aside, jerking his spear free, and jabs it again, this time directly in the head!  The giant frog spasms, trying to jump away, but one more stab and the thing is done.

“All right!” exclaims Goer gleefully.  “Frog legs!”

Why, there’s got to be four days’ worth of food on that thing!

***

Night is creeping in, with the sun already behind the mountains.  Otis, Cur and the two goblins guiding them are already in deep shadow.  _We’re well out of sight of the goblin fort,_ Otis thinks craftily.  He sidles up next to Cur and murmurs, “It’s time.”  He glances towards the goblins.  “Let’s kill them.  Their friends will never know, and they’re _goblins._”  The wizard’s disdain for the humanoids is plain, but fortunately neither of the guides speak Kamendan.  _Savages,_ Cur reiterates mentally.

“Do ya have a plan?” Cur mutters back.  “They took all my weapons.”  He gestures vaguely with the pointed stick the goblins allowed him to take.  

“Yes,” Otis replies.  “I will put one of them to sleep and you can take _his_ weapon.”

“They’re smaller than me, but I suppose it’s better than a stick,” Cur allows.

And the two put their plan into action.  Their two goblin guards scarcely know what hits them; one drops to Otis’ _sleep_ spell, and Cur snatches up his little axe and proceeds immediately to bury it in the other goblin’s neck.  Then they easily dispatch the sleeping one.

“We’ll see if we can find this ‘Sooth’ person in the morning,” declares Otis.  Cur is busy cleaning off the axe.  “We can find somewhere to camp in the meantime.”

Soon, leaving the bloody bodies of their goblin guides behind, the two have settled into the meager concealment of the brush.  Both of them are tired from the long day’s journey, and it is not long before both of them are fast asleep.

When the goblins (who were looking for their friends but are now looking for their friends’ murderers) find Otis and Cur, they are still asleep.

***

Several hours earlier, as the sun is just dropping behind the mountains, Cara points down at the cyst.  “Look!” she cries.  “Something is coming out of it!”  

Indeed, there are three ‘somethings’ emerging from within the mucus-like... structure?  Boil?  They appear more or less humanoid in form, but they are wearing strange armor of brownish resin.  

“Perhapth thothe creatureth have the anthers we theek!” declares Sir Cedric.

“They moight be very dangerous,” remarks Kyle.

“Thurely we can overcome any foeth,” Sir Cedric retorts, and he mounts his horse.  “Come, I will interthept them on Thunderputh, and you follow along.”  With that, the knight is galloping downslope towards the three strange figures.

Sheriff Jorgen calls, “Wait for me, my lord!”  Then he, Cara, Dahlia and Kyle are following down the slope of the hill, as fast as their unmounted legs can carry them.  Cara quickly takes the lead, outdistancing her armored and encumbered friends.

“You there!” Sir Cedric calls.  “Ekthplain yourthelveth!”

The figures turn, and something about the way they move strikes Cedric as profoundly _wrong._  Then one gestures, and a crackling violet bolt shoots forth, striking Sir Cedric soundly in the chest!  There is no pain, but the knight can feel weakness spreading out through his limbs.  He groans in surprise.  His friends on the hillside, trying to catch up with him, are shocked to see both Thuderpuss and Sir Cedric suddenly collapse in a spray of weird fuchsia and umber motes that comes from another of the figures.  

“Cedric!” screams Cara.  She pulls out her shortbow.

“Oh no!” Kyle groans.  

“Stay away from him!” cries Jorgen.  

They are closing in, but the figures are still too far away to reach as they shuffle forward and pick Sir Cedric’s limp form up.  Then they start heading towards the cyst with him.

Dahlia casts _faerie fire_ and the fallen knight, as well as his sudden captors, start to glow with an eldritch green light.  But they are not discouraged.  Cara’s bow shot, on the other hand, flies true.  Suddenly one of the pair that are carrying Cedric’s body staggers a bit.  

Then the creatures sprout foul, membranous wings.  They unfold from the monsters’ backs- for clearly, now, these are no earthly creature- in a shower of grey and yellow fluid.

“Let him go!” Cara screams again, and shoots another arrow.  She is still advancing, and the others keep running towards the foul, now winged trio.  The one that is not carrying Sir Cedric moves to meet the advancing heroes.  It reaches _into_ its armor and pulls out a strange thing that is surely a weapon.  It has a black, resinous handle like a dagger; but instead of a blade, a broad, flat whip-like thing extends from it.  It is flexible and as long as a shortsword, and the creature begins carving the air with it as it advances towards Cara, its movements oddly _wrong_.  She attempts to tumble away from it, but it slashes her with the edge of the whip dagger.  She hisses in pain, then snaps off another arrow at the retreating villains holding her fiancé.  

Sir Cedric, meanwhile, is finally starting to come around.  He begins struggling weakly just as the others finally arrive, nearly out of breath.  He shakes his head to clear it- _What’s that smell?_ he wonders for an instant- and then gasps as he sees a purple cloud take Cara down.  She falls, senseless to the ground, just as he had.

But then the sheriff arrives with a great bellow!  Jorgen charges one of the two beings holding his lord and runs him through in a single blow!  The figure collapses instantly, leaving Sir Cedric half-free, and then the other creature holding him releases him as well.  It takes a single step away and then blasts the group with another flash of umber, magenta and yellow motes and vapor.  The one with the strange weapon out begins dueling with Kyle.  It whips the broad film at the lapidary, drawing a bloody line in his arm.  Kyle yelps, but he doesn’t want to back down.  Instead, he springs forward- but trips over his own feet and goes sprawling!**  “This is so embarrassing,” he groans from the ground.

Sir Cedric wrests his bastard sword free of its baldric, and with a wordless cry of triumph he decapitates one of the strange things in a single blow!  Grinning, he turns to the last one- which is advancing on Kyle’s prone form- just in time to see Jorgen take it in the side with a thrust from his blade.  The monster jerks and collapses to the ground, destroyed.

Our heroes take a few minutes to regain their breath, to allow their hearts to stop pounding.  “That was close,” opines Kyle.

“Nonthenthe!” Cedric snorts.  “They were no match for uth!  In fact, perhapth we thould enter the nothtril.”  He gestures at the entrance from which the creatures had come.  

“It’s a big place,” Cara responds.  “There are probably more of them.”

“Plus we haven’t seen the fire creature yet,” Kyle points out.

“Well, we certainly can’t just leave them here,” Sheriff Jorgen says.  “They have to be connected to whatever the creature that drove the goblins out was.  But didn’t Brart say it was fiery?  These guys don’t seem fiery.”

“Maybe there’s something else in there.”  Kyle gestures at the cyst again.

“We should try to lure them out a few at a time,” suggests Jorgen.  “There could be a lot of them in there.”

“Let’s take the bodies and head back up the hill,” Kyle says.  “We can examine them at our leisure.”

The others agree, and the plan is executed.

***

A day later, when Cur finally opens his eyes, he can feel blood matting his hair.  He groans and shifts, but he is bound at both the ankles and the wrists; his hands are secured behind his back.  His head throbs.  His vision doubles momentarily before clearing.  

“Finally,” a voice grates in Goblin.  Cur shifts his eyes to the goblins looming above him.  He is in a very uncomfortable position, and he seems to have been tossed into a small boat on top of Otis, whose limp form is below him, also tied up.

“Murderers!” spits one of the goblins.  

Glourkin snarls, “We were going to help you, but you killed our friends for no reason!  Well, you’ll get some justice now!”  He spits as well.

Cur can hear the sounds of water rushing just off to his side.  _Did they put us in a boat?_ he wonders.  He is dizzy and does not feel so well.  _They hit us on the head while we slept,_ he realizes.  “Wait,” he croaks to Glourkin.  “There must be a misunderstanding...”

“Push them in,” Glourkin commands.  Ignoring Cur’s protests, the goblins push, and suddenly Cur can feel the current take them.  Yes- clearly, he and Otis _are_ in a boat.  _But why?  There are no goblins piloting us..._ 

_Spat!_  Suddenly a long rope of weird, mucus-like stuff hits the stern of the boat, dropping down from above.  _What the hell is that?_ Cur wonders.  He can feel Otis shift beneath him and he hears a groan come from the wizard.  

_Spat!_  The aft of the boat is hit by a rope of mucus too.  There is a peculiar, sick-person smell that comes from the lengths of phlegmy substance.  Then, suddenly, the ropes go taut and the boat starts to ascend jerkily.  It does not remain too even, but both Cur and Otis manage to prevent themselves from falling into the water.  Instead, they are reeled in to the tender clutches of the masters of the south side of Goblin Gorge.

Really, drowning might have been more merciful. 

_*Next Time:*_ The party successfully lures out a larger group of the enemy!  Plus, Cur and Otis explore the cyst, if by ‘explore’ you mean ‘are taken helplessly into!’ 


*Obviously, the term ‘earthly’ is a misnomer on Cydra, but it seemed the best word to get my point across.   

**Fumble.


----------



## the Jester

Here's a bonus: the two wavs I looped for the soundtrack whenever the party was too close to the cyst.  Bonus points for anyone who knows what the hell they are.


----------



## the Jester

*Cur and Otis Enter the Cyst*

_What are these things?!_ Cur cries out inwardly as the strange creatures reel them in.  His pulse pounds; his lungs burn as the stink of sickness pours in his nostrils.  He can see Otis’ eyes rolling.  Then the strong fingers of the weird figures are on him, and he is being hauled towards something horrible- a great spread of brownish-yellow _stuff_ on the ground that covers a huge area.  _It’s like some kind of unnatural vomit,_ Cur thinks despairingly, _and they’re taking me_ inside of it!!

Indeed.  

The freakish creatures’ shambling gait takes them along, out of the light and into the warm moist air within the cyst, redolent with the odor of phlegm and illness.  Cur groans deep in his throat, wriggling weakly in a vain attempt to break free.  The sun is left behind, the natural light fading as the alien creatures take him into their lair.  And then, a moment later, he is dumped unceremoniously onto the seeping floor of the place.  

A vent opens on the ground, and a foul burst of vapors gusts out, dulling his mind and making him feel sick and disoriented. 

The figures walk away, and Cur struggles with his bonds.  But only a few moments later the creatures return, dropping Otis next to him, and then a moment later one of them is bending over Cur.  It reaches to the ground next to him and pulls a taffy-like string of brown matter from the floor itself.  It stretches like a rope and in only another moment it has been wrapped around the hapless half-orc, reinforcing his bonds.  Next to him he sees another of the things do the same to Otis.  More vapors burst from the ground.  Then one of the creatures touches the wall, and slowly a gap opens in it, almost like a mouth drawing open in a yawn.  Cur groans again as his captors pick him up and carry him deeper into the cyst, into a large chamber and through it.  He has a vague impression of a clutch of large eggs and some sort of weird crawling thing, and he shudders in the tight grip of the resin-armored monsters carrying him.

Then he sees an unnatural illumination flicking at his eyes from up ahead.  Brownish, painful to see, it pours from the walls and floor and ceiling of the chamber they are taking him into, and Cur can feel the weird luminescence itself dulling his mind.  His eyes widen as fear slaps down on him, like an elephant sitting on his chest.  He gasps.  _This place is _terrible! he cries inwardly.  

The chamber reeks of that sickroom smell.  A huge pool, almost 30’ in diameter, churns sluggishly with flesh-colored gunk, hissing and bubbling and smoking.  Two cages of resinous material in the far corners of the chamber wait, their doors open.  They have splayed, seven-pronged feet on them.  Cur feels a strong urge to hide in one of the cages, but somehow he keeps his wits enough to realize that doing so might not be in his best interests.  But then, it isn’t as if he has a choice.

“What are you going to do to me?” he cries.  “What do you _want??_”

The figures hurl him into one of the cages and turn to leave.  He sees the door to the cage start to swing shut of its own accord, but manages to thrust his feet out just in time.

_Pain!_ 

The door slams shut on his ankles, and Cur howls in pain.  The pressure is immense.  But at least he stopped it from shutting him in completely.  His ankles have caught the door, but it presses fiercely against them, and already he can tell that if he remains in this position too long they will break like twigs.  He hisses in pain and tries to keep his wits about him; maybe if he can slip out... 

Then he hears the sound of the figures approaching again, and Otis groaning and struggling.  _If I can’t break free of them,_ Cur thinks, _I doubt whether you can..._  He lifts his head to watch, dreading what he will see.

The figures toss Otis into the other cage, and the wizard begins to scream in terror.  The cage door slams shut, sealing him in, and their captors leave, apparently- hopefully- failing to notice that Cur has kept his cage from closing completely.  (_My ankles,_ he thinks despairingly.)  

Then, as Otis shrieks wordlessly, utterly panicked, the cage holding him starts to move.  It rises up on its splayed feet and starts to scuttle towards the fleshy pool.  “Otis!” screams Cur in horror, but he can do nothing but watch.  And then the cage- and Otis- submerge into the pool.

***

Outside and uphill (and a day and a half before), Cara, Kyle, Dahlia, Sir Cedric and Jorgen are examining the bodies of the things they have slain.  They are disgusted to find that both the resinous armor and the corpses themselves are softening, almost liquefying, at a rapid rate.  

“Thethe thingth are dithguthting,” Sir Cedric states, the distaste plain in his voice.  

“But what are they?” wonders Kyle.  “I’ve never seen anything like them.”

“I’ve never even _heard_ of anything like them,” Cara adds.

“Well, they certainly aren’t natural,” Dahlia offers.

Nobody has any answers.  _Maybe if Otis were here,_ thinks Cara, _he might know something about them._  She shakes her head slowly.  “Let’s get away from the smell,” she suggests.  

The group moves several dozen yards from the corpses after pushing them behind the face of the hill.  That way, at least they won’t be immediately visible to anything emerging from the cyst.  The group’s conversation is muted; they all keep an eye on the cyst below until they drop into sleep, carefully setting watches.  

When the morning comes, our heroes examine the corpses again.  They are little more than brown stains on the grass now.  Dahlia shudders and again thinks about how unnatural these _things_ are.

For several hours the party keeps watch nervously, waiting for the cyst to disgorge more of the creatures.  Finally, at about midday, it happens.  A group of the creatures, leading a couple of strange quadrupeds- perhaps their alien equivalent of hounds?- emerges.  It is almost immediately apparent that they are hunting for something.  _Probably us,_ thinks Kyle.

“Let’th get them,” Sir Cedric says, loosening his bastard sword in its baldric.  He mounts up and Thunderpuss whinnies.  

“But more carefully this time,” Jorgen nods.  “I don’t think you should ride out ahead like you did before, my lord, or they might get their filthy hands on you again!”  He shudders, picturing the stains on the grass behind the hill.  

Kyle studies the group below them, which numbers seven plus the ‘hounds’.  “There are more of them this time, too- we should be careful.”

The party moves downhill, and almost immediately the enemy turns to meet them.  Cara pulls the bag of salt she harvested from Zeem’s building, intending to try it out as a weapon, and suggests the same to the others.  Kyle grins at the idea.  The others have their weapons in hand.  The enemy, too, draws forth their weapons- more of those weird ribbon-like daggers.  

Then the battle is joined as our heroes begin to fire bows and slings.  Jorgen’s first shot sinks deep into one of the resin-armored beings’ throat, and it staggers back, clamping a hand around the shaft, and falls twitching to the ground.  Only seconds later the confusion of melee ensues.  Cara immediately fumbles her bag of salt, dropping and spilling it, and one of the creatures makes jerky passes through the air and causes a shimmering cloud of twirling multicolored gas to appear around Sir Cedric and Cara.  The knight cries out and his horse whinnies, but Cara stumbles to a halt, unable to do anything but stand stupefied in the cloud.  Dahlia duels one of the monsters, her scimitar forcing the thing to back away a step but then its ribbon-like weapon whipping out and driving her a step back in turn.  Her badger, however, rushing forward barking and takes a bite from its calf!  Simultaneously Kyle manages to run one of the unnatural hound-things through, but then the being that created the cloud of colorful gas gestures again and his blade begins to vibrate and shake in his hands.  He cries out and grips it firmly as it tries to shake itself apart, and after a moment it subsides.  Jorgen, meanwhile, brings down another of the creatures, hewing off its left hand. 

Things start to look ugly as one of the monsters whips Kyle across the face, knocking him back and wounding him badly.  The lapidary reels, and then falls as another one of the creatures slices his arms badly with its ribbon dagger.  Another of them fires a purple energy beam and Cedric and drains his strength.  But then Cara breaks her fascination with the vapors and stumbles from the cloud, rejoining the battle and stabbing at one of the enemies.    

The one that created the cloud and tried to _shatter_ Kyle’s weapon begins to flee.  Dahlia rushes after it; her foe has fallen, and she and the badger are ready for another.  But the others are still in battle; Sir Cedric slays another of the humanoids, and Jorgen moves to aid him as the other bizarre, hound-like creature moves to flank the knight.  Jorgen spears it and it howls in agony as the sheriff’s weapon sends it into its death throes.  

Then it is over. 

“The leader got away!” Cara curses.  She has fired a couple of arrows at it, but now it has re-entered the cyst.

“Kyle!” Sir Cedric cries, rushing to his side.  “I will thave you!  Let me put my bandageth all over your thucculent body and bind your woundth!”  He begins staunching his friend’s wounds.  When he is done, the party takes stock of their situation.  Most of them are wounded, Kyle is unconscious and Sir Cedric has been weakened.  Not too good.  They elect to retreat and rest.

“I don’t think it’s safe to just go up the hill,” Dahlia points out.  “We should withdraw to the place we camped the night before we got to the gorge.”

The group rapidly agrees, and they retreat.  

_*Next Time:*_ Goer meets up with the party, and we check in on poor Cur and Otis!!


----------



## the Jester

Fwaigo “Goer” Smith huffs as he works his way up the hill in the early morning light.  The sun is barely peeking above the eastern horizon.  As he crests the ridge, Goblin Gorge comes into view for the first time in his life.  He has heard of it, of course; it is infamous in town.  Occasional trade happens between Whitewater and the goblins, but usually relations range from tense to hostile.  

Goer is shocked to see the southern half of the land above the physical gorge itself- through which the Roaring River runs- is almost completely burnt.  The stubs of the goblins’ huts are like burned-out torches, and something odd appears smeared on the ground, but at this distance he cannot identify it.  Goblin Gorge is still probably a mile or more away, but Goer feels a deep sense of satisfaction.  The place he is seeking is in sight.

Then he pulls his eyes down, to the bottom of the slope before him before the land starts to rise again along the edges of the gorge, and he grins.  There are his friends below him, just beginning to stir!  _It’s a good thing I’m an early riser,_ he thinks to himself, and starts to scramble downslope towards his friends.

***

Cur groans.  His ankles _throb._  The pressure of the cage door pressing against them- if he can’t free himself, or at least pull his legs free, they will surely snap soon.  He glances again at the seething pool of flesh-colored fluid into which Otis, moments ago, was plunged, and shudders. 

Then, to his shock, the cage rises from the pool.  Otis lies immobile on the floor of it, covered with fleshy stuff  the consistency of cottage cheese.  

“Otis?” croaks Cur, but there is no response. 

The fear that has been running through him since he was dragged into this chamber is exhausting him, but he cannot free himself of it.  Cur gasps as he tries to shift his weight against the cage door crushing his ankles.  He draws himself near it and tries to use his head and shoulders for leverage against the weird resinous bars of the cage.  The cords on his neck bulge as he exerts his strength, somehow drained by the terror of this experience, and slowly he manages to shove his legs further through the gap until the skin and flesh starts to tear.  But in a way, this helps; the pain gives him focus, and the blood helps lubricate his efforts.  His jaw clenches and he lets out a snarling grunt as he pushes again, and suddenly he’s slipped out of the cage!

He is still bound by the taffy-like straps, though, and when he struggles against them they only seem to pull tighter.  After a few gasping minutes, he lets himself collapse for a few moments, breathing deeply and trying to recover his strength, his courage.  

But it must be something about this place.  He cannot calm himself; his heart pounds in his chest.  This place, this cyst on the earth, is _awful._  He cannot bear it.  And poor Otis!  What happened to him in the fluid?  What must that have been like?

Again, Cur squirms against his bonds, but to no avail.  Again, after a few moments he surrenders to the exhaustion.  If he cannot break his bonds, he will be helpless if he is found by his captors!

Then his eyes steal across to the base of the cage he is slumped near, and he glances at its splayed feet.  Each ends in seven sharply-pointed toes.  

Cur hauls his body into position and begins sawing at his bonds on the sharp toes.  Soon he has freed himself.  His head swims and his ankles throb as he drags himself up.  Sweat pours off his brow; it is hot and humid, and he feels ill from all the vapors, the fear tearing through his mind, the pain in his ankles.  He stumbles towards Otis, who is moaning on the floor of the cage.  “Otis?” Cur whispers, but his only answer is a moan.  

Cur tries to break the bars on the doors, to no avail.  There is no visible lock; there is no key that he can see anywhere.  He grits his teeth in frustration, wondering how he can possibly free his friend- and then he experimentally gives the cage door a simple tug, and it opens easily.  

“Come out,” he says softly, beckoning to Otis.  Slowly the wizard pulls himself up and stumbles forward.  Otis looks like he is on the verge of running; he looks wildly about, searching for escape, and immediately starts staggering towards the exit.

“Wait!” hisses Cur, grabbing Otis’ arm.  “There are more of them!  Follow my lead- we’ll have to sneak out of here.”

So Cur, shaking with fear and fatigue, limps forward.  He can already feel his ankles swelling, and they send waves of agony through him as he puts weight on them.  His breath rasps in his throat; all he can do is step carefully and try not to make any noise.  Slowly he leads Otis into the large room they passed through on the way in, the room with the clutch of eggs and the crawling thing.  The creature is not in evidence, but the eggs are- strange, rubbery-looking things, several of which have burst open.  There are nearly two dozen of the intact eggs, each the size of a man; and another seven are burst, with empty husks of horrific creatures with stingers on their tails hanging from them.  Only one burst egg has no husk; Cur hopes that that means that there is only one crawling thing.

The two steal past the chamber, skirting it in the shadows of the eggs, and Cur leads them to the part of the wall that opened for their captors.  Otis is clearly frightened and wants nothing more than to flee, but he has nowhere to flee to.  His eyes bulge in terror as Cur probes the wall.  Suddenly, a gap in the wall opens, sphincter-like, and they steal through into the chamber with the vapors.  

They step through; there are several exits, but the white- _normal_- like of day comes from only one of them.  

Immediately Otis gives a little yell and rushes out, finally having somewhere to run away to.  “Wait!” Cur cries, then curses.  _What if there are guards?_ he wonders.  He pauses, listening, but hears nothing indicating that Otis has run into trouble.  He takes a step towards the exit-

Then, suddenly, the floor gives off another burst of vapors.  Nausea and disorientation come swimming through Cur’s head, and he crashes to the floor, unable to take any more.*

_*Next Time:*_ Will Cur survive?  Will Otis find the rest of the party?  And what other terrible things lurk inside the cyst??


*The vapors, which had already affected Cur once, did both int and con damage on a failed Fort save; and when Cur failed this one, he took enough damage from con loss that it put him below zero hit points.  Then it was just a matter of rolling to stabilize, especially since Otis was _frightened_ and couldn’t go back to help him.

The vapors, by the way, were emitted on a timer- every four rounds.  Unfortunately, Cur waited one round too long in the chamber.


----------



## the Jester

*Regrouping*

“It’s good to see you guys!” Goer exclaims as the party walks along.  “Boy, traveling alone makes me nervous.  It’s not safe.”

“Tell me about it!”  One of Kyle’s hands unconsciously, briefly, moves towards the eye he lost when the blood hawks attacked him and Otis.  He has his scars to show for travel, that’s for sure.

The group is returning to Goblin Gorge, somewhat revivified thanks to Dahlia’s _goodberries._  But it’s spring; there aren’t too many berries to be found at this time of year.  Mostly there are just flowers.  As they walk, the group tells Goer what they have seen and found so far in the burnt goblin village.  When they mention the survivor they found, Zeem, he suggests they talk to her. 

“None of us speak their tongue,” Dahlia answers.  “Well, except Otis and Cur.”

“Where are they, anyway?” inquires Goer.

“That’s a very good question,” opines Kyle.

“I think we might have an answer, at least to part of that.  Look!”  Sheriff Jorgen points ahead of them, towards the cyst.  Otis is running, screaming, towards them. 

“What’s going on with him?” Cara wonders. 

“I thall interthept him,” Sir Cedric intones, and Thunderpuss begins galloping towards the wizard.  In a few short moments, he reaches Otis.  “Otith!” he cries.  “Come, mount my horthe before me and I will carry you to thafety!  I will hold you in my armth ath we ride to the otherth!”

Otis quickly accedes, and soon they have returned to the rest of the party.  Otis is gibbering incoherently: “Agh!!  Vapors... eggs... cage... Cur!  Aaaaggh!  Danger!  Cur!  Mucus... ahh!”

“Mucuth?” Sir Cedric says, his voice dripping distaste.

“Did he say ‘Cur?’” Dahlia puts in.

“It looked like he was running out of that... place,” ponders Jorgen.  “Is... is Cur inside?”

“Aaggh!” Otis shouts.

“Then we mutht rethcue him,” Sir Cedric states, dismounting, and he starts approaching the cyst.  Otis draws back, shaking, clutching at Thunderpuss.  Fearfully, the others follow the knight.

The stink is horrible.*  It makes Goer want to gag.  Walking into it is like walking into the breath of illness, warm and moist.  He shudders.  The passage they enter is wide and dank, and almost immediately it opens into a large chamber.  On the floor they can see Cur, unmoving.  Without hesitation, Sir Cedric moves forward, grabs him up, and carries him back.  Behind him there’s a hissing sound; he whirls in time to see a pulsing, organic-looking rent on the floor open up and emit a cloud of vapors.  Fortunately, he moved out of the room just in time.**

The party carries Cur out to the horse and the wizard.  Otis seems to be calming down, but Cur is on the very edge of death.  

The party discusses the situation.  “We are at full thtrength, other than Cur,” Sir Cedric says.  “We mutht at leatht ekthplore a little.”

“It’s horrible in there,” groans Otis.  

“All the more reason to destroy it,” Cara replies.

“We can’t leave this thing here, so close to town,” Jorgen declares. 

The party returns to the cyst.  Dahlia nearly retches at the stink; she can barely take it.  Otis tells them of the secret door, and while Sir Cedric- for there is another exit from the chamber- the others search the wall, quickly locating it.  Then they step through into the egg chamber, and the crawling thing comes into view: a twisted mockery of an insect, with a strange, wicked-looking stinger curled above its back.

Immediately Goer moves up next to Sir Cedric, ready to aid his liege.  The thing scuttles forward with surprising speed and its large mouth snaps at him, tearing into his left arm.  Blood pours down Goer.  “Hey!” he roars, and both he and Sir Cedric begin hacking it with their swords!  The creature mindlessly bites Goer again, this time catching his foot as he tries to leap aside, and then tries to sting him- but instead, it stings itself!  Meanwhile Cara and Otis manage to land an arrow and a stone, respectively, and Sir Cedric deals it another blow.  The thing is weakening, but it manages to sting Goer at last before Otis fells it with another sling stone.

Goer groans.  “I don’t feel so well after that,” he admits.  He sits for a few moments while the poison runs its course, but manages to avoid any secondary effects.  His ears are ringing and he seems to be having a little trouble concentrating, however.***

The party checks out the room.  It is very large, stretching out over one hundred feet from end to end, and two passages lead out.  One of them, which Otis points out, leads to the room with the cages and the pool.  He shudders.  There are many eggs that look like they are waiting to hatch into horrible vermin like the one they just slew.

“We should destroy these eggs,” Jorgen says, and the party does so.  Dahlia instead keeps watch, listening down the other hallway.  The eggs are tough and leathery, but easy enough to destroy, given a little work, and soon the party is half-done.  Then-

“Look out!” Dahlia calls a warning.  “Another to the left!”

One of the resin-armored figures approaches.  It draws to a halt, detecting them, and gestures, surrounding Cara and Sir Cedric with a field of confusion, distracting colors.  Both of them manage to shake off the effect.  Then a stone from Otis sails out, slapping into the monster’s face!  Arrows and more sling stones begin to rain out at the enemy as Sir Cedric and Dahlia move in to engage it!  Upon suffering a few blows from them and Cara (who has switched from bow to rapier), the thing sprouts wings- just as our heroes have seen these bizarre things do before- and attempts to escape, but they bring it down with more slashes as it moves away from them.

Quickly they finish smashing the weird eggs.  Then they withdraw back outside.  “We should talk to the goblin, now that we have someone who can,” Cara suggests, and the party agrees and heads over to the only building that survived the arrival of the fire-thing that our heroes still have not seen. 

***

Otis talks to Zeem, and what our heroes learn is this: she is not even a priestess, but this is a temple sacred to Maglube, the Great Goblin Lord.  When the terrible fire-thing came, she ran to the temple to pray for protection, and the salt came.  But it was too late for the rest of her village; they were destroyed or driven off.  When the cyst creatures came, they could not enter the salted earth either.  However, Zeem found that she could no longer leave the temple, nor did she need to eat or drink.  Maglube had saved her, yet cursed her to remain in the ruins.  

Zeem also knows a little bit about the creatures in the cyst.  Many of them, according to her, are the weird humanoid-like things.  There is also the terrible fire-thing that burned her village, which she doesn’t seem to be able to describe in any detail.  But she also tells them of a great bat-like creature. 

On a more personal note, Otis also asks her if she knows anything about Glourkin, the goblin who gave himself and Cur to the cyst men, but she only shrugs.  “He is _north side_ goblin.  I am _south side_ goblin.”

Then our heroes set out to rest and recuperate for a few days. 

_*Next Time:*_ Back into the cyst!  Our heroes find the fire-beast at last!!

*The in-game effects of the stink took effect when the characters approached within 10’ of the cyst.  If they failed a Fort save, DC 12, they were sickened.  Every ten minutes, they got to make a new save; once you made one you got the standard 3e “24 hour immunity” to effects like that.  The environment of the cyst was full of messed up environmental badness like that (the vapors, several things in the cage room, etc).

**This was one of those things where Cur was bleeding out and the pcs were racing to save him in time.  They would have failed, but he stabilized on his very last chance to do so.

***He took 5 points of wis damage from the sting.  The secondary damage would have been fun, but he made his save.


----------



## the Jester

After a few days of recuperation, the heroes of Whitewater return to the destroyed village, and thence to the shrine to Maglube.  They speak again to Zeem, this time more specifically about the salt, and she tells them that it seems to ward off the things from the cyst.  In fact, Maglube has shown her the rituals necessary to ingrain salt in a few of their weapons.

“It will wear off after a few strikes of the weapon,” she adds, “so be careful not to use it until you need it.  Save it for the fire monster.”

Cur and Otis again ask her about the fire monster, and again she struggles to describe it, but cannot.  Worriedly, the two report to the rest of the party and the group takes a few moments to decide what weapons to have salted.  They choose to salt the longspears of Jorgen and Goer and the sword of Sir Cedric.  

Then they return to the cyst, and once more into that unsettling sound, that sickening smell.  They have cloths tied across their faces, some soaked in whiskey, to help fend off the stink; even so, it settles thickly into their lungs.  They halt before the vapor-emitting chamber and watch for a time as Cedric times the vents; then they hurry through the chamber.  This time, instead of penetrating the secret door that leads to the huge egg room, they take the passage that leads from the vapor room.  Their path soon splits; our heroes take the left fork, which rapidly spills them into a chamber perhaps 40’ across, within which a slimy, huge maggot squirms.  

“A giant worm!” Jorgen cries out in disgust, and suddenly the maggot begins undulating towards him.  But he jabs it with his spear, inflicting severe damage on it, then stabs at it again.  His weapon sinks deep into the monster, and it begins leaking a bloody pus.  

Then the others rush in, Sir Cedric intentionally drawing it attention so that Cara and Kyle don’t suffer as they move in to flank it, and the fight is as good as over.  It is Kyle who actually delivers the death blow.  

“Perhaps we should search this chamber, my lord,” suggests Goer to Sir Cedric.

“Maybe there’s another secret door,” Dahlia remarks.

“Indeed.  Peathantth!  Thearth!” Cedric directs.

But as they search, something comes up on them from the passage on the far side of the room.  Perhaps it is drawn by the noise of battle; perhaps it can smell the normality so jarringly out of place in the cyst.  Regardless, it comes- and Kyle hears it coming.  A strange noise approaches, not like footsteps, and it catches his attention.  He turns and walks towards the passage that the noise seems to be emerging from, and then he gasps as he catches a glimpse of it. 

“EEEEKKKK!!!” he screams.

Goer is nearby, and he turns just in time to see the thing burst into flames; then something whips across his chest, burning and slashing, and then again, and Goer falls to the ground.  

Kyle stumbles back, gaping at the fire-thing, and he knows why Zeem could not describe it.  It churns and moves very quickly.  It looks like a tangle of wire with gobbets of reddish, bloody-looking flesh impaled everywhere along the wire.  The bizarre thing is tangled and wickedly sharp-looking.  Topping it is the suggestion of a head- a ram’s skull with long wicked horns.  Two flaming, wiry whips lash the air around it.  And, of course, it is aflame- a roaring aura of fire burning 10’ away from it, threatening to engulf anyone getting too close- and burning Goer.  

Cur springs forward, grabbing Goer.  He starts to drag his friend away from the horrifying fire monster.  Flames lick around him, burning him and Goer both; but he perseveres, withdrawing and thereby saving Goer’s life- at least for the moment.  

Otis fires a _magic missile_ at the monster while Cedric and Jorgen draw out their salted weapons and move forward.  When the knight lands a blow, the monster’s blood proves to be white-hot liquid fire.  Then the flames of its aura die, or rather change, to a violet-brown flicker, and everyone too near it suddenly feels their stomachs lurch.  The party groans in nausea. 

Kyle starts slinging stones at it, but they are utterly ineffective.  Cara briefly tries her bow, but curses as it fails to harm the thing.  Then she realizes- _Goer’s spear!  It has been salted, and it’s just laying there..._  She darts forward and sweeps it up, then steps in to fight beside her fiancé, Sir Cedric.

The monster, meanwhile, whips Sir Cedric twice, then switches its nausea aura to one of fear.  Cur and Cedric both quail, and both flee an instant later.  Dahlia and Jorgen, too succumb.  Then the terrible creature bursts into flames again, whipping madly at Cara- the only one still in melee.

“Guys?” Cara whines, and then the lashes and the flames are all over her.  She screams in pain, then grits her teeth and thrusts, stabbing deep into the monster.  She staggers and stabs, trying to dodge and keep moving, but unfortunately, the monster is too fast, too deadly; and although she deals a few telling wounds to it, it brings her down in seconds.

“Cara!” shouts Sir Cedric.

The others are back- the fear lasted only a moment, and now Cur leaps forward, cloaked by a _mage armor_ cast by Otis, to pick up the fallen salted spear.  Dahlia _creates water_ directly above the monster, splashing it and raising a cloud of steam, while Jorgen charges forward into the flames, running the monster through with his salted spear.  It writhes and comes apart, shattering into lengths of limp wire.  Its flaming aura dies.

Our heroes quickly draw back and bandage their bleeding friends.  Then, once they are confident no one is in imminent danger of dying, most of the conscious members of the group move to search the room the fire beast came from.

“What if there are more of them?” mutters Dahlia.

“That could be trouble,” Kyle remarks.

“Why don’t you go scout ahead?” she suggests.  “You’re pretty sneaky.”

“...okay.”  _I wish I didn’t have so much trouble turning down dares,_ he thinks as he heads nervously down the passage.  It is short, however, and shortly leads to a chamber dominated by a flesh-colored rise that is almost a small hill within the chamber.  A thin wall of white fire surrounds it.  Kyle reports back, and Cur, Dahlia and Otis join him in the chamber.  They find passage through the flames surprisingly easy; they burn, but barely hot enough to cause injury.  However, they also sap the strength of people leaping through them.  

There is nothing of note atop the rise, but there are signs that the fire creature has been here.  Also, the rise is starting to shrink.  In fact-

“Hey,” Kyle says, “is it just me, or does this whole place look like it’s... softening?”

The party hurries back to their friends, where they confirm that, yes, the entire cyst seems to be starting to liquefy.  As quickly as they can, they haul their unconscious friends back outside, and then from a distance they watch as the cyst slowly melts down into a huge slick of yellow-brown oily stuff.  By the next day, all that remains is a stain on the land and a faint sick aroma.  Though they do not know it, no natural plant will grow on this spot again for decades.

The cyst is destroyed. 

_*Next Time:*_ Finding foothills in the flowers!  Cara has an important realization!  And our heroes begin preparing to go to the elf-ruins!


----------



## Seance

If I recall everything started to...ummm melt because Cur plunged a salty spear into that giant pustule. He was well up to his elbows in rancid pus and had to keep striking at it. It was the zit that just wont quit popping. NASTY!!


----------



## the Jester

*Into the Elf-Ruins*

The goblins have been informed that their gorge is available to them again.  Lazy days swim by.  Spring is in full bloom by the time our heroes find the flowers that Lord Whitewater dispatched Goer to recover from the hills to the west of Whitewater.  With Dahlia’s aid- for her knowledge of plants and nature surpasses any other member of the group’s- they recover a large bundle of them from a field in the foothills and easily return them to the knight, who turns them over to the nurses for preparation for his ill wife.  

During this time Cara realizes that she is pregnant, but as of yet she tells nobody.  She decides to wait to tell Sir Cedric until they are married; after all (it seems to her), it would not be seemly for him to know that his seed has taken root until they have undergone the ceremony.  Alas for her, Sir Martin (Cedric’s father) has meanwhile told his son that the marriage will not take place until they are certain that Cara is fertile.  Though the furrow has been ploughed, until the first shoots show they will remain engaged.

The group spends weeks in the spring training.  They know that they must seek out the elf-ruins from which the flaming horror came; they must ensure that there is nothing else that will come forth from it, and both Kyle and Dahlia seek any knowledge about the elven portion of their heritage.

When the group is almost ready to depart, some month and a half after casting down the cyst, Cara, Sir Cedric, Dahlia and Kyle encounter a trio of gnolls.  Though Cara calls for peach, the gnolls attack; but our heroes have little trouble dispatching them.  Afterwards, they backtrack the gnolls to a campsite, checking for signs of more of them.  They find nothing. 

Had they only tracked the gnolls another few days, they certainly would have; but time will tell them about the invasion.

Soon the group is en route to the elf-ruins that await them beyond the gorge.  One night along the way, Cedric brings down a large buck deer.  The group feasts that night; Sir Cedric cuts off and roasts the buck’s phallus, sharing the “thucculent thweetmeatth” with Cara.  Dahlia grimaces in disgust, but Kyle watches thoughtfully, considering the reputed aphrodisiacal properties of such cuts of meat.  However, he puts the thought of using such things for seduction aside when Cara suffers a bout of nausea in the morning.  (Little does he realize that this is a symptom of her pregnancy.)

When the group moves through Goblin Gorge they find that the goblins are rebuilding.  The goblins, though not exactly welcoming, are helpful enough to allow them passage, and our heroes move through the gorge quickly and beyond, into the Ashen Valley beyond.  Soon they have spotted the elf-ruins along the side of one of the lower mountains flanking the valley.  The fire-thing’s trail of burnt vegetation is growing over rapidly with the season, but for those with an eye for tracking or nature, it is still evident.  

So it is that the party arrives at the elf-ruins upstream of the Goblin Gorge.  It takes about 14 hours of traveling past the gorge to reach the final ascent, a mountain trail that ascends to near the top of a low peak.  There, an arch shaped from the surrounding stone by ancient elf-magic leads into a beautiful series of elven ruins.   All of the ruins have the same fluted architecture, full of willowy extensions and impossible-looking craftsmanship; clearly the place was made with the aid of sorcery.  Though many of the rooms have partial roofs, most of them are open to the sun and natural light. 

Slowly our heroes move through the ruined complex, examining one dusty area after another.  There is no evidence of recent habitation, and the fire-beast was released long enough ago that the tracks of whomever let it loose have been obliterated by time.  The party explores a gallery of sculpture, depicting elven achievements, elves and dwarves together in amity, a wave caught in motion and more; from there they find a dining area, with the table and the chairs shaped from the surrounding stone, but cleverly, so that they can move along tracks in the floor.  Moving on, the party finds an overgrown garden, with a collection of hardy plants that have overgrown their former containers.

“This place is very interesting,” Dahlia comments, musing to herself at the different plants present.  

Kyle feigns interest, but most of the party is a little bored by the place so far, as there has been no sign of further trouble, nor has there been a clue as to who released the fire-monster.  Then group’s interest grows much more intense when one of the vines abruptly lashes out, squeezing around Jorgen’s neck.  His sudden croak of “Help!” catches everyone’s attention.  His eyes bulge and his face starts to turn purple.

Whoops!

_*Next Time:*_ Our heroes continue to explore the elf-ruins, and they hear something odd and interesting!


----------



## the Jester

*Current Party Lineup:*

Cara Reed (bard 3)
Sir Cedric of Whitewater (knght 3)
Dahlia (druid 3)
Kyle Goldenbow (rogue 3)
Cur Sed Seed (ranger 2)
Sheriff Jorgen Boatwright (fighter 2/rogue 1)
Otis Optimus (wizard 3)


----------



## the Jester

*In the Elf-Ruins*

Jorgen tries to gasp for breath, but there is no passage for the air to enter.  Black spots start to form before his eyes.  His forearms bulge with effort as he fights to pull the vine that is choking him from around his throat.  

Otis shouts, “Jorgen!!”  He points at the plant and chants a series of mystic syllables, and a pair of beads of force reminiscent of question marks shoot out, blasting the thing beneath Jorgen’s clutching fingers.  Sap oozes out, and the sheriff feels the vine weaken just enough.  With a loud grunt he throws it off and stumbles away from it.

_That magic is very powerful,_ Kyle thinks to himself, sneaking forward.

Cara starts singing, inspiring our heroes, and Dahlia joins her.  The hermit is off-key and- well, she’s certainly no bard*- but Sir Cedric rushes to Jorgen’s aid atop Thunderpuss, swinging his bastard sword, and with a single mighty cut he nearly cuts the vine in two!  Then it entwines around him, almost pulling him free from the saddle.  He cries out inarticulately, tightening the muscles of his thighs around his mount, trying to keep himself from being pulled completely into the air.

Then Kyle emerges from the shadows, stabbing out, and sinks his shortsword into the plant as well.  Jorgen hacks at it, too; the vine is clearly weakening, almost severed.  

Then Thunderpuss, with a mighty neigh, crashes her hooves down.  The first misses the plant, but the second slams into it where Cedric hacked it so badly, and the blow cuts the vine in twain.  It releases the knight from its clutches and drops to the ground, now nothing more than a dead weed.

“Gadthookth!” exclaims Cedric.  “Even the plantth attack uth here!  We mutht be careful.”

“It’s elf-magic,” Kyle breathes.  “It must be.”

“Or it was a plant,” Cara comments.

The party continues to explore the ruined elf-lair.  As they move through dusty, abandoned buildings, Cur cocks his head.  “Wait a minute,” he hisses.  “Listen.”  The group hushes, but at first the others hear nothing.  Then Cara’s eyes widen.

“Singing?” she asks softly.

Cur nods.  “What is it?”

“We should check it out,” declares Cara.  

The party becomes more cautious as they continue their explorations.  Soon they pass an open area with a stair leading upwards to a room at a slightly higher elevation, open to the sky.  It is from there that the singing comes.  

“Perhaps we should finish searching this level of the place first,” suggests Otis, “so that we do not leave any potential enemies behind us.”

“Good idea,” agrees Jorgen.  The group notes the room’s location and continues along.  They search through an abandoned bedchamber with furnishings of cleverly-shaped stone.  Upon the floor is the shattered remains of a statue.  The place appears to have been looted previously.  Beyond that, a hall pierces solid rock, and unlike the rest of the place that the party has previously seen, the group sees no light.  The hall is not open to the sun.

Following this leads them to a doorway of thick stone.  The door is damaged and has clearly been passed before.  When they throw the door open, the party sees an old, long-unused laboratory.  Many of the old apparati, beakers and bottles are broken or damaged.  In the floor is a trap door.  As Sir Cedric- takes a single step into the room, something- some _things_- rise from the debris.

It’s a pair of heads.

Their matted hair, gruesome, brown-rotten faces and glowing eyes are disgusting enough, but a small pair of wings- perhaps terribly distended, flapping ears- serves to give the repugnant things an even more loathsome aspect.  Most of our heroes are too shocked to move as the freakish heads rise, but not so Sir Cedric.  He charges, rushing forward.  His sword is already in his hand; he simply raises it up, gripping it with both hands and pounding towards the nearer head.  With a single mighty blow he cleaves it almost in two!  It drops to the ground, dead (if it was even alive).

Jorgen, too, manages to shake off the shock and charge, but his foot catches on a crack and he stumbles, failing to connect with the other head.  Then Otis and Cur start carefully moving forward, but they are too slow; the remaining gruesome head lets out a blood-curdling scream, and Dahlia gasps and collapses to the ground. 

“Dahlia!  Noooo!” shouts Cara.  She fires her shortbow at the head, but to her chagrin her arrow flies wide.  

With an angry roar, Cedric flings himself towards the other head.  His sword whicks out and in another mighty blow, he slices this head nearly in two as well.  It flops to the ground, and our heroes spring to Dahlia’s side.  At first she shows no signs of life, but after a few moments she comes around, shaken but not killed.  

“Those things were disgusting!” she remarks, shuddering. 

Suddenly there is an explosion from the area of the trap: Otis was tampering with it.  It was fascinating; it had some sort of broken blue sigil he wasn’t familiar with on it.  He is blown back, horrendously burned.  Suddenly he is on the edge of death!  Again our heroes spring into action, doing their best to render him at least stable.  

“He should have let me check it for traps first,” Kyle remarks. 

“Maybe you could teach him a thing or two,” Cara says.

_And maybe _he_ could teach _me_ a thing or two,_ Kyle thinks.  _He might be able to teach me the art of magic.  He could become my master, and maybe we could seek out some sexy dragons..._

For a moment, Kyle looks like his mind is wandering; then he smiles and says, “Maybe so.”

“Well, it’s not magic any more, if it was before,” comments Dahlia after mumbling and waving her hands around a little. 

“So we can go up to the singing or down here?”  Jorgen rubs his chin.  “Well, my lord, it’s your decision.”

“Let uth ekthplore down below firtht,” Sir Cedric orders.  Though the group is reluctant to tamper with the trap door, they soon find that nothing bad happens when they open it.  Soon, after lighting torches and lanterns, they descend into a large chamber, part of which is washed in a blue glow.

“Hey, that’s the same symbol!” exclaims Dahlia.  Indeed, the blue sign that sealed the trap door is upon a much larger door in the wall here.  It gives off a blue glow bright enough to read by.  Another, similar door lies broken into hundreds of pieces all upon the floor.  There are obvious signs of fire damage in the chamber, and two hallways that lead out of the place.  Finally, a second intact door, this one graven with a multiplicity of arcane symbols, is along the curved wall beside one of the passages.

Careful not to touch anything that’s glowing blue, our heroes look around. First they examine the glowing door by eye.  Then they examine the sundered door and the room beyond it.  The chamber shows the evidence of the nameless flaming horror from the south side of the gorge.  Burn marks are everywhere, bits of molten rock and strange secretions like those that made up cyst litter the ground and the broken and twisted remains of the door show the signs of the nameless horror’s rage and anger.  The rubble shows ample evidence of the blue symbol as well.

“This must be where the fire-creature came from,” Jorgen states.  “It would probably be a bad idea to tamper with that other door; it might have something else like that behind it.”  The others agree, and they pass on to the first passage.  

“Might as well,” shrugs Cara, and they head down it.  

The passage leads for about 25’ before its nature changes.  Then, on either side small alcoves open.  Elven corpses are interred within.  Our heroes realize with a chill that they are in a crypt.  The passage continues on in this manner for about 30’; then it opens up into an ossuary.  Shelves stacked with elven bones are on every side.

_I wonder if they have any treasures,_ thinks Kyle.  Our heroes enter the room and he moves to start searching through some of the bones.  As soon as he touches them, there is a rattling sound as six skeletons assemble themselves off the shelves!

A chaotic melee ensues, with the skeletons ganging up on Cur to good effect.  In only a few moments, they have cut the half-orc down, but in that same time they have been mostly destroyed themselves.  It takes the rest of our heroes but a few moments to slay the remaining skeletons, and they manage to prevent Cur from bleeding to death as well.

Kyle can’t resist; he snatches four of the skulls.  He is weak enough that he needs help carrying them, but the rest of the group feels they are worthwhile trophies. 

After withdrawing from the ossuary and crypt, our heroes debate resting.  After all, as Dahlia points out, Otis and Cur are down.

“But thothe of uth who are conthouthe are fine,” points out Sir Cedric.  

“Why don’t we go for one more room?” suggests Cara.

_*Next Time:*_ Will these prove to be famous last words?  What else will our heroes find in the elven ruins?  And just who (or what) is singing up above?


*When Dahlia has nothing better to do, she will often start up what our group has taken to referring to as her “tard song.”


----------



## the Jester

*A Brief Synopsis*

Our heroes are a group of adventurers from a small village (pop. 149) named Whitewater.  This village lies on the banks of a river in the Barony of Kamenda.  Upstream from Whitewater is the Goblin Gorge, an area long home to several clans of goblins.  Recently, a raiding party of goblins stole a bunch of goats from the Cooker Ranch in town, and our heroes (who include both the sheriff and the local petty knight’s son) followed their trail.  They parlayed, and in the discussion that ensued the party ascertained that the goblins had been driven from the southern side of the gorge by a terrible monster that had come from a ruin of the elves (who are nowhere to be found in this setting- they have long since disappeared, though ‘elfbloods’ (of mixed elven/human heritage) abound).  Our heroes slew the monster from the ruin as well as a cyst full of terrible, semi-humanoid creatures.  They destroyed the terrible cyst and have now moved forth to the elf-ruins, where they have encountered a vine that tried to strangle the sheriff in the garden, a pair of flying heads and, just a moment ago, a group of elven skeletons that assembled themselves from an ossuary, where most of the party now stands, catching its collective breath.  Two members of the party (Cur and Otis) are unconscious, but the others have just decided to press on for one more room.

And so it is that, after determining that the ossuary has no other exits, our heroes return to the chamber which led them to it.  Back past the crypts they walk, and when they come back into the chamber with the eerie blue glow half-illuminating it, they can’t help but wonder: what’s behind that door with the seal?  Is it another of the terrible fire-monsters... or something worse?

Well, they certainly don’t need to open it right now.  In fact, it seems that leaving it shut is their best strategy towards the door.  There are, however, both another door and another passage.  The party chooses the passage.  The last thing they need is something coming up on them from behind.  The passage winds about 30’ and then opens up into a rounded room with a locked chest in it.  

“Treathure!” proclaims Sir Cedric.

“I can probably open the lock,” volunteers Kyle.  There is a chorus of encouragement, and he moves cautiously forward.  He pulls out a pair of lockpicks.  The thought of a few coins makes him salivate.*  He leans forward, his remaining eye sweeping over the side of the chest looking for signs of traps.

Then it punches him in the face and his lights go out.

“What the hell?!” shouts Dahlia.

The chest seems able to produce a pseudopod, and a single blow has done for Kyle.  But the others are not helpless.  Sir Cedric charges, landing a mighty blow from his sword, but to his chagrin the sword sticks to the chest!  Abruptly, he realizes how wounded he is, and starts pulling back.  Cara, meanwhile, dashes forward and takes hold of Kyle’s bleeding form and pulls him away from the killer chest.  As soon as she has a little distance, she drops Kyle to the ground and draws out her bow.  Cedric moves to stabilize Kyle while Dahlia launches a sling bullet and, though it doesn’t seem to hurt the thing, it sticks to it. 

“Uh-oh,” she says, just as its pseudopod swings around and smashes into the side of her head.  She grunts and staggers- but she’s stuck to it!  She gives a cry of fear and pain as it jerks her to it!

Cedric cries, “By the power of my pinkie finger!”  He draws his battle axe and rushes forward, striking the chest again, and his axe, too, is stuck to it.  He gives an inchoate cry of rage and struggles to free it, but the chest throws him off, simultaneously crushing Dahlia.  Arrows ping off it until finally, with a curse, Cara rushes it with her rapier.  She gulps, seeing it crush Dahlia into bloody unconsciousness, and thrusts.  Though she pricks it, her blade sticks to it and is pulled free from her hands.  Grimacing, she tumbles away and whips out her bow.  

A perfect shot.

It pierces the chest in the middle of its body, and who knows what anatomy a chest might have; but it hits something important, something vital.  The chest gives out a strange high-pitched wailing yap and then sort of slumps.  Cedric acts fast, immediately attempting to stabilize Dahlia, and thanks Clymorian silently for his knightly training in first aid.  Once again he has preserved the life of one of his friends. 

He and Cara glance at each other wanly.  The ‘one more room’ was almost the death of them all.  

Over the next few minutes, they bandage their friends, free weapons (and Dahlia) that are stuck to the chest, and are surprised to find that the chest actually does conceal coins. 

Cara gapes.  “I... I’ve never seen so much money!”

“Indeed,” Sir Cedric says solemnly.  “It ith a treathure haul fit for a king.”

“There must be... _hundreds_ of gold pieces there.”

Indeed.  A count determines that there are 1000 sp, 400 gp, 2 opals (which Kyle later appraises at about 75 gp each) and a bolt of phase spider silk (worth around 25 gp, the bolt weighs around 20 lbs).

“We could retire,” suggests Cara. 

“Wait until we tell the otherth!” ejaculates Cedric.

“Well, before anything else can happen, we need to rest,” Cara states.  “It’s time.”

The couple retreats.  Cedric and Cara haul their friends in stages, going back to the upper level of the ruin.  The sun winks down on them from behind a thin sheet of clouds.  By the time they’ve lugged all their wounded friends back up through the trap door and out to the unenclosed areas again, a nap has never sounded so good.

Over the next couple of days our heroes restore their strength.  Gradually they come around, one or two at a time, and once Dahlia awakes she hunts down what berries she can and uses her nature magic to create _goodberries._

Finally, our heroes feel well enough to continue exploring.  Before they return below, however, they decide to check out whatever is singing.  They have marked the location of the short ascent to the area from which the singing seems to be coming previously, and now they go back to it.  Before they ascend, Cedric plugs his ears (and takes a shot of liquor, to ‘fortify’ himself).  

When the party moves up the stairs, they find a disgusting creature nesting atop the walls of the ruin.  Half old woman and half vulture, she instantly begins singing- and one by one, most of our heroes stop moving, entranced.  

Then another voice springs up, laying across the vulture-woman’s song.  It breaks the rhythm, interrupts the flow.  Cara’s _countersong_ tears the rest of the party’s attention from the vulture-woman.  A moment later and sling stones and arrows begins zinging at her.  She slices at Kyle once with a dagger, but already she is taking significant damage from the missiles.  Her face changes; fear replaces avarice, and she spreads her filthy, feces-coated wings and takes to the air. Swiftly, she wings to the edge of the ruin and drops below 

“She’s getting away!” cries Cur.  

“After her!” cries Kyle.

The party rushes back down the short stair, then to the entrance of the ruin.  It isn’t that far; they’re hoping to at least get a few shots in with their bows before she’s completely out of range.

But to our heroes’ surprise, just outside the ruin is a group of people, waiting in what looks kind of like an ambush.

_*Next Time:*_ Enter- the Keepers of the Cerulean Sign!


*The Year 272 Campaign has a very low treasure yield.  So far (i.e. to where we’ve played) the party doesn’t have a magic item, though it briefly had the scroll that Otis got.  The party’s total coin intake by this time in the story hour had prolly been around 200 gp plus a masterwork weapon.


----------



## omrob

the Jester said:
			
		

> But to our heroes’ surprise, just outside the ruin is a group of people, waiting in what looks kind of like an ambush.




And now ensues 1.5 hours of table time where the distrustful Pc's try to elicit any kind of information whatsoever about the other group, through dialogue. 

All we determine is they are a mysterious group of enigmatic secretive elf haters! 

Makes me think that we should ask about them where we are now...Hmm....


----------



## the Jester

Seven people, armed and armored and clearly ready to strike, surround our heroes as they emerge from the elf-ruin.

“Halt!” one barks.

“The bird-woman!” cries Cur Sed Seed.  “She’s getting away!”

One of the seven sneers.  “Don’t try to trick us!”

“It’s no trick!” exclaims Sheriff Jorgen.  “This thing attacked us, and- who are you?”

The others posture and threaten, and it rapidly becomes apparent that they aren’t willing to give out any information.  While they do so, Jorgen studies them carefully.  The first is a woman in armor of boiled leather.  A long spear is gripped competently in both hands; a bow is across her back.  Beside her is a tall man in hide armor with a humungous axe.  An elfblood accompanies them, bow at the ready, another longspear propped against the stones beside him.  Four more human swordsmen and –women form a screen in front of the three speakers.

“What are you doing in there?” demands the woman with the longspear.

“Ooshell- those two look like the ones the goblins warned us about.”  The elfblood gestures at Otis and Cur.  

“What?  Goblins?  You consort with goblins?” Jorgen asks angrily.  “Who are you and by what right do you detain us?  We are on a mission for the lord of Whitewater.  I am the sheriff of Whitewater, for that matter!”

“And I am the lord’th thon,” Sir Cedric adds grandly.

“I ask again: what were you doing in the elf-ruins?  What have you tampered with?”  The woman- apparently named Ooshell- speaks quietly, but her tone warns of impending danger.”

“We were just looking into our heritage,” Dahlia offers.  Kyle nods emphatically.  

To their surprise, the elfblood responds to their words with a growl.  “Your heritage is nothing to be proud of.”

“Aren’t you proud of your elven blood?” Kyle inquires.

“No!” he barks.  “And neither should you be!  Elf blood is nothing to be proud of, it is a mark of shame!”  He glares at the two elfbloods in the party.  Dahlia mutters imprecations at him under her breath in Elven.

The conversation dances around for a time, with little real information being exchanged, but gradually the sense that violence is a hair-trigger away fades as the two groups talk.  It seems that the seven folk confronting our heroes are mainly concerned with stopping anything from emerging from the elf-ruins.

“Too late,” Cur comments.  “There was a terrible fire-beast that came out already, and drove the goblins from the south side of the gorge.”

“Yeah, and these weird mucus-guys that were with it- though I don’t know that they came from the ruins.”  Dahlia shudders.  “They were disgusting!”

“But we destroyed them,” Kyle adds.

Once the party reveals that they have destroyed the cyst and the fire beast, the conversation begins to relax.  Eventually, the two forces agree to descend into the vale below the elf-ruins to talk things out, and a few things become clear.  The people who are so aggressively questioning our heroes seem to be members of an organization called the Keepers of the Cerulean Sign dedicated to stopping lost elven relics from being disturbed.  All too often, according to them, elf-ruins contain things better left forgotten.  Things like the fire-beast, according to the Keepers.  They tell the party that they wish to ensure that things sealed away stay sealed- and the blue symbol that our heroes saw within the elf-ruin is one of their signs.  

Things get a little dicey when the Keepers accuse Cur and Otis of murdering goblins, but the two of them manage to convince the Keepers that there must have been some kind of misunderstanding, miscommunication, self-defense or something involved.  Reluctantly, the others let the topic go.  It is clear, however, that they have some level of sympathy for the goblins.  

After the groups have finally relaxed, and the weapons don’t seem likely to leap clear of the sheathes, and reasonable (albeit opaque) discourse has ensued, Sheriff Jorgen gives one of the Keepers a note.  “This designates you as a friend of the sheriff of Whitewater,” he declares.  “It might come in handy sometime.”

One more thing comes out of the negotiations.

“We’re keeping our eyes out for something in particular,” comments the elfblooded Keeper, Gelron (who calls himself the Repentant).  “There are people in the area seeking a lost relic that should stay lost.  A hilt.  If you should come across them, they must be stopped.”

“You mean like a thword hilt?” Sir Cedric asks.  Gelron nods.  “What good ith a hilt without any other partth?”

Ooshell shakes her head.  “We know they don’t have the hilt yet,” she comments.  “They may have the other pieces.”

By now it is late.  The stars are out above the campfire, already burning low, and the talk has lasted late into the night.  Sleep calls, and soon both groups have sunk into the sweet oblivion of unconsciousness.  Naturally, they set watches; and naturally, they share them.  Neither side is easy enough with the other to trust them to watch over them in their sleep.

***

The next couple of months are lazy.  Spring turns towards summer, and the days run short and hot.*  A dog show comes through town, which our heroes find very entertaining.  Cur gets in a little trouble when some of the folk of Whitewater catch him rooting in their trash; Jorgen thereafter appoints him Whitewater’s rat-catcher.  He takes to this new job with relish and insufficient discretion, and within a few weeks he has gotten in trouble several more times, finally being demoted from his position as one of Jorgen’s deputies and left solely as rat-catcher.  Our heroes enjoy their time, and Cara’s belly starts to bulge a little.  Sir Cedric is overjoyed and happily informs his father; Sir Martin begins making preparations for the wedding.  

Goer grins at her and advises her, as she is pregnant, to stick to white wine until she gives birth.  He then sets about chartering passage for himself and his friends on a small boat to Kamenda City, both to seek out more advanced training and to see the city (though Dahlia is reluctant to go and debates whether to just stay behind- she has no urge whatsoever to see the city).  He’s been brimming over with the urge to travel some lately, and Sir Cedric is highly reluctant to leave his comfortable realm.

But as idyllic as the late spring is, nothing good lasts forever.  On the morning before the group’s planned departure to Kamenda City, many of them are in the Fat Mallard.  Sir Cedric is out at the Whitewater estate; Dahlia is enjoying some morning gardening lessons from the three weird ladies in town. 

Glancing to the south, she frowns.  A distant line of figures is approaching.  There are glints from the morning sun reflecting off of metal.  Some sort of banner flaps in the vernal wind.  “What’s that?” she wonders aloud.

The weird ladies stand and look, visibly stiffening.  “Oh dear,” Drendlin mutters.

Somewhere, a bell starts to ring.  The sound of shouting in the streets comes to Dahlia’s ears.

_“To arms!  Soldiers are coming!  Tydonians!**  To arms!!!  WE ARE UNDER ATTACK!!”_

_*Next Time:*_ The Tydonian attack!

*Summer = shorter days in Cydra.  Winter = longer days.  Ask me how that works sometime. 

**Tydon is an earldom that neighbors Kamenda.  They are traditional enemies.


----------



## the Jester

*The Tydonian Attack!*

Our heroes scramble to get anyone in the town who can fight together before the enemy reaches them.  Tad Ranger, the Cooker bully-boys, Cara’s mom, two of the Brownstone brothers, two of Goer’s brothers and his father- the town’s defenders scramble to put together whatever defense they can.

As the soldiers approach, our heroes start firing arrows and slings at them.  Soon they can make out that the oncoming group is a mix of gnolls, goblins and humans, with a group of mounted knights obviously in charge.  Jorgen runs as fast as he can towards the castle of Sir Martin, hoping to summon the town’s lord and Sir Cedric to their aid before it is too late. 

But even as he rushes away he can hear the crackle of fire as the Tydonian force lights pitch-soaked arrows and javelins, and soon the homes of both Cara and the local bookkeeper, Lazarus of Kamenda, are in flames.

The peasantry, panicked, flees.  Many of them enter the Garden estate, which is walled, hoping to make a stand there if need be.

The battle is small- there are less than forty people involved all told.  It lasts less than half an hour.  Midway through it the two knights of Whitewater thunder in on horseback, smashing into the enemy’s flank.  The goblins waver, but driven by the Tydonian knights, they hold.  The clash of arms rises over the sounds of the flames that lick up around the burning homes.  Blood splatters as swords, spears and arrows find their mark.  One of Goer’s brothers panics and runs.  Bryjah Hunter, one of the bully-boys, falls dead, but when the battle is over he is Whitewater’s only loss.  The enemy has been slain or captured.

Exultant- especially about the capture of several of the Tydonian knights- Goer hurries over to Sir Martin.  “My lord, we should kill the captives so they can’t attack us again!” he exclaims.

“Nonsense,” Sir Martin replies.  “We will ransom the knights back to their earl, as is the civilized thing to do.” 

“But they might return!  We should-“

“We will behave appropriately, Fwaigo,” Sir Martin cuts him off.

Grumbling, Fwaigo “Goer” Smith mutters, “Yes, my lord.”  _But it’s a terrible idea._

Sir Cedric and Sir Martin confer.  “We must warn the baron immediately,” Sir Martin declares.  “Son, I know that you and your companions are already planning to go to Kamenda City on the morrow; it is a good thing.  You must obtain an audience with the baron and inform him of this attack.”

“Of courthe, father,” Sir Cedric replies.  “We thall do tho immediately upon our arrival!”

Sir Martin pulls a signet ring from his finger.  “You go as my representative, son,” he says solemnly, handing over the ring.  “You have my blessings.  Be careful- if the Tydonians are attacking us here, who knows where else they have already struck?”

“Bah!  If we encounter any more of the Tydonian thcum, we thall overcome them by the power of my pinky finger!” 

Sir Martin nods, pleased and a little puzzled.  _My son,_ he thinks warmly.  “And when you return,” he adds, “we will have your marriage.”

“Yes, father!”

_About time,_ thinks Cara.  She is showing now.

***

Kamenda City, surrounded by a wall, has thousands of people living in it.  Our heroes have never seen anything to compare to it.  Dahlia feels her stomach twist; were it not for Sir Martin’s mission, she might not have come at all.  _So many people,_ she thinks uncomfortably.  _How can they live crammed together like this?_ 

The audience comes after only a few hours in the city.  The party- less Cur, for the boat would not fit the entire group, and Sir Martin had requested that he come to the estate to discuss some possible other (but related) mission for him- enters the baron’s audience chamber and approach the baronial throne.  Baron Rusk sits before them, a man of middle years and thinning hair.  He has a fairly imperious air about him; behind him are a pair of his counselors, who Sir Cedric and Cara both recognize as Sir Harth and Sir Galadon.  Throughout their audience, the two advisors are constantly whispering to Baron Rusk.  When the group tells the baron of the Tydonian attack, he only nods.

“We have been receiving reports of Tydonian attacks along our southern border,” Baron Rusk declares in a booming voice.  “Since Tydon is to the east, this means that either the Earl of Tydon has already taken the Duchy of Vulgreen to the south, or he has made alliance with it, or that somehow he’s sneaking his men onto it.  Either way, it has led to attack from an unexpected direction.  So far the attacks have been probes, with just a few knights employing bands or mercenary humans, gnolls and goblins.”

“Yeah, they had goblins and gnolls with them when they attacked us,” Kyle agrees. 

“Tydonian thcum!  We overcame them.  They could not thtand before the power of our pinky fingerth!” Sir Cedric announces.  

The baron murmurs something to his advisors.  A few of our heroes overhear him, and they are surprised to discover that his voice changes from its manly tones to a whining boyish one when he addresses his advisors.  “What does that mean?” he whimpers.

“It must be some kind of metaphor, my lord,” Sir Harth soothes him softly.

The group talks with the Baron for a time.  He asserts (again in his strong, decisive voice) that he is gathering his forces already for a counterstrike.  In fact, since he has not paid the scutage, Sir Martin owes the Baron a company of ten men.  Perhaps Sir Cedric and his folk are a good start?  

“Ekthellent!” enthuses Sir Cedric.  “We are, of course, at your thervithe!”

There have even been several raids on the farms outlying Kamenda City itself, the baron and his advisors reveal.  A band of knights and mercenaries have been burning peasant huts.  Once word reached the capitol, the Baron naturally dispatched hunting parties, but they’ve had no luck as of yet. 

“Well, we’ll be happy to try to track them down,” Dahlia offers.

Baron Rusk makes a dismissive gesture.  “I may have other tasks for you to perform as well,” he states.  “Make certain that you are available to me at need.”  He gestures, and a page brings a bag of ten gold pieces to the group.  “This should help subsidize your stay in our fair city.”

“Oh.”  Sir Cedric seems faintly disappointed.  “I am thertain, if we are to thtay in peathant lodgingth, that it will.”  He frowns.

“Surely, Sir Cedric, your father and you are not penniless?” Sir Harth inquires tartly.  “You must understand that the treasury is far better spent on the war effort than on your stay.”

“Hmph,” Sir Cedric snorts.

Our heroes then seek lodging at a place called the Spinning Dice.  Naturally, there is gaming happening in the inn; and equally naturally, Otis finds himself irresistibly drawn in to the dice games.  The others spend some time exploring various areas of the city; Cara finds a very talented woman named Mishra Tone who performs in the market square in the evening.  Sir Cedric finds himself drawn to the Cathedral of Clymorian, where he begins making inquiries about taking priestly vows.  Dahlia and Kyle head out together into the town, Kyle seeking a lapidary.  And Jorgen goes nosing about, looking for any signs of Tydonian spies.

And boy does he have amazing luck - if it can be called lucky at all.

_*Next Time:*_ Jorgen- alone against a nest of spies!  Cur’s journey to Kamenda City!  A few rumors!  And a haunted house!


----------



## Baron Opal

I've been enjoying this tale, particularly the low magic experiment side. I was worried about the characters once I recognized the cyst...

Those pesky elves, delving into mysteries mortals were not meant to know.


----------



## the Jester

Baron Opal said:
			
		

> I've been enjoying this tale, particularly the low magic experiment side. I was worried about the characters once I recognized the cyst...




Glad you're enjoying it, Baron O! 

Expect another update, hmm, maybe even today, depending on how things go with my time.

Just as a hint of foreshadowing, this group had its first pc death last night.     Won't tell ya who, but I will say it's about two games' worth of updates away.


----------



## the Jester

I’d like to preface the following update by mentioning the ‘exploding dice’ house rule that we use (which, actually, I first saw the one time I got to play under Piratecat).  When you roll a natural 20 or a natural 1 on a d20 roll, you ‘explode’ and roll another d20 and add (or subtract, on a natural 1) the result.  Thus, instead of a natural 20 always hitting, you get to add another 1d20 to your roll.  I like this variant because it means that really studly warriors still can miss, but nowhere close to as often as under the ‘standard’ rule set, and a truly tough enemy might be able to avoid a hit even on a natural 20.

While gathering info looking specifically for Tydonian spies, I believe that Jorgen exploded _twice_ and ended up with a total of about 48 (?) on his Gather Information check.  He looked at me, laughed, and commented that this might be the one roll he _didn’t_ want to roll so high on.

***

Sir Martin of Whitewater says, “Cur, I think you may be very valuable in an upcoming negotiation of the baron’s.”

“Me?”  Cut looks nonplussed; he is hardly the best talker.  But nonetheless, Sir Martin nods.  

“Indeed.  The baron is entering negotiations with a group of individuals that you might have more... common ground with... than most of my agents.  A group of Outsiders.”

_Ahh,_ thinks Cur, _that explains it._  The Outsiders are a group composed mostly of mixed-blood individuals, including many half-orcs (“pissbloods” being the colloquial term) and some elfbloods, as well as other unsavory characters.  It is from the Outsiders that he himself has come; before the harvest festival about half a year ago, Cur ran with them exclusively.  Now his loyalties have shifted more or less to Whitewater, and to Sir Martin, Sheriff Jorgen and Sir Cedric.  Still, he has no house; he sleeps mostly beneath the stars, in the fields and glens, hidden in trees or concealed beneath screens of brush.  More and more he is acquiring a taste for soft beds, dry blankets and hot, yet not burnt, food.  

Nonetheless, he is the logical choice for this.  Who else knows the Outsiders’ ways?  Who else will they respect?  Anyone else the baron might send would no doubt be soft from indoor life, slow from never hunting his own food, fat from never knowing the true privations of winter.  But Cur- among the Outsiders, he has a certain reputation, a certain credibility.  They will take him seriously, for he is one of them.

Thus it is that Sir Martin equips him with a donkey to ride to Kamenda, urging him to hurry and catch Sir Cedric and his companions.  Cur takes the donkey reluctantly, knowing he will have to repay his benefactor if harm befalls it, but also knowing that he must be swift.  It would not do to be late.

Cur’s journey is more eventful, perhaps, than he would have preferred, and by the end of it, he owes Sir Martin a donkey’s worth.

***

Meanwhile, Goer has hit upon a great idea.  He asks around until he finds the local half-orc bar (called the Broken Talon) and in short order starts a fight.

There is very little that Fwaigo “Goer” Smith enjoys more than pugilism.  

***

Jorgen has been nosing around looking for any signs of espionage for about four hours, and he’s been sitting in the same seat watching the same group of three men pass secret messages with hand gestures while they bet on dice.  At first he thought he was imagining it, but he rapidly discounted that possibility.  Now he is certain: they are planning something, and it involves the Baron. 

When the three men leave, Jorgen follows them at a discrete distance.  When they enter a decrepit building, he keeps walking and goes past it, turning down the first available side path and ducking behind a building.  

“Perhaps I should alert the watch,” he murmurs.  Then he grits his teeth.  If they are really spies, he must try to gather as much intelligence as he can on them!

Jorgen climbs up the wall of the building he is behind in order to survey the one that the three men entered.  Soon he has ascertained that at least two of the men are in the upper floor of the house.  They appear to be brewing something.

“All right, that’s enough,” Jorgen says to himself firmly.  “I _know_ they’re bad guys.”

Even as he speaks, he can hear them talking.  Jorgen gulps.  _They’re speaking Tydonian,_ he groans to himself.  He does not understand it.  It is a cousin tongue to Kamendan, though, and he can get the gist.

_They’re plotting to murder Baron Rusk!_

Jorgen leaps into action.

***

“Did you hear?  There’s this creepy house that’s supposed to be haunted in this town!”  Kyle sounds excited by the idea.  “I heard it’s all creepy, and it wasn’t even hurt by a fire that swept through town!”

This gathers some interest from the others.  Sir Cedric, however, it committed to the Cathedral of Clymorian for most of the day; he is studying to become a priest.  

“In the evening, then,” suggests Dahlia.  “I’d like to look at this ‘haunted’ house.”  _It’s probably no more haunted than I am a witch,_ she thinks.  After all, as a hermit, she has quite an odd reputation among the folk of Whitewater.

“Thoundth good to me!” Sir Cedric replies happily.

“I went and saw the war wizard, too,” Kyle adds,  He does _not_ add that this was against the baron’s advice.  “Master, I got you an audience with her.”  This he addresses to Otis, as he is training Kyle in the mystic arts.”

***

Cur is following the path downriver towards Kamenda City on his loaned donkey.  The weather is good; bees buzz among the spring flowers around him.  

Then a strange green form, a humanoid composed of clumped algae, rises up from the river, and before Cur has a chance to do more than draw his crossbow it has unleashed a terrible wave of mental force at him and the poor little donkey.  Pain blooms in his mind to the sound of breaking glass.  They both reel, stunned and unable to act.

And the river-monster pounds at the donkey.  

The poor beast screams and whinnies as the monster slams it over and over, and by the time Cur can think enough to act the donkey lies bleeding on the ground.  

“No, not the donkey!” cries Cur in despair.  He draws his battle axe and hews mightily at the thing.  He lands a solid blow, but the blade simply swishes through the semi-solid mass.  He cries out and tries again, with similar results.  _I can’t hurt it!_ he thinks wildly.

Then those massive green fists slam in at him.  He stands his ground for a moment, but then backs away and flees, leaving the monster to eat his- Lord Whitewater’s- donkey.  _I knew this would happen,_ he groans to himself as he flees.  _Dammit!_*

***

Jorgen climbs up towards the window, but the two men detect him before he gets in.  One of them attempts to block his entry, but Jorgen loops the man with a lasso, trips him and pulls him out the window.  The man gives a shout and then lands extremely poorly about 20’ below.  Sheriff Jorgen suffers a prick in the process, but it barely slows him down.

They were brewing something.

The second spy has a crossbow bolt nocked that he had dipped in the pot of simmering- something- and now he raises it and fires at Jorgen.  Jorgen flings himself aside.  It whizzes past the sheriff, imbedding itself in the wall behind him.  In the floor is a hole; a knotted rope leads downward.  Jorgen gets a glimpse of another man coming up the rope.  

He attempts to trip the crossbow wielder but fails.  Still, he manages to press him a little forward.  And he draws his sword out. 

_It’s a trick,_ Jorgen suddenly realizes.  He’s been drawn out and is now flanked between this guy and the fellow who just climbed the rope.

And then pain blossoms along his body as one of the rogues stabs him in the vitals.

Jorgen trips him, blood dripping down his belly from the sneak attack.  His gut feels like it’s on fire.  His followup stroke on the spy is done almost unconsciously, and it knocks the man out of the fight.  The remaining Tydonian spy steps back and hurls his long knife at Jorgen, sticking it into his shoulder.  The sheriff grunts in pain and grimaces as his foe draws up a shortsword from one of the fallen.

Then Jorgen does something tricky with his sword and his foe is suddenly disarmed.

”Yield!” commands Jorgen.

The man bolts, and Jorgen whacks him on the head, knocking him out cold.

A quick search of the rest of the old house reveals no sign of other people.

Cheerfully, Jorgen sets out to find the nearest watch house.

_*Next Time:*_ The haunted house!

*For the record, Cur got xp even though he ran like a baby.   Not that I blame him- his axe didn’t hurt it at all, even when he rolled pretty good damage.


----------



## omrob

Most of us were filled with trepidation for Jorgen's saftey on this one, it was pretty close! 
I think if it were any of the rest of us, we wouldn't have come out of it ok. But hey - Jorgen ROX! and this is the kind of stuff his player designed Jorgen for, works pretty well if you ask me.


----------



## the Jester

The night after Jorgen’s capture of the spy ring, Kyle, Cara, Sir Cedric, Dahlia and Jorgen approach an abandoned house.  The rusty iron gates are locked.  A brick wall surrounds the place.  The yard is tangled with weeds.  The house itself is dilapidated and rickety.  

“This is the place,” confirms Dahlia.  “The haunted house we heard about.”

Kyle moves up to the lock, trying to pick it open, but after a few minutes he gives up with a shrug.  “It must be rusted shut,” he declares.  Jorgen clambers up the wall and ties a rope off, then throws down the other end to the rest of the party.  They all climb up; then they drop the rope down the inside of the wall and scramble down into the overgrown yard. 

“This place is creepy,” whispers Cara.

The group moves forward.  Though there is noise in some of the bushes, they reach the house in short order.  Jorgen pushes the door open and the group moves within.  The planks of the walls have warped over time, and the weather has clearly gotten in here.  Various molds and mosses grow within; dirt and grime are all over.  Slowly our heroes start to check the place out, soon finding a painting of an impressive-looking gentleman.  After some consideration Sir Cedric takes it, lest the elements ruin it further.  Kyle, searching a desk, finds a single locked drawer with a trap on it.  But before he can disable it, Cara gives a high scream and suddenly a loud babbling sound starts up.  It is fascinating, really, and Kyle stops to give it his full attention.  _It’s beautiful,_ he thinks.

Jorgen and Sir Cedric each leap to their friend’s defense.  A strange, shimmering figure, half in and half out of the ceiling, is gradually drifting down towards him!  Their weapons pass through it impotently. 

“Guys, this place really _is_ haunted!” shouts Dahlia.  “Run!!”

The ghostly figure passes a hand through Kyle’s forehead and he groans.  He can feel his will weakening, his senses dulling.  He staggers in shock, the hypnotic effect of the babbling broken, and tumbles away from the figure.

The group begins a disorderly retreat.  “Not even the power of my pinky finger can harm thith thing!” Sir Cedric cries, as his bastard sword slashes through the thing without harm again.  “We mutht flee!”  Jorgen takes a defensive stance, trying to cover the others as they leave, but the thing swipes at Dahlia as she stumbles past it.  She moans in fear and doubles her pace. 

“Sheriff Jorgen, it’s a vampire!” shouts Cara.  “Run!!”

Jorgen’s eyes go wide, and he backs off, then flees with his friends.  

None of them even look back until they are on top of the wall.

***

Cur is tired by the time he finally reaches Kamenda City.  It’s a long walk, but he is used to long walks.  He is pleased to at last reach his destination, but when he discovers that there is a toll to enter the city much of his pleasure evaporates.  He pays it grumpily- even the fact that he is a messenger for Sir Martin doesn’t get him in for free, and the fact that the term “baron” slips his mind just makes him look silly.  (“I have a message for... um... that guy in charge...”)

Nonetheless, before long he has found the Spinning Dice and made himself known at the baron’s citadel in the center of the city.  Sir Harth, one of the baron’s advisors, smoothly dismisses him for the moment, telling him he will be called upon when the time comes.  “Keep us informed of your location,” Sir Harth orders.

So Cur ends up spending his time eating and drinking.  Goer shows him the half-orc bar and the two of them enjoy a few rounds together (and, of course, Goer picks a few fights).  When they return to the Spinning Dice, they are surprised to find the others there, pale and shaken.  When they relate the tale of the haunted house, Cur and Goer listen in awed silence.

_Well, I’m glad I missed that one,_ Cur thinks.  He reflects on his adventures so far and shakes his head.  _I still owe Sir Martin for a donkey._

*Next Time:* After the Tydonian raiders!


----------



## the Jester

Huge fields of wheat, golden-brown and waiting for the scythe, stretch out before our heroes.  They move, some on foot and some on horseback, along the paths and roads that cut through the fields, radiating out from Kamenda City through the various areas that are tilled and harvested around it.  After over a month of inactivity in the city, they are, by the baron’s command, looking for the Tydonian raiders.  They have already seen a few small areas of burnt field, destroyed by the Tydonians.  Sir Cedric’s face bears a deep scowl.

Though Dahlia is a good tracker, there are too many different sets of prints to ascertain anything near the city.  As the group moves further away from it, heading south, the group chooses a burnt area and Dahlia examines the ground intently again.  Here, between the thinner tracks and the evidence of damage, she is able at last to find a trail.  Our heroes follow it for a time as the sun descends towards the western horizon.  Shortly after dark, still trying to follow the tracks, Dahlia admits that she needs more light, and the party sets camp.

The night is pleasant and warm.  The party sets watching, hoping to see any troubles caused by the Tydonians in the surrounding fields.

Instead, deep in the night, there is a strange howling in the distance.  On watch, Cara shivers.  It’s a haunting sound. 

The howl comes again, noticeably closer. 

“Hey guys!”  Cara begins waking the others, and everyone scrambles into weary consciousness.  The howl sounds in the night again.

Weapons rasp from sheaths.  Otis casts a _light_ spell on a stone.  Kyle slings it into the distance, and it arcs down on the ground about 50’ away.  Unfortunately, it reveals nothing.

Another eerie howl.

Then the creatures bound in on our heroes: two things that at first resemble hounds, but as they rush through the lit area the strange, porcupine-like quills all over their bodies are revealed.  Kyle gives a wordless cry and slings another stone, which smashes into the first of the beasts.  The creature just keeps coming, and both howl again.  This time, however, Cara’s voice cuts across them as she begins singing.

The creatures reach the party in a blindingly-fast instant, and tear into Jorgen and Dahlia with staggering intensity.  Both of them bite savagely, and both Jorgen and Dahlia are badly injured.  Dahlia steps back and casts _cat’s grace_ on herself, while her badger leaps forward to the attack.  Jorgen, too, melees with the monster, though he is badly bleeding.  He twists away as the hound-thing shakes and its spines threaten to pierce his lunging arm. 

Kyle, meanwhile, is exploring his new arcane skills.  First he moves to a safe distance, near his master Otis; then he casts _mage armor._  Otis nods encouragingly, then says, “This is what you should do next!”  He casts a _magic missile_ at one of the monsters.  A moment later Kyle emulates him, and though he only gets one missile to Otis’ two, the combination is enough to take the hideous monster down!  Jorgen and the badger, meanwhile, are dueling the remaining thing.  Both Hrar and the sheriff manage to land solid blows, and a second _magic missile_ spell from Otis causes it to yelp in pain.  Soon it withdraws, and Dahlia casts _calm animals_ on her raging badger.

The party stares at the corpse.  “What is that thing?” wonders Dahlia. 

“It was disgusting,” opines Otis.  “With all those spines, or quills.”

“It was dangerous,” Jorgen comments.  “They almost killed me when they charged us.”

The party considers skinning the beast.  When they examine its hide, they are shocked to find a brand on it.

“It might be too hard to skin this thing, but we can certainly take _that_ in order to find out who these things _belong to,_” sheriff Jorgen muses.  

“We thould thow it to the baron,” states Sir Cedric.

The group decides to move while the trail is hot, despite the fact that it is dark.  They put on armor and ready weapons and torches.  Dahlia leads the party back along the trail of the beasts.  They follow deep into the night, traveling over a mile, before they come into a secluded area surrounded by trees and find signs of... something.  What appears to be some kind of an altar of mixed horse and goat bones is near the smothered remains of a fire.  A Kamendan banner serves as the altar cloth.

“Many tracks,” Dahlia breathes.  After a few moments she leads the party further along.  “After they left the fire, they went this way,” she says.  “There were a dozen or more of them.”  

“They must be some kind of cult,” Cara murmurs.

“They are _traitors._”  Jorgen’s voice is flat. 

After almost an hour, Dahlia’s face falls.  “They split up!” she exclaims.  “Into... it looks like four different groups.”  

“Pick one and let’s follow,” suggests Jorgen.  

But she can keep to the trail only so long, as it heads back towards the city and to thicker tracks.  Frustrated in their pursuit, our heroes are nonetheless able to conclude that the cultists probably went back into the city.

“Look, a fire!” exclaims Kyle.

The party turns.  In the night they indeed see what appears to be a fire: a large one, a bonfire even.  Even though it doesn’t really look like burning fields, our heroes decide to investigate it.  It is very late; they are very tired.

The fire turns out to be a party of peasants celebrating the birth of a new child.  Our heroes (especially Cedric) celebrate with the peasant farther.  The farmers invite the group to rest around the fire, and our heroes gladly accept.  Despite their fatigue, our heroes still wisely set watches.

Deep, deep in the night, the Tydonians begin burning some wheat.

_*Next Time:*_ Our heroes battle a group of Tydonians!


----------



## the Jester

Once more a character update:

Otis- wizard 3
Kyle- rogue 3/wizard 1
Cur- ranger 2/fighter 1
Sir Cedric- knight 3/priest 1
Dahlia- druid 4
Cara- bard 4
"Goer"- fighter 3
Jorgen- fighter 2/rogue 2 (? or maybe it's f2/r1)


----------



## the Jester

*INTERLUDE*

A few days before our heroes meet the Tydonians, Cur (who the astute reader may have noticed is not with the others) is sitting in the Broken Talon (the half-orc bar that Goer showed him).  Ironically, the bartender, Durkon, is a tough-looking human.  

Cur is sitting there, nursing a drink, when he notices someone looking at him.  He shoots the fellow a glance, and after a moment the half-orc approaches.  He’s dressed in farmer’s clothes, with a straw hat on.  

“You aren’t from around here,” hazards the farmer.

“Nope.  Whitewater.”

“Oh?”  The farmer seems puzzled.

“Upstream,” Cur clarifies.

“Oh.”  The light goes on in the farmer’s brain. 

The two strike up a conversation.  The farmer’s name is Zerg, and after Cur buys him an ale he asks what Cur does.  Cur replies that he is a deputy and a rat catcher.  Zerg wonders if there’s any money in that, and Cur confides that he also adventures somewhat.  He buys another drink for Zerg.

“The truth is,” Zerg sighs, “I have a lovely daughter- finest half-orc lass you’ve ever seen!  And oh boy, can she cook!  And baking... mmm!  I’m looking to, well, find someone to take care of her.  She’s a big girl now; she needs a husband.”

“I see....”

Zerg stretches and takes another gulp of his drink.  “Matter of fact, I have something... special... for her dowry, too.  An old orcish thing; not really sure what it is, even, too be honest.  Maybe you’d like to come see my beautiful Zerga?”

“Certainly!”

And the thoughts of beautiful half-orcish thighs dancing through Cur’s head blind him to all the clues- especially the untended fields of Zerg the “farmer”- until it is too late.  He notices neither the occasional sly look Zerg shoots him, nor the other half-orc’s increasingly nervous manner as they approach his farm, nor the aforementioned fallow, untended fields.  When Zerg directs him into the barn, Cur goes gladly.  

It isn’t until something in the loft stirs and wings its way out to him that he at last senses the danger he is in.

Jaw agape, Cur can only stare as the tiny white dragon breathes a cone of ice cold at him.  He snaps out of it and turns, just in time to hear the slam of the barn door.  And the _snick_ of a lock.  

Cur howls in dismay as the dragon bears down on him.

*END INTERLUDE*


----------



## Seance

Sucks For Cur!!!


----------



## the Jester

Seance said:
			
		

> Sucks For Cur!!!




Sigh... he failed ALL the Sense Motive checks, but made the Spot check to spot the fallow, untended fields- which he then ignored.

Then rolled lots of 1's for damage...


----------



## the Jester

“Hsst!  Wake up!”

“Huh?”  Sir Cedric mumbles.  “What ith happening?”  He sits up, rubbing his eyes. 

“Tydonians!” Goer murmurs.  “In the fields!  I heard them.”

Sir Cedric pulls himself up.  “Quickly, thquire!  My armor!”  Goer immediately begins strapping his armor on.”  The others are already drawing laces tight, strapping blades on and otherwise making ready.  Otis scowls into the darkness. 

“I don’t see them,” he remarks tensely.

Kyle suggests, “Master, perhaps if you were to cast a spell of _light_ onto a stone, I could sling it in their direction.  That might reveal them!”

Otis nods, and in a moment the plan is carried out; but where the stone lands, no Tydonians are revealed.  “They must be further back,” Dahlia states.

Then a light streaks in from the darkness- a little bead of glowing red- into the midst of our heroes.  It takes but a moment to reach them, traveling at incredible speed, and then it detonates in a roar of flames.  Sir Cedric catches the blast squarely, giving a shout of pain, while Otis manages to stumble away from the worst of it.  Kyle throws himself flat below the _fireball_ and manages to avoid even being singed!

Off in the fields, another light is becoming visible: a fire starting to crackle in the wheat.

Dahlia grits her teeth and mumbles to herself.  Suddenly eldritch green fire outlines a pair of soldiers near the burning wheat.  “There they are!” she cries.  “Get them!”

Sir Cedric springs into the saddle and kicks his heels into Thunderpuss.  The rest of the party begins running forward, and Cara- whose pregnant belly is beginning to distend- starts to sing to instill her companions with confidence.  Meanwhile, Dahlia continues to murmur, waving her hands around.  She seems to be almost in a trance.  The plants near the glowing soldiers begin twisting about, grabbing them around the ankles.  Wheat stalks begin twining around their arms, _entangling_ them.  

Otis fires off a pair of _magic missiles,_ but he has misjudged the distance: the Tydonians are out of range.  With a frown he begins hurrying forward reluctantly.

The thundering of hooves announces the arrival of the Tydonian knight, moving with lance cradled in his elbow to charge Sir Cedric.  The two rush together in a blur and a clang of steel, and when they part the Tydonian is badly wounded.*  Meanwhile missiles are starting to whiz by- arrows and stones from our heroes, several finding their mark.  The Tydonian men-at-arms begin to fall.  

Cedric, from his position, can see that a pair of Tydonians are flanking some kind of wooden box in a cart.  One of them shouts in Tydonian, a language a few of our heroes understand: “Now!  Get them!”  Suddenly a volley of _magic missiles_ shoots into Cedric, coming out of the box!  He gives a cry of pain as the knight swings in for another pass at him, and they meet again in a clash of weapons and hooves and a spray of blood!

Otis raises an eyebrow and fires another volley of his own _magic missiles_ at the soldier who yelled, dropping him in a single spell.  Satisfied, he nods to himself.  The momentum of the battle has clearly turned against the Tydonians as Thunderpuss lashes out and knocks the enemy knight unconscious, and in only a few more seconds they surrender.  Dahlia, meanwhile, has turned her attention to the burning wheat and manages to put it out with a series of _create waters_.

“Tydonian scum!” barks Cara, slapping one of them.

Our heroes disarm the survivors and bind them.  Sir Cedric applies some first aid to the knight, who he recognizes as Sir Guisome the Sickly of Tydonia, and wonders what a knight’s ransom will be.  _I can claim it for father and I,_ he thinks in delight.

Meanwhile, Jorgen intervenes as Cara continues to abuse the prisoners.  “There’s no need for that,” he insists, and eventually- reluctantly- she gives way.  

“These scum attacked our town and burned my house!” she spits.  “Just don’t try anything!” she warns the prisoners.

“What about the box?” Kyle asks.  “We should open it!” 

“Why?  We know what’s in there- a wizard,” Jorgen points out.  

Meanwhile, Otis has begun searching the dead and the captives.  

“Well, are we sure?” wonders Kyle.  “And why would he be in a box?”  Turning to the box, the apprentice wizard softly calls out, “Hello?  Is there anybody in there?”  He starts to reach for the latch.

“Hold on a second, I’m not so sure about that,” Dahlia says quickly.

“Listen to this!” Otis announces.  He is holding a note that he found on the knight.  Everyone turns to him.  _“Meet our friends in the graveyard on 7/16.  They will have a few interesting items for you in trade for the elf.  They serve our cause.”_

Everyone’s eyes turns to the box.

“No,” Kyle breathes.  “An elf?”

“We should open it,” Dahlia declares at once.

“Hello?” Kyle calls again, this time in Elven.  “Is there anyone in there?  Hello?”  he cocks his head to listen, but all he hears is breathing and a faint whimper.  Wide-eyed, he turns to the others.  “We’ve _got_ to open it!”

“All right,” Jorgen agrees reluctantly.  “Go ahead.”

Slowly Kyle’s hands work the latch.  “We’re opening the box,” he says again in Elven.  “We’re friends.”  Then he swings the lid open. 

Within the box is a strange, slight figure- almost gaunt.  It matches the descriptions of elves in all the stories almost exactly: tapered, pointed ears; large almond-shaped eyes; pale skin.  

Except, that is, for the stumps where his arms and legs have been hacked off. 

_*Next Time:*_ What do our heroes do with the elf?  What happened to Cur?  And what about the wedding of Sir Cedric and Cara Reed?


----------



## the Jester

The limbless elf is almost completely unresponsive.  Kyle christens him “Shakexill”, which is Elven for “box”.  Sir Cedric simply starts calling him “Mr. Box”.  

The party, after some debate, elects to take the boxed-up elf with them to Kamenda City after resting the rest of the night to confer with the baron about what to do with him.  Along with their three human captives the group marches back to the city, and within it, to the citadel.  They secure an audience with the baron and his two primary advisors, Sir Galadon and Sir Harth.  Turning over the prisoners, they reveal the elf. 

“It’s terrible, what they’ve done to him,” Kyle says.  His voice drips sorrow.  He strokes the elf’s brow gently.  The elf only trembles, his eyes glazed.

“They were using him as a weapon,” declares Jorgen.  “It also looks like they were going to trade him for... something.”  He shows the baron and his advisors the note that was on the captured knight.  They read it grimly.

“On the appointed date, we thall attempt to trap the mithcreantth in the themetery,” Sir Cedric states.

“You have just enough time,” states the baron.  “Your father has summoned you back to Whitewater for your marriage.”

“Our marriage!” squeals Cara, delighted that it is happening at last.  Her pregnancy is showing; she wants things to be dignified.  She wants it to be perfect. 

“But the themetery meeting-“ Sir Cedric protests.

“You will have just enough time to go and return,” the baron intones in his stately voice.  “I have made a boat ready to take you upriver to Whitewater this afternoon.  They shall wait on your return, which must be most quick if you are to be back in time for the cemetery meeting.”

“Do you know of anyone who could heal him?” asks Dahlia, returning to the subject of the elf.

“Your best hope would be to seek out the cathedral,” Sir Galadon answers.  “But even the high priestess may not be able to do what you seek.”

Indeed, upon taking the elf to the cathedral, Sir Galadon’s prediction proves accurate.  None of the priests can restore the elf’s limbs.  

“What about his mind?” asks Kyle.  “The abuse he has suffered has broken his mind.  Can you help with that?”

“What about us?” Dahlia asks.  “Kyle and I were both touched by some sort of ghost, and I haven’t felt as, uh, sharp since then.”*

“I could,” affirms the priestess, “but you would have to provide the material components.  They are fairly expensive- I would need fifty crowns’ worth of diamond to effect the spell.”**  

The group agrees that this is at least a worthwhile investment for Dahlia, who seems to gain power from her insight into nature.  Kyle demurs for the moment, unable to afford it.  

Our heroes return to the Spinning Dice, the inn they are staying at.  There is still no sign of Cur Sed Seed, their missing companion.  

“Maybe he ran into trouble at the pissblood bar,” Goer speculates, and the party- less Otis, who instead sticks around the Spinning Dice to gamble, and Dahlia, who remains guarding the elf- goes to the Broken Talon to check for clues.***  There, after spreading a few drinks around, Goer- who has gained considerable credibility after his bar fights within the place- ascertains that Cur was last seen leaving with a local seedy character named Zerg.  Soon, after greasing a palm or two, he has gained directions to Zerg’s farm on the outskirts of town.  The party heads out towards it.

Soon they reach a farm with fallow, untended fields.  A large brown-painted barn and an ugly sod hut stand a few dozen feet apart.  A half-orc fellow who looks like a farmer is just emerging from the hut.  Upon spying our heroes, he stops and stares at them, mouth agape.

“Are you Zerg?” demands Goer.

“Uh- yeah,” admits the half-orc.

“We’re looking for our friend Cur,” Jorgen says.

“Never heard of him,” Zerg lies.  

“That’s interesting, since he was last seen in your company.”  Jorgen stares hard at the half-orc.

Zerg’s face crumples abruptly.  “He’s in the barn,” he groans.  “He’s hurt.”

The party turns and strides to the barn.  Sir Cedric fixes Zerg with a stern glare.  Jorgen opens the door and the group starts inside.  The sheriff scans the ground, looking for tracks, and sees the heavy marks of their missing friend- and something else. 

A scrabbling sound comes from up above.

“Look out!” shouts Jorgen.

Suddenly the dragon emerges from the loft, launching itself into flight and breathing a blast of frost at him.  The sheriff cries out in pain as the chill washes over him and whips out his sword, thrusting at the thing!  The blade bites only empty air.  

Sir Cedric turns and swings a gauntleted fist at Zerg, and in a flash the half-orc is unconscious on the ground, blood welling from his broken nose.  Then he shouts, “Thubdue it!”  

The dragon wheels around and retreats up into the loft, and Jorgen immediately rushes to the ladder and begins to climb.  As he reaches the top, a flurry of draconian attacks assail him, but he fends off the small dragon and manages to gain the loft.  The dragon flies away from him with a hiss, circling near the ceiling, and Jorgen curses.  

He pulls out a rope and begins to make a lasso.  

The dragon swoops in towards Sir Cedric and he swings, smacking at it with the flat of his bastard sword, but the dragon’s momentum throws him off and he twists his ankle, giving a cry of pain.  Then it tears into him with its razor-like claws and teeth.  

The lasso falls around the dragon’s neck.

It gives a loud squeal as Jorgen whoops in delight.  Then Cedric’s flat swings into its head with a loud thump, and he knocks it cold in a single blow.  Everyone cheers!  They have subdued a dragon!****

“But what about Cur?” wonders Goer.

“I think I found him,” Jorgen says sadly from the loft.  “Or at least what’s left of him.”

“Is there any chance-“ starts Cara, but he cuts her off.

“He’s half-eaten.”

“Clearly, then, we mutht take thith thcoundrel Therg to juthtithe,” Sir Cedric cries.

One of their friends has died.  Our heroes have a moment of silence before heading back to meet the others. 

***

Otis, meanwhile, cannot believe his luck.  He has not just won, he has won _big._  To the tune of 900 gold pieces!  He’s rich enough to seriously consider retiring, but he chuckles to himself as he thinks of the idea.  Instead, he will fuel his researches with his gambling.  When the others return with their sad news, he’s so high on a cloud of euphoria that he doesn’t even really care. 

Then a messenger named Colder arrives from Sir Galadon.  “Your boat is ready,” he tells them.  

Soon they’re off for the wedding.

_*Next Time:*_ It’s a nice day for a Whitewater wedding!

*In the haunted house, both Kyle and Dahlia suffered some wisdom drain.

**Remember, this campaign is _very_ low-wealth.  50 gp for a material component is very nearly out of reach for most of our heroes- in fact, it _is_ out of reach for some of them.  It’s certainly a major investment for any of them.

***‘Pissblood’ is a slur for half-orcs in the Y272 setting.

****In my ‘main’ Cydra campaign, dragons are exceptionally powerful.  They are basically gods.  This encounter highlighted yet another thing that is radically different in Y272 from my ‘normal’ campaign’s time.


----------



## the Jester

The invitations go out to everyone in town, and then some.  Sir Cedric dispatches Colder- Sir Galadon’s messenger, who has accompanied our heroes back to Whitewater- to the Goblin Gorge to invite Brart and his advisor to the wedding.  He sends another errand boy to try to find Tumenore the Bandit-Hunter.  He invites, literally, everyone in the town.  “Ethpethially the children!” he declares.  Then he gets very, very drunk; he does not know if he can go through with this.  He thought that his brother would be the one to inherit the estate, and that he would spend his years riding Thunderpuss against enemies of his people 

Cara is very nervous.  There is not enough time for rehearsals.  She looks fat in her dress.  Is her hair okay?  Does it need trimming?  Will her makeup run?  Is it going to be hot?  “Oh, mom!” she cries, emotions overcoming her.  Her mother takes her hands and soothes her, assuring her that everything will go fine.

The sad moment comes when she attempts to invite the Old-Timer to the wedding.  There is no answer at his door.  She and Kyle peer inside his darkened home, and they can see him shuddering on his bed.  When they force their way in, they find, to their intense sorrow, that he has come down with the wasting sickness- the same sickness that is slowly killing Sir Cedric’s mother.  Cara’s heart fills with pain.  _If only there was a cure!_ she thinks fervently, but even the mountain flowers that our heroes retrieved have proven ineffective. 

In the evening, Goer arranges a bachelor party for Sir Cedric, who promptly invites his betrothed to join them.  Goer scratches his head at that; bringing Cara rather defeats the purpose of a bachelor party.  “It’s not like Whitewater’s big enough to have any whores anyway,” Kyle points out.  But it is certainly big enough to provide a large quantity of drink for all of our heroes, and they enjoy a night of revelry and alcohol.  

The next day is the wedding.  The elf- now in a bag, rather than the filthy box that he had been in- is an honored guest, though he still has not spoken.  There are no clichéd last-minute problems, no old enemies resurfacing at the last minute.  Even the captive dragon can do naught but squirm in its chains, with its muzzle bound securely shut against trouble.  Nor do Brart and his advisor come; of course, Colder has barely had time to reach and invite them.  Tumenore is a no-show, too; one wonders whether he even received word of the impending wedding.  Regardless, things go off without a hitch, and Cara is no longer Cara Reed; she is now Dame Cara Whitewater, wife of Sir Cedric.  

Again, the revels last deep into the night.  Sir Martin beams happily at his son and his new daughter-in-law.  _I hope they have many strong children,_ he thinks, grinning.  It is one of the few occasions of unsullied joy he has had since the wasting sickness began eating away at his wife.

It is not long before our heroes return to Kamenda City.  Their time is very limited if they are to make it to the cemetery meeting.  They have a trap to spring.

Or so they think.

Jorgen makes arrangements with Sir Harth; the town guard will be ready to move into the cemetery to aid the party at a moment’s notice.  They will be nearby, alert and in force.  Whatever cabal of black magicians and Tydonian spies the party is rooting out will not escape them.

When the appointed night comes the party heads to the cemetery, the elf in tow.  Little do they realize that the _real_ trap is set for them.  It will be immediately after things go so very wrong that they realize that, somewhere- either among the group or among the baron’s closest advisors- there is a traitor.

_*Next Time:*_ The Cemetery Trap!


----------



## the Jester

*The Cemetery Trap*

Our heroes make their way into the cemetery.  The watch should be in force nearby, ready to spring the trap.  The night is chill, and pools of fog are churning as the party enters the darkened fields of the dead.

Kyle nervously soothes the limbless elf, speaking to him in Elven.  The mutilated elf- the only elf our heroes have ever seen, mind you- does not respond beyond a moan.

_“ Meet our friends in the graveyard on 7/16.  They will have a few interesting items for you in trade for the elf.  They serve our cause.”_  That’s what the note the Tydonians were carrying said.  _Conspirators in the city,_ thinks Sheriff Jorgen grimly.  _But why?_

It is time to find out: the night of the 16th.  The sky is black, but here and there lamps, torches, watch fires burn.  Our heroes traipse through the cemetery alertly, wandering through the headstones until, near a mausoleum, they see a group of silhouettes standing in the darkness.

“Do you have the elf?” a male voice calls.  

“Do you have the items?” replies Jorgen.

“Of course.  Do you have the elf?”

“Of course,” the sheriff answers.  “We should trade.”

From the darkness, a chuckle.  Then arrows are streaming in from the fields of graves behind the party.  One zings off Goer’s shield; another sinks into his thigh.  He yelps, and Dahlia staggers as a feathered shaft sticks her in the shoulder.  She can feel the wound burning, and a wave of dizziness washes over her.  _Poison!_ she thinks. 

Kyle speaks to the elf (who Sir Cedric has now re-christened Mr. Bags).  “If you do not destroy the Tydonians in front of you, they will take you again!” he cries urgently in Elven.  Then, as if to set an example for the elf, Kyle casts a _magic missile_ at the man who was speaking for the villains.  A moment later Sir Cedric rides that enemy down, utterly slaying him.  

There is a beautiful woman amongst the enemy, and with a smile she _charms_ Kyle.  Meanwhile, another of the enemy attempts to immobilize Sir Cedric with black magic, but to no avail!  He hews about himself, cutting open the chest of one of the cultists after overrunning him.  

From behind the poisoned arrows keep falling, but a group of our heroes rushes to engage the archers, who turn out to be reasonably formidable.  

Kyle tries again to invigorate the elf.  This time, he shouts more harshly, in Tydonian.  “Now!  Destroy them! Destroy them!  -Except the female.  She’s nice,” he adds.

The elf moans and begins to mutter.  Suddenly a glowing red, pea-sized ball streaks out at the enemy- and blossoms into a _fireball._

The momentary flash of light reveals a wave of undead moving in around the battle.  

“Magic missile the one in front of you- for your freedom’s sake!” Kyle shouts.  A volley of magical arrows of force flashes out and blasts one of the archers.  

One of the enemy turns out to be a priest, and he attempts to heal the spokesman, but it comes too late.  Then, when the undead arrive- a horrible grave of walking zombies- one of the archers falls to its blows.

“This isn’t what I agreed to!” cries another of the archers, eyes wide in fear.  The remaining archers fall back and away, into the graveyard.  Our heroes thus turn their attentions to the walking dead assailing them.  Dahlia tries to fall back, but is felled by the zombies’ grasping fingers.  

“Run,” the female enemy says to Cara, and the pregnant bard turns and flees immediately.  The woman laughs, her raven hair half-obscuring her face.  Sir Cedric aims a mighty blow at her, but it does her no harm.  He gives a great start and wheels around for another pass, even as she laughs again.  

She vanishes. 

Our heroes look on in consternation, but the undead are still coming.  Sir Cedric uses his newfound faith and turns them even as Jorgen and Colder hack about themselves with their blades. In only a moment, the battle is won.

“Cara?” cries Sir Cedric.  He puts his heels to Thunderpuss and his beloved horse begins trotting forward in the dark.  

She is nowhere to be found.  

_*Next Time:*_ Trickery!  Treachery!  And Treason!


----------



## the Jester

*Trickery and Treason!*

“Cara!  Cara!”  Sir Cedric’s voice rings through the darkened cemetery.  

“Where is the watch?” wonders Jorgen.  _Didn’t we have this all set up?_  But a quick check reveals nothing- no watch presence nearby.  His skin starts to crawl.  Something is very wrong here.  

“I can’t find any tracks,” Dahlia reports. 

“Cara!” cries Sir Cedric.  “Cara, my thweet!  Where are you?”

“I found this.”  Kyle waves a note.  “The guy who did the talking for them had it.”

The others crowd around eagerly to read it.  

*Thelron- 

I am pleased by your progress in recruiting more of the folk to our cause.  Tie them tightly to us by enlisting their aid in dark rituals; then we need not fear their betrayal, for to betray us is to betray themselves.  Bind them to us and have them bring others before us to join them in our cause!  Our numbers shall grow, and we will spread like rot in an aged tree!

Once you have amassed a sufficient number- there must be nineteen of you- send me word and I will give to you a book that describes a great ritual of power, one that has been lost for centuries.  It will allow the priestly of you to combine your black magicks together and to increase their power dramatically.   And I will give you a text which you may have heard about- the Codex Cruentis.

As you can tell, there are many things about which you have not yet been informed.  If you continue to progress as you have been, you soon shall be.  You must be ready by New Year’s Eve: you will take your nineteen and go to the Ghost Tower.  That night, a black moon will rise into the sky.  Assuming we have the tool we need, we shall be able to open the gates of fire.  And the tool is close at hand.

Remember, do nothing to force those we seek to bring into our circle to act against us!  Until the time is ripe, we must remain most discreet.  I count on you to restrain K’Vizz until the moment comes.

Remember, too, that betrayal is death.


Yours Sincerely.*

“Cara!” screams Sir Cedric to the night.

“What are we going to do?” gasps Kyle.

“First, we must escort our wounded back to the Spinning Dice,” muses Jorgen, thinking aloud.  “Then we should figure out what happened to the watch.”

“And Cara,” adds Colder. 

***

Though Sir Cedric is distraught to leave the cemetery without Cara, he recognizes the futility of staying.  The group returns to the inn, where Cedric tends to Dahlia’s wounds, and soon she groans into consciousness.  

“Now let’s go to see the baron and his advisors,” insists Jorgen.

“It is the middle of the night,” Goer points out.

“They knew the plan.  Something went wrong.”  Jorgen looks grim and angry.  

Goer shrugs.  “All right, then.”

Jorgen and Sir Cedric go to the citadel, where they find everyone asleep.  They send a page to wake Sir Harth with word that it is urgent.  He comes out in his nightclothes.  “What is it?” he asks alertly.

Sir Cedric and Jorgen relate their tale.  “Where were the watchmen?” demands Jorgen.

Sir Harth looks confused.  “You- you told us it was off.”

“What!  I did!” exclaims Jorgen.

“Yes.  Or, from your expression, someone who looked... disturbingly similar to you.”

***

Meanwhile, back at the inn-

“Cara!” exclaims Kyle.

Sir Cedric’s new bride hurries in.  “I’m so glad to find you guys!”

“What happened?” asks Colder.  

“She captured me and took me to her lair, but I managed to escape.  I don’t think she knows that I’m gone- if we hurry, we can catch her!”

“Good idea,” Goer nods.  “Let’s go.”

“Wait a second!  She’s after the elf, right?  So let’s leave him here, with someone to guard him.  That way there’s no danger that she’ll get her hands on him when we attack her.”  The others nod, and Dahlia volunteers to stay with the elf, as she is too wounded to be an effective combatant.  Soon the group is following Cara through a maze of streets and alleys.  “She was in the sewers,” Cara claims.  After a twenty minute journey, they come to a dilapidated area with uninhabited, broken buildings.  

“Is that the entrance?” Goer asks, pointing at a nearby manhole cover.  “Cara?”

He looks around.

“Cara?”

***

Sir Cedric’s timing could not have been more fortuitous.  He reaches the inn just as someone is trying to take the elf away.  A woman, seemingly different from the one they faced in the cemetery.  When Cedric confronts her, wondering, _Where are the others?_, she sprouts bat wings and tries to fly away with Mr. Bags!  Worse, her features change: she _is_ the same woman as they fought previously.

Cedric is having none of this.  Even as the woman starts to glow with eldritch green _faerie fire_ evoked by Dahlia, Cedric rains a series of blows on her... to no avail.  She shrugs them off.  He wounds her only very slightly.  

“By the power of my pinky finger!” Sir Cedric declares, and casting his sword aside he reaches out and begins grappling with the bat-winged demon.  She hisses and claws at him, but in a moment he has her pressed to the ground. 

She vanishes out from under him, and Sir Cedric collapses onto the ground.  “Thecure the elf!” he shouts, flailing his arms about as he pulls himself hurriedly back up.

Dahlia and Cedric stand guard together.  “She has mind-control powers,” Dahlia comments.  “We must be wary.”

***

“There is treason afoot,” Jorgen muses to himself as he finally lays in bed that night.  “It’s the only explanation.  How did they know to call off the watch?  And they were laying in wait for us.”  He frowns, his brow furrows.  “Someone tipped them off.  But who?  Only the baron and his closest advisors, and of course the members of the party, knew about our plan.”  He grimaces. 

_Treason._  An ugly word.

Jorgen can’t sleep for a long time.

_*Next Time:*_ To Rescue Cara!


----------



## the Jester

At the start of the next game, the party lineup consists of:

Kyle- rog 3/wiz 2 (hp 11!)
Dahlia- druid 5
Otis- wizard 4
Colder- ftr 3/rog 1
Me- barb 2/scout 2
Cara- bard 4
Goer- ftr 4
Sir Cedric- knight 4
Sheriff Jorgan- ftr 3/rog 2

You haven't met Me yet.


----------



## the Jester

“What can we do to find her?” wonders Dahlia.  The morning crowd at the Spinning Dice is all around our heroes; the smells of breakfast and the sounds of cooking dance through the air.

“I wonder what the deal was with the undead,” muses Colder.  “They seemed to attack the guys attacking us, or at least one of them.  Maybe they weren’t in cahoots.”

“Maybe they weren’t _especially_ in cahoots, but I think they were in cahoots enough,” Kyle comments wryly.  

“What about that woman?” asks Goer.  “What’s up with her?”

“Thee thprouted bat wingth,” declares Sir Cedric drunkenly.  

“And she seemed able to vanish,” Kyle adds.  “I don’t know if she was turning invisible somehow, or- just _gone._”

Otis says, “The two that bore religious symbols were clerics of Dreymore.”

“Well, we can at least do some asking around,” Jorgen suggests.  “It has done well by me in the past- that’s how I found those Tydonian spies.”

The group agrees that this is their best starting point, and over the course of the day they do just that.  They learn a number of interesting things concerning various pieces of the puzzle.

At the Cathedral of Clymorian, the priests speculate that the woman might be a demon called a _succubus,_ able to move instantly from place to place and change her form.  Jorgen nods; that could explain how he was supposedly the one that called off the party’s own trap in the cemetery.

Allegedly, the graveyard is haunted, so it’s possible that the undead the party encountered were there by coincidence.  Better than that, though, one local fellow tells our heroes, “I overheard some guys talking about a job they’d been hired to do in the cemetery- to rough some guys up.”  The speaker describes the four men he had seen, and they sound like the rogues that ambushed the party in the graveyard.  This happened at a seedy bar called the Hopping Chicken. 

“That’s a lead,” comments Colder.

Another man, upon being purchased a loaf of bread and bottle of wine, gives them another lead.  “Thelron, you say?  I remember that name from somewhere... oh yeah, there was a wanted poster!”  	

Yet another person, conversing with Goer in a bar, says, “I talked to a guy once who went to the Ghost Tower.  He said there were weird winged beasts there, and terrible monsters that threw spikes at him!  And there was the ghost of a powerful wizard that almost killed him!”

Finally, a thin old man with bitter eyes tells the party, “Yeah, there’s a secret group that practices black magic in the city- if you listen to the rumors, you can put it together.  I think that most of ‘em are probably knights and nobles, anyway.  They got all the books and stuff.”  The man has no evidence of his claims, but he’s convinced.  “How else could they still be around?  Wouldn’t the nobles and knights hunt them down otherwise?  And who else has time for stuff like that?  Not us farmers, that’s for sure!”

Following up on the report of the poster gets the party to a tattered wanted poster describing Thelron as a bandit and rapist, and offering a 60 gp reward for his head.  The party decides to see if they can collect this later.  “Sixty gold is a lot of money,” remarks Goer.

“That depends,” Otis says obliquely, hiding a smile.  His gambling has made him _rich_- very rich.  

Evening is falling.  The party heads to the citadel to report to the baron, but before they reach it Jorgen stops them.  “I’m concerned about something,” he says.  “I think... I think that there is a traitor among the baron’s closest advisors.”

That gets everyone’s attention.

Jorgen explains his suspicions.  “It seems to me that only the baron, his main advisors and us knew what was going on with the plan to trick them in the graveyard, but they laid a trap for us.  They knew we were coming.  Someone tipped them off.”

“So... Sir Galadon or Sir Harth?” asks Kyle.

“I think one of them is most likely- they were privy first hand to all our discussions with the baron and about the plan.  Or perhaps Sir Byron or Sir Gygax- they too are on the baron’s close council.  They are likely to be well-informed.”  Jorgen adds, “Also, whoever called off the plan to lay our own trap supposedly looked just like me.” 

“The woman could change shape; perhaps she imitated you,” suggests Otis.

“Both have thtellar reputationth,” Sir Cedric says, sipping his beverage.  “Come!  We mutht not make the baron wait.”  The party hurries into the citadel, where they report their progress- and their suspicions.  

“If there is a traitor, you must ferret him out,” states the Baron.  For a moment his voice breaks, but then he catches himself and continues along in a deep, booming voice.  

“By the power of my pinkie finger,” declares Cedric, “we thall!”

While at the baron’s citadel, the party meets a half-orc scout calling himself Me.  Apparently, he brings news of a big army only a handful of days away.  Sir Cedric bristles; it is a mass of Tydonian rabble!  “We will dethtroy them on the fieldth of battle!” Cedric announces gleefully.

“Me destroy!” the half-orc yells happily.

“How far away are they?” asks Kyle.

Me looks thoughtful for about ten seconds before holding out a splayed hand.  “Five!”

“Five... miles?  Five days?”

“Five days!”  Perhaps Me is best described as a pissblood of few words, but enthusiastic ones.  When the group relates their story to him, he eloquently expresses that “Me crush thieves!” and “Bad army coming!”  

Our heroes are so amused by the scout- who appears to be between assignments- that they suggest that he stay at the same inn as them, and he begins tagging along with them.

Jorgen remains at the castle to see what he can stir up, while the others return to the Spinning Dice.  After a brief discussion, the party decides that they will go to the Hopping Chicken in the hopes that they will find some information about the rogues that assaulted them.  

Indeed, they luck out and find one of the rogues, spying him within while they are still outside.  Otis turns Kyle _invisible_ and the party moves in.  The rogue backs down easily and submits to questioning.  He claims that his friends and he were just hired to rough the party up. 

“Hired by whom?” demands Otis.

“A guy named Thelron.”  

The party doesn’t get much more out of him, however, for he gets a little mouthy and Otis blasts him with a _magic missile,_ laying him low.  The party departs before the amazed people in the tavern can do more than gape.

It has been a long day; at this point our heroes retire.

Tomorrow, they vow, they will try to trick the traitor into revealing himself.

_*Next Time:*_ Our heroes attempt to ferret out the traitor!


----------



## the Jester

*Ferreting Out the Traitor*

“So who is the traitor?” wonders Jorgen aloud.  “Sir Galadon or Sir Harth?”

“It seems more and more like we’ve been led around to all the wrong places since we got here,” remarks Otis.  

Kyle nods.  “It had to be one of them!  No one else knew where we were going and what we were doing.”

“Except the baron himself,” Otis mentions.

There is a moment of silence at that, but then Colder scowls.  “That doesn’t make any sense.  That would make him a traitor against himself.”

“Baron traitor?” asks Me.

“No, we don’t think so.”

“Who traitor?”

“We don’t know yet.”

“Crush traitor!”

The group ponders for a few moments.  They are, of course, in the privacy of one of their rooms in the Spinning Dice.  They would be most uneasy having this conversation anywhere where they could be overheard.

Dahlia says, “I have an idea.  We can go to one of them at a time, privately, and see what we can ferret out.”  Hrar, her badger, gives a loud purr.  “We could even see how each of them reacts if we tell him that we suspect the other advisor.”

“That’s a good idea,” nods Otis.  

_My master couldn’t be a traitor... could he?_ wonders Colder, leaning against the wall.  He has remained silent until now; the others do not seem to be holding his affiliation with Sir Galadon against him.  Still, he doesn’t want to provoke any possible reactions... He sighs.  For now, at least, he will hold his tongue.

“One more thing,” Kyle cautions.  “Don’t forget about the dragon.”

Oh yeah, the dragon- Snowflake, the baby white dragon that devoured our heroes’ former companion, Cur Sed Seed.  Currently tied up in the dungeon beneath the citadel; our heroes have little enough idea what to do with him.  They have begun trying to sell him to Baron Rusk, who has shown sort of an abstract interest.

The party sets out to execute their plan.  After some more discussion, they decide to begin by seeking a private audience with Sir Galadon.  It takes nearly an hour for the lord to have time for them; when he does, he is attentive but- at first- brusque.  But when they mention that they are trying to track down the traitor, he becomes much more interested. 

“Have you had any luck?” he asks.

Dahlia hesitates, then- as nobody else seems to be picking up the pieces- she replies, “Well, we have some suspicions.”  She doesn’t really know how to broach the subject now that the moment is at hand, so she figures she’ll just barrel ahead.  “What would you say if we said that we had found some evidence that it might be Sir Harth?”

“Inconceivable!” explodes Sir Galadon.  “Impossible!  I- I cannot conceive of it!”  He sits down heavily, bringing a hand to his brow.  He shakes his head sadly.  “What sort of evidence?”

“Well- we don’t want to say just yet,” interjects Kyle.  “Not until we’re sure.  But we just wanted to warn you to keep your eyes open; be on the lookout.”

“Of course,” says Sir Galadon darkly, “without evidence I would be more prone to suspect one of _you_ than him.”

“Oh, we know it’s not us,” Kyle responds, carefully keeping a straight face. 

“And after all, we were the ones who were almost killed in the graveyard,” Dahlia adds.

They talk with him for a few more moments, probing for signs of treachery, but as soon as they leave, Colder says, “It’s not him.”

“I agree,” nods Otis.

“Nope, not him,” Dahlia assents.  The others seem to share the majority opinion.  “If it was him, I think he would have tried to point us more at Harth, especially if we already suspect him.”

“Well, let’s see if Sir Harth will attempt to point us at Sir Galadon,” suggests Otis.  The party quickly makes an appointment to see the other advisor.  About twenty minutes later Sir Harth arrives, smelling of the perfumes of the baron’s court.  

“How may I help you, my friends?” he smiles.

“We’re trying to figure out who the traitor is,” begins Dahlia, and the group enacts their plan once again, this time asserting that Sir Galadon might be the traitor.

“I can’t believe it!  Galadon- a traitor?  It cannot be!  And yet... _someone_ must be the traitor.”  He looks at Dahlia, who is serving as the primary speaker for the party in the conversation.  “You say you have evidence, eh?”

“Some,” she hedges.

“We’re still developing the evidence,” Colder puts in.

“How can I help, my friends?”

“Well, just keep your eyes open,” Dahlia says.  “Be wary and watchful.”  After pondering for an instant, she adds, “Unless there’s anything else you could do...?”

Thoughtfully, Sir Harth rubs his chin.  “Perhaps there is,” he says.  “Perhaps there is.”  He tells the party that Sir Galadon’s entire household is sometimes empty.  “When he brings them all, I could inform you by rubbing my brow like this,” he continues, demonstrating, “and you could rush to his home and search it.  Then you could alert me to whether you found any evidence by pulling your right earlobe (like this) if you did, and pulling your left earlobe (like this) if you did not.”

After leaving their meeting, Otis immediately says, “It’s him.”

There is a general chorus of agreement. 

“But how can we prove it?” wonders Dahlia.  “Knowing it- or at least believing it- is one thing; finding proof is another.”

“Maybe we could search _his_ house instead of Galadon’s,” suggests Colder.

“Maybe do both,” nods Kyle.

“Crush traitor!” growls Me.

“Yeah, what if both of them are traitors?” Kyle gasps.  “That would be terrible!”

“Then all is lost,” Dahlia says grimly.  “We just have to hope that isn’t the case.”

_*Next Time:*_ Our heroes check out the homes of Sir Galadon and Sir Harth!  What shocking evidence will they find?  Will they have enough to make an accusation?  Will their suspicions prove true??


----------



## Brain

I enjoyed the whole "ferreting out the traitor" scenario a lot.  As you can see we were pretty confident at this point, but things get tricky soon!


----------



## Zaruthustran

This is good stuff. It starts out fun and just gets better. 

So... did Cur's player drop out of the group, or is he/she playing someone else Colder or Me?

-z


----------



## the Jester

Zaruthustran said:
			
		

> This is good stuff. It starts out fun and just gets better.
> 
> So... did Cur's player drop out of the group, or is he/she playing someone else Colder or Me?
> 
> -z




He's Colder now.

My players don't drop out when they die, generally; they know that they're likely to lose a pc now and again in my game.   I think everyone pretty well accepts that my campaign has a fairly high mortality rate.  In fact, I've gotten a couple of surprised comments about how few deaths this particular arc has seen so far.


----------



## the Jester

*Housebreaking*

That evening there is a great party at the citadel.  Drink and be merry, for tomorrow- or at least, in a few days- we may die.  Battle is coming; love your friends and make peace with your enemies, for you may not get another chance.   Music trills in the area, making our heroes ache for the missing Cara.  The delicious smells filling the air make our heroes’ mouths water, and as they head over to the baron’s table to report Goer plucks small bits of meat, a roll and some grapes with which to stuff his mouth.  By the time they reach the table, he is chewing happily.

“How goes your investigation?” scowls Sir Galadon.  

“It proceeds apace,” Otis replies obliquely.

Sir Galadon frowns at them.  Behind him and to the side, Sir Harth turns to look directly at Dahlia and rubs his temple.  The party briefly explains that they are convinced that they have almost tracked down the traitor, but they can detect no reaction from either of their two suspects.  As soon as she can, Dahlia takes the others aside.  

“Harth gave me the sign,” she says excitedly.  “Sir Galadon’s house should be empty!”

“We should check out both of their homes,” murmurs Colder, casting a glance towards the baron’s table, at which both Sir Galadon and Sir Harth are seated.  The others agree, and after a token appearance our heroes quickly depart as surreptitiously as they can manage.  Colder broods over the possibility that his master might be a traitor.  _It can’t be him, can it?_ he thinks. 

The party quickly moves across the town, following dark streets beneath a starry sky.  Fortunately for them, Colder knows where both of the houses in question are.  Soon the band of heroes reaches Sir Harth’s residence: walled and well-guarded, which they only manage to penetrate via Otis’ amazing spells, which render him temporarily _invisible_ to normal sight.  But in his brief jaunt in the mansion, Otis sees no evidence of treason.  Realizing that his spell lasts only a few minutes, he renews it while within the place, then- once he is truly out of time- Otis flees the scene.  

The mansion’s guards hail the other party members (who are out on the street).  The guards are suspicious and unfriendly, but they don’t try anything shady.  They simply don’t like the looks of our heroes and want them to remove themselves from the area.  Once Otis rejoins them, the party agrees and moves away, weathering a hail of suspicion.

“I found nothing,” Otis reports.

The party moves on to Sir Galadon’s house, which is an entirely different sort of thing.  There are no guards.  The place is surrounded by a simple fence.  It is much smaller and simpler.  No lights are on; it appears to be empty.

“Can you go _invisible_ again?” whispers Dahlia.

Otis replies, “No.”

“Then I’ll scout ahead,” she tells him, and before his eyes she transforms into an owl!  In seconds she is flying up and out into the night.  She returns a little later and leads the party to the house’s entrance.  Nobody is in sight; it is dark.  The door is locked, but Dahlia springs it with a _warp wood._  As the party enters, Colder squirms uncomfortably.  

“I’ll keep a lookout for Sir Galadon’s coach,” he says, and stays on the front porch.

Quickly our heroes look through the ground floor of the house, and they find a narrow stairway down into a basement.  Our heroes descend down the stairs.

At the bottom of the stairs is a large basement.  All of the stuff in one section of it has been shoved aside to make room for an altar of bone.  Fairly fresh blood has dripped from it recently.

“Knight traitor?” asks Me.

“Maybe,” replies Kyle.  “Maybe.”

***

Meanwhile, on the porch, Colder catches sight of the lights on Sir Galadon’s coach.  “They’re coming!” he calls urgently into the house.

From below, a sudden exclamation of noise is obvious.  The rest of the party comes boiling up from below.  “Kitchen window,” Otis urges.

“I’ll provide a distraction,” Colder says.

“Get out of there!  What are you doing!” exclaims Kyle, as he pulls himself out the kitchen window.

“It is my duty,” Colder answers firmly.

“We don’t want to be caught here,” Dahlia reminds him.  “We’re suspects too.”

“Go!” he says from the porch, turning away.

Dahlia uses another _warp wood_ to return the door to its former shape, then pulls herself out the window as well.  She and the rest of the party hurry away as Colder stands on the porch, waiting for Galadon’s coach to pull up.  When it does, the door opens and Sir Galadon steps out.  “Colder?  Is that you?”

“Aye, my lord.”

“What are you doing here?  What’s going on?”  Sir Galadon looks suspicious. 

“Well, there was an intruder here.  I was attempting to guard your property, my lord.”

“Why were you here in the first place?  How did you know there was an intruder?”

“The door was warped.”

Sir Galadon stares pointedly at the door.

“Oh!  They must have... un-warped it,” Colder explains.

“Search the house,” Sir Galadon directs his men.  “You stay here with me,” he tells Colder.  _I want to keep my eye on you._  A few minutes later, one of his men hurries back from the house and reports in low tones to him.

Sir Galadon turns, white as a ghost, to face Colder.  “Colder, what have you done?” he cries.  Then his eyes narrow.  “I think I see now.  _You_ are the traitor we seek.”  In a loud, commanding voice, he declares, “You are under arrest.”

_*Next Time:*_ What the hell just happened there?  What do our heroes do next?  Who _is_ the traitor?  And more!


----------



## the Jester

“What do we do now?” wonders Dahlia.

“We have to tell Sir Harth what we found,” opines Goer.  “Sir Galadon must be the traitor.”

Our heroes are on a dark street in the middle of the night some blocks away from Sir Galadon’s house.  They are walking in the general direction of the “I was so sure it was Harth,” laments the hermit woman.  She sighs.

“I don’t know,” says Kyle.  “It seemed almost too easy.  Sir Harth’s place was guarded...”

“I found nothing within Sir Harth’s domicile,” Otis reminds him.  

“Crush traitor!” suggests Me.

“I just don’t know if I buy it,” Kyle says.  “It seems too easy somehow.”

“Easy!”  Goer is bemused.

Filled with misgivings, our heroes decide to head to the citadel immediately.  Due to the party, there are still people up, including the baron, Sir Galadon and Sir Harth.  Jorgen declares that the party is very close to an answer as to who the traitor is.  As they converse, Dahlia (who is staring intently at Sir Harth) tugs her right earlobe.  

Worse yet, a ransom note has come:

*Cedric, 

I believe that I have something (or someone, ha ha) that you want, and I know that you have something (well, someone again- imagine that!) that I want.  I suggest an exchange before I am forced to remove her pretty little tongue from her sweet mouth and still that lovely voice forever.  

I am afraid that my schedule precludes my meeting with you for the next few days, but I trust that you will keep your schedule free for me three days hence.  In the early part of the morning, just after the sun rises, you will come to meet me where we tried to make the exchange before.  Do not attempt anything foolish or your beautiful wife will suffer for your arrogance.  Bring the elf and his book.  If you attempt treachery, Cara will pay for it. *

Sir Cedric looks grim.  He passes the note around.  “Three dayth henth ith altho when we ekthpect the Tydonian thcum to reach uth, ith it not?”

“Clearly, this is an attempt to divide our forces.”  Jorgen looks unhappy.

“We mutht theek out the mithcreantth before then,” Sir Cedric commands.  “We mutht not play into their handth.”

Sir Harth shortly excuses himself and then hurries to escort the party out onto a balcony where they can talk.  Dahlia relates what they have found so far and Sir Harth nods gravely.  

“We will send men to investigate this evidence at once,” he declares.  “He is politically very powerful, so we will have to be careful.”  

“I guess we’ll talk again in the morning.”  The party departs, wondering whether they have found their traitor.

“Could the evidence have been planted?” wonders Kyle.

“Sir Harth didn’t know when we were going to be coming to the party,” Jorgen points out.  “How could he have gotten the evidence planted in the time it took us to get over there?”

“The basement did look like a lot of stuff had just been shoved out of the way,” Dahlia recalls.

It is very late.  Our heroes retire, sleeping until early morning, whence they all rise and go to court in the citadel.  To their surprise, Sir Galadon is still behind the baron, but Sir Harth gives the party a smile and a pleasant nod.

“We think we have found our traitor,” says Sir Galadon without preamble.  “I regret to say that it is Colder.”

“Colder!” exclaims Dahlia.

“Colder traitor?” asks Me.

“I’m afraid so,” Sir Galadon replies.  “I found him, last night, planting evidence at my home.  I think he may have committed a terrible crime there.”

“My goodness!” Dahlia groans.  _That fool!  He should have come with us!_

“We shall judge the evidence against him in time,” Sir Harth says smoothly.

“May we see him?”

“Certainly.”

Sir Harth summons a jailer and the party is escorted to Colder’s cell.  Their erstwhile companion almost collapses with joy when he sees them.  “Mangle dangle, get me out of here!”* he implores them.

“You’re going to have to stay tough for a little while longer,” Kyle tells him.

“What!”

“You’re doing fine.  We’re working on it.  Don’t worry!”

“Oh man, mangle dangle!”

When they come out, there is a commotion in court.  They hurry back- and find that Sir Galadon has been arrested.  “It must have been a nest of traitors!” declares the baron resonantly.  Sir Harth’s face is neutral.  

Our heroes depart the citadel.  The sun is now high in the sky.  There are soldiers throughout the town, men-at-arms called in from the entire barony to defend Kamenda City.  Knights ride through the streets in groups, waiting for the moment in which they will ride against the Tydonians.  

“We could try bloodhoundth,” suggests Sir Cedric.  The party returns to the citadel to see if they can borrow some from the baron.  He graciously accedes to their request.  Unfortunately, when they reach the cemetery, the bloodhounds seem unable to follow the scent more than a short distance.  

”Remember, she could sprout wings,” Jorgen says.  “Maybe she flew out of here.” 

“With Cara?”

Jorgen shrugs.  “Who can say?” he asks rhetorically.  “It’s possible.”

“She could also move instantly across a distance,” Otis reminds him.

“Do you think it’s possible that she could have planted the evidence?” the sheriff wonders.  

“The blood was fresh,” Kyle remembers.  “I’m telling you, it was too easy.  His house wasn’t even guarded- the front door was locked, but that was it.  And he’s got some evil altar in his basement?  Don’t you think he’d have at least kept a guard up or something?”

“We thould thearch around the graveyard.  There are cryptth nearby that we could invethtigate.”  Sir Cedric leads our heroes in a search.

Almost immediately they find their enemy.

_*Next Time:*_ The rescue of Cara!


*“Mangle dangle” is my best interpretation of a certain speech element that comes out of Colder in times of stress.  Like Boomhauer.


----------



## the Jester

In one of the crypts near where the party lost Cara, our heroes find the succubus’ lair.  For the first few moments they don’t even know it.  Awkwardly shouldering the bag holding the crippled elf, Kyle opens a door in the crypt they are investigating.  Something shuffles forward and bites him, and he collapses with a cry.  Then the smell rolls over the party, a miasma of death and rot.  A pair of ghouls rushes out from the lower level of the crypt to engage them in melee.  Then, an instant later, the demoness appears from nowhere and smiles at Jorgen.  

“Kill her, behind you,” the succubus suggests, and Jorgen immediately whirls and begins attacking Dahlia.  The hermit cries out in fear and pain, and releases the baron’s bloodhounds.  Meanwhile, Me roars and rushes the succubus, slicing her with his sword, and the strength of his blow manages to penetrate the succubus’ damage reduction.  She grunts in pain and vanishes, reappearing near Kyle’s paralyzed form.

Immediately she begins to grab at the elf-bag. 

Me roars again, charging at the demon and swinging with all his might.

There is a splash of blood and her head flies free.  The look of shock and surprise on her face is quite fulfilling for our heroes, really.

Meanwhile, Cedric and Goer, working together, make short work of the ghouls.  Their blows finish the ghouls in quick succession, and they then rush to check on Kyle.  Jorgen seems to come out of the stupor or whatever force has him attacking Dahlia.  He shakes his head.  “What- why did I do that?”

Dahlia eyes him wearily.  “Yeah!  Why did you do that?” she demands.

“I don’t know, it’s almost as if I wasn’t in control of my actions,” he muses aloud. 

“Well, don’t do it again!” she insists.  The sheriff nods sheepishly; if he can help it, he won’t.

Sir Cedric bounds to his feet, finding Kyle still breathing but just unmoving.  Goer continues to look him over while the knight cries, “Cara!”  The room that the ghouls were in leads to what appears to be a small bed chamber.  “Cara, my thweet!” Sir Cedric yells again, heading immediately to the room’s only exit.

Behind him, Kyle stiffly begins to move again.  “What happened?” he groans.  “The filthy bugger bit me, and then... I couldn’t move!  I could hear the battle, but...”  The others fill him in as Goer hurries forward to back up Sir Cedric, in case more trouble awaits within the crypt.

“You stay out here,” Dahlia admonishes Jorgen.  Then she hurries after the Goer.  Still feeling sheepish, Jorgen obeys.

Through the last door, our heroes find a row of cells.  From within one, a wavering, female voice calls out, “Cedric, is that you?”

“Cara!”

Sir Cedric rushes to the cell door and smashes it in.  His wife, five months pregnant, is within!  With a joyous cry they are reunited.  “Oh, Cedric!” Cara cries from the depths of their embrace.

“Are you all right, my thweet?” Sir Cedric asks.  “Did the thuccubuth hurt you?”

“No- not yet.  But... but she wanted to _sacrifice_ me- _and our unborn child!_”

“Agh!” cries Sir Cedric, aghast.

“But that’s not all,” Cara continues.  She squeezes his hands.  “Cedric- where is Jorgen?”

“He is thtanding guard back by our entranthe.  It theemth ath though the demoneth had influenthed hith mind in thome fathion.”

“Cedric-” Cara hesitates for a moment, but then takes a deep breath and plunges on.  “In one of the other cells,” she says breathlessly, “is Jorgen’s sister.”

_*Next Time:*_ Sir Galadon is in jail, Cara has been rescued- perhaps everything is okay now... except our heroes are still doubting whether they caught the real traitor, and the battle is coming in a few days!


----------



## Baron Opal

So, Jester, how is the experiment coming along? It certainly seems from the story hour that your players are enjoying themselves. Any ramifications to your standard campaigns yet?


----------



## the Jester

Baron Opal said:
			
		

> So, Jester, how is the experiment coming along? It certainly seems from the story hour that your players are enjoying themselves. Any ramifications to your standard campaigns yet?




Well, we'll see... we're going to start playing the epic game again after the next session of this one (which will be the climax of either the first arc of the Y272 game, or of the whole thing).  

I like certain elements of it a lot, some less so; some things have worked out better than I could have hoped, some worse than I'd anticipated.   We'll see what a big fat group discussion brings when the time comes, but I don't think much of the alternate rule set will be 'ported over' into the main campaigns- although when next I advance the campaign's timeline, there may be more bleedover.  We'll see.

The experiment has revealed what my biggest two frustrations with 3e are, though- the extreme level of wealth dependence and the speed of advancement.  As one example of something that hasn't worked out how I want it, my training rules (in Y272) have proven successful at slowing advancement (since it takes weeks of training to actually gain all your level dependent benefits) but frustrating for allowing the pcs to keep up with their own xp (if that makes any sense).  Meh.


----------



## Tony Vargas

the Jester said:
			
		

> The experiment has revealed what my biggest two frustrations with 3e are, though- the extreme level of wealth dependence and the speed of advancement.  As one example of something that hasn't worked out how I want it, my training rules (in Y272) have proven successful at slowing advancement (since it takes weeks of training to actually gain all your level dependent benefits) but frustrating for allowing the pcs to keep up with their own xp (if that makes any sense).  Meh.



 Yep, those are annoying aspects of the game, and hard to compensate for.  You could just change the exp chart, from needing your current level *1000 to advance, to needing twice what you did last time or something.  It'd be nice to actually settle into a level once in a while.  In the game I'm in now, we've gained two levels in a single dungeon over the course of three days!  It's nuts.  

Wealth dependency is a lot more intractible, because it's truer of some classes than others - the classes are more or less balanced at the normal wealth level.  A little less and non-casters suffer a bit, a lot less, and wizards do, too - while, monks, for the most extreme case, hardly notice the difference.  Conversely, go over the wealth limit and wizards (again) can really go nuts with item creation and learning every spell under the sun, and, freakishly, with the right items, high-wealth monks can also over perform.


----------



## Angel of Adventure

*Speed of Advancement*

So Jester,

Are you saying that 3E advances too quickly?  Being a power hungry gamer, I would have to say that its still too slow!    

However, if I took a more balanced view, I would say its just right.  In 2E, it took forever!!! to go up levels once you got past 10th or so, and even longer if you were multi-classed.  While D&D was still fun, it sometimes seemed that you really weren't going anywhere with your character.

What is the general thrust of the arguement regarding advancing too quick?  Is it a DM issue, meaning that the DM has to adapt more quickly to PCs power level?  Or is that pervasive need to insert "reality" into a fantasy game?  (i.e.:  no one could ever learn those skills in such a short time-frame.)  Or is it a PC issue, in that its harder to play your character right if they go up too quick?

Just curious.    

Later,

AoA

P.S.:  Congratulations on a successful experiment!


----------



## the Jester

Angel of Adventure said:
			
		

> What is the general thrust of the arguement regarding advancing too quick?  Is it a DM issue, meaning that the DM has to adapt more quickly to PCs power level?  Or is that pervasive need to insert "reality" into a fantasy game?  (i.e.:  no one could ever learn those skills in such a short time-frame.)  Or is it a PC issue, in that its harder to play your character right if they go up too quick?




Basically I don't like the idea of pcs going from 1st to 10th level in one game month, which can easily happen in 3e.  

I feel that a wizard casting _wish_ ought not be a teenager; it should take time and effort to get that powerful.  Likewise, I have a hard time with the idea of a grizzled, seasoned warrior who can single-handedly take on an army... who just learned to fight a few weeks or months ago.  That sort of thing should take real time. 

I think the game needs some kind of mechanism to allow more in-game time to pass.  I don't have a major problem with the "every 3 games you gain a level" paradigm, but I think that every level ought to at least take a month or a season or something to achieve.

The current rate of advancement pokes my suspension of disbelief in the eye.


----------



## Tony Vargas

Ah, I see.  That's not as hard to deal with, really, you just need more non-adventuring (or, at least, non-exp-generating) time.  Downtime.  Enforcing downtime is easy, just don't throw any challenge at the players for a while.  Long periods of downtime can be a problem if the party has plenty of access to wealth and resources (because item creation can run wild), but, in a relatively low-wealth, low-magic game, that really shouldn't be a problem.  In fact, characters with mundane craft and profession skills would have the chance to get a little use out of them.

I think in this campaign, part of the problem will start taking care of itself.  Right now, anytime the players travel anywhere, the random encounters on the road are significant challenges.  Assuming those encounters are 'status quo,' they won't be much longer - giving the players more freedom of movement, but less experience.


----------



## the Jester

In a standard game, once the pcs can teleport or wind walk you almost _can't_ enforce downtime.  (Neither exists in Y272.)


----------



## Baron Opal

Yes, that is an "in-game" problem with D&D, no set downtime. In my current game the PCs went from first to third level in about 5 days game time. Between adventures I fast-forwarded the campaign a year and gave everyone +2 in an appropriate skill to reflect what they did. I'm running the Age of Worms (and having a great time with it) but it is too easy to have grand powers in young adventurers.


----------



## the Jester

*The Traitor Revealed*

Five years ago, Jorgen’s sister Reedia ran away.  She was never seen again. 

Until now.

Now, rescued at last, she sobs into Jorgen’s arms.  Pulled from this unlikely dungeon in a crypt in the cemetery of Kamenda City, a dungeon held by a demon- a succubus- Reedia Boatwright tells her story.

She had run away in a burst of childish anger, but not long after dark she ran into Dalgen, a relatively new arrival in town.  He encouraged her to go back with him, and he promised her he would intercede with her parents for him.  But when they returned surreptitiously to his house, he knocked her unconscious and shackled her in his basement. 

For five years.

Jorgen resolves instantly to bring him to justice as soon as possible.  

“Thinthe we have rooted out the demon’th lair, we might be able to catth the true traitor,” Sir Cedric suggests.

“Yeah, perhaps he checks in here,” nods Goer.

“But what about Sir Galadon?” queries Otis.  “He appears to be the traitor.”

“I don’t think so,” opines Dahlia.  “I think it’s Harth.”

“Let uth wait, and we thall thee,” repeats Sir Cedric.

“We can’t leave your sister here,” protests Dahlia.  “I’ll take her back to Whitewater.”

“I shall accompany you,” Otis says.  “Waiting here is a waste of time.  We already _have_ the traitor.”

***

That very night, as Sir Cedric is on watch in the front of the crypt, he spots movement in the darkness.  Quietly, he nudges his friends into alertness, but the figure seems to sense their presence.  It bolts.  A chase ensues, with our heroes in hot pursuit as the figure darts towards the wall that surrounds the cemetery.  Me moves with incredible speed, and he clambers up towards the top of the wall at the same moment as the dark figure. 

“Smash traitor!” Me roars, and then his grip slips.  He falls, skidding to a halt at the bottom of the wall, shaking his head to clear it.  Then he points up and shouts a single word.

“Harth!”

Kyle swears.  “I knew it!”  He unleashes his magical power in the form of a _magic missile._  It zips out and blasts Sir Harth.  He glares over his shoulder for an instant, and then Jorgen’s lasso falls around him.  He cries out.  

Me gains the top of the wall as Harth struggles with the lasso, and then the big half-orc bull rushes him off the wall.  The knight falls to the ground with a loud _thump!_  Sir Cedric cries, “Traitor!”- and rides in, swinging his sword at Harth.  The villain ducks the blade and finally manages to burst out of the rope holding him.  

Me drops down from above, elbow-smashing Sir Harth.  The knight groans and reels from the blow.  Then an arrow from Kyle sinks into his arm.  He grimaces, tries to rise, and suffers several blows from our heroes, who are clustered around him.  

Sir Harth gains his feat, and in a single blow, he brings down Me (who was wounded from earlier).  Then he is taken.

***

“Of course they could plant false evidence at Sir Galadon’s house,” Jorgen nods.  “The succubus could _teleport_.  It wouldn’t take long at all.”

“Still, it is pretty shocking that one of the advisors would be a traitor for the Tydonians,” Kyle says.

“I’m not so sure he was related to the Tydonians except through convenience,” Dahlia comments.  She and Otis have made it back to Kamenda City.  “I think his group is different.”

“Well, there really isn’t time to worry about that right now,” says Goer.  “Their forces are almost here.  The battle is going to be tomorrow; we’re to rise just before dawn.”  He pauses.  “I guess we’re going to be a strike force, to deal with problem elements that might arise.”

“That’s better than being in the forefront of battle,” Kyle smiles.

“Nonthenthe,” snorts Sir Cedric.  “The forefront ith a plathe of honor!”

“Of course, you’re right, my lord,” agrees Kyle.

“Here, have a drink,” suggests Goer, handing a flask over to Sir Cedric, who gratefully takes a deep draught. 

***

In the morning, our heroes rise early.  The buzz of activity is everywhere.  Armored men bearing swords and bows and crossbows are rushing about, forming ranks, preparing to move out into the field of battle.  The sun is barely peeking above the horizon when our heroes join the reserve, from which they will be dispatched.  Sir Martin is there, as are Sir Byron and Sir Gygax.  Sir Cedric ebulliently greets his father, then the party is sent off to the wings to await orders.

The Kamendan army marches out, 2500 strong.  There are groups of infantry and cavalry, plus a reserve.  The field of battle is several miles south of the city, and by the time the army is ready, offering battle, the sun has ascended and begins to beat down.  It is a plain, with a fenced-in ranch to one side and a wooded area to the other.

The enemy is more numerous, being some 5,000 in all, including 600 gnoll mercenaries.  They draw forth, leaving a healthy number in reserve- something the Kamendan forces cannot really afford.  Our heroes watch nervously as the enemy approaches the rude ditches dug between the ranch and the woods to impede them in the little time allowed the Kamendan forces since they arrived.  Then, as they close in, the Kamendans reveal their first surprise: archers hidden in the woods!  They begin raining death down onto the advancing gnolls.  But the Tydonians have archers too, and they begin firing at the Kamendan infantry manning the ditches.  

Then a _fireball_ explodes in the woods.  

“A _fireball!_” cackles Otis.

A messenger hurries over.

“I think we’ve got our first mission,” comments Goer.

_*Next Time:*_ The Battle of Kamenda City!


----------



## the Jester

Let me just say that I am _incredibly_ glad that I write my story hours up in Word before posting them these days... 

My plan: one post per day (in one or more of my SH threads) until the old posts are all back in place, and then more- presumably by that time, I'll have a few new ones written and be able to leapfrog forward...


----------



## the Jester

Our heroes are dispatched to deal with the wizard who _fireballed_ the archers.  The gnolls are dispatching a group into the woods to hunt the bowmen.  “We should take out those gnolls next,” calls Jorgen as the party gallops towards the wizard.  He is surrounded by a gauntlet of spearmen, but our heroes overwhelm them.  In only a few moments, a combination of swords and spells has overwhelmed the bodyguards, and the wizard himself falls to lightning that cracks down from the sky at Dahlia’s beckoning.  Heedless of danger, Sheriff Jorgen cries, “To the woods!” and charges away into the foliage, quickly outdistancing his allies.  

Behind him, Otis and Kyle quickly search the wizard, looking for a spellbook.  To their delight, they find it.  Otis stows it, then the two of them gallop after their friends.

In the woods, it is only when Jorgen stumbles into a trio of gnolls that he realizes that he is alone.  He can hear the snap of arrows seeking gnollish flesh and the growl of the hyena-headed humanoids up ahead beyond a thicket.  Immediately, he charges one of the gnolls, dealing a telling blow with his longspear.  The gnolls rush forward, Jorgen dealing another one a blow as it closes with him, and the four of them melee wildly for a moments, pricking one another.  “For Whitewater!” Jorgen cries, and stabs one in the heart, killing him.  Then he stabs another, who manages to turn with the blow and only be wounded across the ribs.  But this is enough for him, and he turns and runs; and the last gnoll, seeing so clearly how the tide has turned, flees as well.  Jorgen takes him through the back as he attempts to leave the fray, and then he is gasping for breath, letting the last one go.  He is bleeding from but a single wound.

Still, he can hear the sound of more gnolls not far ahead.  “I’d better get the others,” he says aloud, and whirls his horse around.  

In but a few moments, the party has reassembled.  Swiftly, they move on the gnolls Jorgen heard.  Dahlia peers ahead through a thick spread of trees and sees slightly over half a dozen gnolls advancing on a retreating group of archers. 

With a cackle, Dahlia _entangles_ them.

Then it is mostly a protracted missile battle, with the party moving in at the end of the battle to finish things off.  When the odds have been shifted dramatically in favor of our heroes, Dahlia dismisses the _entangle_ and the party moves in for the kill.  

The archers cheer our heroes as the last gnoll falls, but tell the party that there are more of them.  “They’re in small parties, out to hunt us down and stop us from doing our part in the battle,” the archer sergeant says grimly.

Our heroes hurry to the defense of the next group of archers.  This time there are ten gnolls, and the party does not _entangle_ them; but the party wins victory over them nonetheless.

The remaining gnolls assaulting the archers withdraw, and our heroes soon find themselves hailed by a messenger as they leave the western edge of the woods. 

“How goeth the battle?” Sir Cedric demands. 

“I couldn’t say,” the runner pants.  “I am not a general.  I know that their cavalry has been broken, but one charismatic knight seems to be reforming them.  You must stop him!”

Our heroes gallop away, leaving the archers to their own devices.  Dust hangs over the battle, obscuring much of it.  They know where the cavalry engagement took place, northeast of the large fenced ranch on the east edge of the battlefield.  Quickly they ride towards the scene, where a single knight and his four retainers are riding back and forth, exhorting the Tydonian cavalry to reform.  Hacking their way to the knight, our heroes defeat them soundly.  Moreover, they are delighted when, at one point, Kyle’s urging manages to elicit a _fireball_ from the crippled elf that the group is carrying.  The routed cavalry stays routed.

Bone-weary from all the fighting, our heroes withdraw to the command post.  From there, they can see the situation much better.  The Kamendan forces have held surprisingly well, given the odds against them, but the gnolls are starting to catch them in a pincer movement, and the lines are starting to buckle.  After the priests attending the command center tend their wounds, Sir Martin motions the party to him.  Grimly, he says, “We have made them pay for their attack, but there are too many of them.  We must withdraw our forces to the safety of Kamenda’s walls.  They will suffer grievously for any attack on the city, especially now that their numbers are reduced.”  He gestures out to the battlefield.  “But they are being surrounded.  You will have to cut your way through the gnolls and help rally the troops so that they can make an orderly retreat.  Otherwise, we will lose too many men- and we cannot afford that at a time like this.”

“Yeth, father!” exclaims Sir Cedric.  He leads the rest of the party out again, fortifying himself along the way with a stout jolt of whiskey.  The heroes thunder into the back lines of the gnolls and hew at them, causing the humanoids no small amount of consternation.  With the party’s aid, the Kamendan 2nd Infantry slowly manages to pull back from the enemy, keeping their withdrawal orderly lest the Tydonians rush and overwhelm them.

As the afternoon sun hangs fat and orange over the field, the Tydonians, too stung by the feisty Kamendan defense to pursue in earnest, watch the Kamendans return to the walls of the city.  As the gates shut behind them, Sir Cedric approaches his father atop the wall.

“Father!” he cries.  “What newth?  How did the battle go?”

Sir Martin smiles at him.  “Much better than I had feared it might,” he declares.  It seems we dealt them a sufficient blow that we’ve left them with too few men to properly invest the city!  The scouts say that the Tydonians are withdrawing a few miles to the south.”  He frowns.  “I do fear that they have reinforcements coming, but for now we have held them off.”

_*Next Time:*_ Why are the Tydonians attacking from the south when Tydon is to the east?  Find out soon!!


----------



## the Jester

When the sun sets, our heroes- except Otis, who insists on staying behind to study the spellbook he and Kyle captured in the battle- ride out to scout.  They find that the enemy is not far to the south, and they find reinforcements coming only a few miles further south, along the edge of the river.

“They’re probably using the river to transport troops and goods,” comments Goer. 

“It makes no sense that they’re attacking from the south,” Kyle objects.  “Tydon is east, isn’t it?”

This is a puzzle, the others are forced to admit.

The party encounters and dispatches a group of Tydonian scouts, and Otis- when he rides after them hours later- encounters a trio of gnolls.  His _protection from arrows_ saves him from serious injury, and his _magic missiles_ defeat or drive off the gnolls.  Later, when he encounters some Tydonian scouts, there is a similar exchange.  

As the sun rises in the morning, the invading Tydonian army’s cook fires exhale smoke into the sky, clearly marking their presence.  They are only a few miles away.  From atop Kamenda City’s walls, the army can be seen, encamped along the edge of the river.  They withdraw a few more miles, but their presence so close to the city can almost be felt as a palpable presence. 

In Baron Rusk’s citadel, our heroes stand in the council of war before Sir Martin as the leaders discuss what to do next.  The empty chair of Sir Harth seems to mock them; he has escaped from the gaol, probably with the help of one of the guards.  The battle has led to a partial victory, with the Tydonians unable to invest Kamenda City as yet. 

“We must find out where their reinforcements are coming from,” declares Sir Martin to the party.  “We want you to find out.  Has Tydon allied itself with our southern neighbor, or already taken it?  Is there some other explanation?  You must uncover the answer.”

“Of courthe, father,” Sir Cedric replies. 

“There is something else, as well,” Sir Gygax announces.  “If the Tydonian scum really are using the river, you must raise the chain.  That will hamper them severely.”  He instructs our heroes on how to find the chain, and they are on their way.

The chain is raised via a hidden mechanism along the bank.  The party activates it and brings the chain up; this will prove a deadly barrier to water transport.  “They shouldn’t be able to get too close to the city by river,” Goer states with a grim smile.  

Then our heroes ride south.  They are along the west side of the river, while the enemy force is on the east.  Ascending what high ground or tall trees they can find, they watch the Tydonian forces.  It looks as though boats are coming downriver, disgorging men and supplies.  Thoughtfully, Dahlia pulls out her map.

“Look at this,” she says.  “If you follow the river upstream, you run first into the Dipper- a low-lying area of swampy terrain- and then back up into the mountains.  There’s nowhere for the Tydonian forces to have come from!”

Our heroes follow the river upstream discretely, trying to avoid being seen by enemy patrols, and soon they can see the thick mass of the Dipper a few miles away- a sodden marsh full of thick trees and mist.  They cannot see anything within it, but as they watch, they see a troop ship emerge from the marsh onto the river. 

“That’s it,” says Dahlia.  “They’re coming from in there somewhere.”

“But where?” wonders Kyle.  “And why?”

_*Next Time:*_ The dreaded swamp deathcow!


----------



## the Jester

Our heroes (less Jorgen, who has returned to Whitewater to ensure justice is served on the man who held his sister a prisoner in his basement for so long) make their way downslope towards the muck of the Dipper, leaving their mounts tied at the edge of the first big sink in the ground.  They know that horses will do them no real good in the marshy ground of the Dipper.  But surely the party can stay stealthy enough to avoid a major engagement, and perhaps unearth the reason why the Tydonians are coming from the Dipper at all.  After all, a fetid swamp that requires a significant detour seems an unlikely area from which to stage a war!

The Dipper is a large area, miles across, where the ground has sunken. According to old bards’ tales, this happened generations ago, during some kind of magical war.  Water drains into it from the higher ground that lays in all directions, and a small river runs from its western edge, eventually to join the Roaring River that runs through both Whitewater (the home town of most of our heroes) and Kamenda City.  It is up this small river that the Tydonian forces are coming; yet the Dipper is a swamp near the south side of the Barony of Kamenda, and the Duchy of Tydon lies to the east.  The south is the wrong side for Tydon to attack from, but that is the direction they are coming from.  _Why?  How?_  Finding the answers to those two questions is the essence of our heroes’ mission.  

Of course, if they were to hurt the Tydonian advance in the process, Baron Rusk would not be disappointed.  

Down into the Dipper our heroes go.  Dahlia’s attempts to scout in eagle form are fruitless, as the foliage is too thick to allow a bird’s eye to see the ground and water.  Goer suggests following the water downhill, reasoning that if the Tydonians are taking troops towards Kamenda City by boat- as our heroes have seen- they will be where the water concentrates.  They _must_ be, if they are going to float boats at all!  His logic seems indisputable. 

As he explains his reasoning, Dahlia approaches Kyle.  “How’s the elf?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” he replies, fidgeting and biting his lip.

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“Ask Otis.”  Kyle is plainly unhappy.  He drops his gaze to his feet.

His master comes to his rescue.  “I gave him to the Keepers of the Cerulean Sign,” Otis announces.

“You what!” exclaims Goer.

“That elf was nothing but trouble.”  Otis is firm.  “As long as we had him, the Tydonians are going to be looking for us, not to mention the black magic cult or whoever Sir Harth was working with.  Ever since we got to Kamenda City, we’ve been misled, sent in the wrong direction and tricked.  We got sent after red herrings outside the city and missed a chance to catch the cult the night we found their altar while we were patrolling.  We were tricked into accusing Sir Galadon of being the traitor.  All along, that elf brought us nothing but trouble.  _Think about it._”

“But the Keepers of the Cerulean Sign will kill him!” Dahlia groans.

“No.  We came to an agreement.”

“Oh yeah?  And what was your half of the agreement?” demands Colder. 

“I gave him to them,” Otis says.

Kyle remains silent, the unhappy look remaining on his face.  It is clear that he does not (and, at the time, did not) like Otis’ decision.  Neither does much of the rest of the party.  But everyone has to agree that Otis has a point: the elf is a big juicy target for enemies. Moreover, it’s too late to do anything about it; done is done.  He’s gone.  

“Shikexil,” Dahlia says mournfully.  She gives Kyle a dirty look.  He only shrugs unhappily.  

Down the party squelches, following rivulets that trickle beside muddy banks.  Soon the party is surrounded by thick groves of banyans and tall clumps of marsh grasses.  Swamp willows hunch over the wet ground, their long, concealing branches dangling above the adventurers.  The buzz of insects drifts through the air.  Everyone curses the mosquitoes at one point or another. 

Finally, after about half an hour of trudging through increasingly marshy areas, some strewn with random large broken boulders, the lower areas of ground around the party are starting to be full of water.  Abruptly our heroes emerge, warm and sweating, in a clearing.  A strange beast is there, chewing on some grass.  It has an ugly, warthog-like head with curving tusks perched at the end of a long, weak-looking neck; a stout, club-like tail; and a body much like that of a cow, complete with fat pink udders.

Kyle shrieks in fear at what is obviously a terrible monster and casts a _magic missile_ at the ugly beast.  Me pulls out his sling, gaping at the weird monster.  

“It’th kind of cute, but what ith it?” Sir Cedric wonders.*

The creature’s eyes fix on Me and a green ray shoots out of them.  Me gasps and clutches at his chest, coughing- but just manages to resist the death gaze.  “Me not like this creature!” he cries fearfully.

_“Moooo,”_ says the creature.

Dahlia _calls lightning_ and begins zapping the thing with bolts, one after another.  Otis fires a volley of _magic missiles_ at it as well, and the monster moos loudly in pain.  Again it fires a death ray from its eyes at Me, but the scout manages to throw off the worst of the effects again: he lives, though pain courses through his body.  

“Mangle dangle, I’m taking cover!” Colder squeals.  He moves closer to the monster and ducks behind a bush.  Even as he does so another crack of lightning descends to strike the strange cow-like monster.  Sir Cedric slogs forward towards it as best he can, and the thing trundles through the muck to meet him.

_“Mooo!!”_ the beast cries, and swings its great tail at Sir Cedric.  The knight catches the blow on his shield and prepares to reply.  Meanwhile Otis is incanting yet another _magic missile_, and the thing weakens visibly.  It is now scorched and pocked from multiple magical assaults, and a final blast from Dahlia’s _call lightning_ is more than it can take.  Already bleeding and burnt from multiple wounds, the monster crashes sideways into the marsh with a last, despairing “Mooo.....”  A splatter of muddy water sprays from the impact of the bizarre creature’s body on the wet ground, and then it lies still.  

The party gathers round the corpse to examine it.  “What is that thing?” asks Colder.  “Mangle dangle, it could have killed us all!  Otis, do you know what it was?”

“Of course,” the wizard bluffs.  “It was a swamp deathcow.  They moo like cows, their gaze brings death and they live in swamps.”

“It could not overcome the power of my pinkie finger,” Sir Cedric declares sternly.  

“Uh- right, my lord.  Here, drink this.”  Goer knows just how to distract Sir Cedric.

Me sits down at the thing’s side.  Experimentally, he squeezes an udder.  Milk squirts out.  Everyone looks at one another, not quite sure what to make of this. 

“Me thirsty,” says Me, and squirts some milk directly out of the teat into his mouth.  He swallows, and then loudly smacks his lips.  “Ahhh!” he sighs, sounding quite satisfied.

Aghast, Kyle warns, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”  Me looks puzzled.  He drinks another squirt.  The party watches for a few moments as the big half-orc guzzles some more, and then most of them decide to try it.  

It is delicious.

“This is surreal,” comments Goer.  “Here we are, sitting in the Dipper, enjoying a little deathcow milk...”  He laughs heartily.

The party resumes their movement.  As they traverse the swamp, a very large, horny-scaled snake assaults them, trying to eat Dahlia, and they dispatch it.  Dahlia identifies it as a dire snake, and the party talks about skinning it but decides that it will take too long.  There is considerable debate over whether to simply leave the body- it seems too big to move easily- or leave someone behind to skin it.  In the end, Dahlia and Me remain behind to skin the snake.  The group plans to rendezvous the next day.  

When the rest of the party resumes its journey through the mud and grass, the sun is showing late afternoon.  Half an hour after they set out, they stumble into a wooden fence- certainly not intended for security, but more as a property marker, or perhaps intended to keep cattle in.

You can, of course, see where this is going.

_*Next Time:*_ Jorgen dispenses justice in Whitewater!  

*Everyone with Knowledge (arcana) failed their check to recognize this creature.  Several players knew, though.


----------



## the Jester

“It’s a fence,” murmurs Colder softly.  He crouches and scans the ground, then frowns.  “Cow patties.”

The group collectively thinks of the swamp death-cow they faced a few hours ago, shortly before they battled the dire snake.  The Dipper is the unfriendliest place any of our heroes have ever been.  Clouds of mosquitoes bring to mind the mosquito swarm they met long ago in the ruins of Castle Laagos.  Strange birds nest in ugly trees.  Green moss hangs everywhere.  Mud seems to grab at their feet when they walk, and all too often they have had to cross ankle-deep water.  The swamp death-cow almost killed Me, shooting him with a beam from its eyes.  They cannot help but wonder, here at the edge of what appears to be a small fenced-in pasture...

“Does anyone want to scout it out?” Dahlia challenges.  “Kyle?”

Kyle gulps.  He can never resist a dare, and this dances dangerously close to being a dare.  He takes a deep breath.  “Wait here,” he urges the others, and slides through the dimness towards the edge of the fence.  

The fence is a simple wooden affair, made from the trunks of small trees and the branches of large ones.  Kyle nervously proceeds along the edge of the fence past a screen of trees- and freezes.  

A swamp death-cow, chewing its cud, is less than 20’ from him.  It lifts its long neck and looks at him.  “Moo,” it says.  Its ugly warthog face is placid.

Kyle swallows through a constricted throat and glances behind it.  His face goes white.  

There is a _herd_ of death-cows behind the one.  Dozens of them.  

One of them trots towards him as he begins to slink away.  Kyle freezes again as it comes up to the edge of the fence.  “Moo,” it says.

“Nice death-cow,” Kyle quivers.  He is terrified- these things can kill with a look! 

The thing looks at him, all right- and more of them are starting to trot over or look in his direction as well.  But no rays shoot out, stopping his heart or turning him to ash or- or whatever other terrible death they inflict.  Kyle reaches out and tremulously pats the closest death-cow on the head.  “Nice death-cow, easy there,” he murmurs, and slowly backs away.

“Mooo,” the death-cow comments. 

Kyle escapes behind the screen of trees and returns to the others.

“What did you see?” demands Goer.  “Was there a death-cow?”

“You could say that,” Kyle replies, taking a deep breath.  He wipes his brow.  “There’s a whole _herd_ of them back there!  There must be dozens of them!”

“Did they see you?” asks Colder.  

The lapidary nods.  “We might be able to sneak past them,” he comments.  “And I think I saw a cabin on the other side of the pasture.”

“You mean someone lives there?”  Dahlia is intrigued.  _If they think I’m a hermit,_ she thinks wryly, _I’m sure this person will give them a whole new perspective!_

“Should be check it out?” wonders Colder.

“It seems like a waste of time,” Goer states.  “And does it help us against the Tydonians?”

“It might,” replies Otis.  “If we could rest here safely, we would have a formidable barrier against attack.”

The party ponders this for only a few minutes and then decides that they ought to find out what they can about this place.  Moving quietly and speaking softly, they move around the fence.  The swamp death-cows watch them with dull interest, a few of them mooing out their observations.  When they reach the cabin, our heroes realize that it is very small in size- in fact, it is sized for a very small person.  And indeed, a small person turns out to dwell within: a swamp gnome.  

***

Meanwhile, Sheriff Jorgen approaches Whitewater.  He is as grim as he has ever been, and it takes most of his self-control to maintain his hold on his anger. 

Only a few days ago, Jorgen and his companions had found his sister Reedia captive in the dungeon in which a succubus had held Cara.  His sister had been held by the succubus only for a few weeks, however, and she had run away five years before.  For almost that entire time, she had been secretly held prisoner and tormented in the home of one of Whitewater’s residents, a man named Dalgen.

_Dalgen,_ thinks Jorgen grimly.  Dalgen is a relative newcomer in town- in fact, he is one of Whitewater’s newest residents, having only lived there a decade.  He had always kept to himself, building a high fence and growing thick gardens to guard his privacy.  In truth, Jorgen doesn’t know much about him.  _Well, I’ll find out soon enough,_ he vows. 

When he reaches Whitewater, he first sets out to find one of his deputies, Valkor Smith (one of Goer’s brothers).  _He fought well when the Tydonian probe came,_ thinks the sheriff.  _He’ll be helpful now, just in case Dalgen resists._

Valkor collected, Jorgen walks through the village to Dalgen’s house.  He knocks and waits for an answer, his face frozen in an expressionless mask.  The door opens after a moment, and Dalgen stands there before the two of them.  “Sheriff Jorgen, what a pleasant surprise,” he says.  “What can I do for you?”

“I’m placing you under arrest for holding my sister,” Jorgen begins.

Dalgen’s hand is a blur, and Jorgen gasps as a dagger sticks in his throat, almost severing his artery.  He can feel the burn of poison in his neck.  

Jorgen is shocked, but not too shocked to reply in kind.  He swings his sword, connecting, but Dalgen twists away from the worst of it.  Valkor draws out his own sword, but only cuts himself when he fumbles it nearly out of his grasp.  Dalgen drifts lithely away from the two of them, another dagger slipping into his hand, and he strikes a ready pose.  

Jorgen draws forth a lasso and begins to twirl it.  Valkor darts forward, and Jorgen throws the lasso at the same moment.  Dalgen leaps through the loop of the rope and slashes at Valkor, but the deputy dodges to the side and stabs Dalgen in the shoulder!  It is a solid blow, knocking the villain to the ground.  He cries out in surprise, rolling to dodge the lasso again and tumbling away.  Almost instantly he regains his feet.

Jorgen lets the lass drop into his left hand only and charges, hacking with his sword.  The anger he feels is plain on his face now.  His blow strikes Dalgen on the arm and disarms him as well.  Dalgen hisses in pain and tumbles away again, into his garden.  He whips out another dagger, but is forced to back away as Valkor engages him in a series of strikes.  He feints and then slices out, cutting Valkor’s throat.  With a bloody gurgle, Goer’s brother falls.  Jorgen gets another stab in at the rogue before him and glances at Valkor’s inert body.  

Dalgen smiles threateningly.  He feints, taking Jorgen off-guard, and stabs him in the kidney.  The sheriff groans, barely standing.  Dalgen exudes confidence, but he is bleeding from several reasonably severe wounds.  Gritting his teeth, Sheriff Jorgen makes one last mighty effort and stabs at Dalgen.  The reprobate twists away, but not quickly enough!  The tip of Jorgen’s sword thrusts into his side, slicing between ribs and tearing through organs.  With a groan Dalgen collapses.

Panting, Jorgen hurries to bind Valkor’s wounds.  The deputy is still alive, though barely.  Then he turns to Dalgen and checks him out.  “He’s still alive,” Jorgen gasps, catching his breath.  “I could let him die- he tormented my sister- but I have a responsibility.”  Grinding his teeth, Jorgen binds the miscreant’s wounds.  “I’m the sheriff,” he tells himself.  “I have to bring him to justice.”  His eyes are hard.  “And besides, I need to question him.”

_*Next Time:*_ Our heroes meet the keeper of the death-cows!  Plus: at last- the secret of the Tydonian advance!!


----------



## the Jester

The swamp gnome is friendly enough.  He rambles on about death cows at length (apparently they are called “catoblepas” in the Gnomish tongue), offering up cheese that he has made from their milk.  Fascinated in spite of themselves, our heroes try the cheese- and find that it is fantastic.  They wonder at how the swamp gnome can handle the catoblepas safely, but the little person just kind of waves the question off without much of an explanation beyond, “They like me.”  The thought of trying to bring some of the beasts back to Whitewater- well, although intriguing, the possibility for disaster is just too great to risk. 

The party remains with the swamp gnome for quite some time, and he mentions two things of interest: there is at least one black dragon within the swamp (which news causes Kyle to nearly wet himself, as he contemplates just how sexy meeting a real dragon would be); and the gnome has seen a halfling in the swamp of late, and even traded with him on several occasions.  Said halfling, according to the swamp gnome, wears a uniform.

“A Tydonian scout?” hypothesizes Dahlia.

The party discusses looking for the halfling, waiting for him to come visit the gnome and a number of other tactics.  In the end, they don’t really decide on anything, but they recognize that there is a serious need for haste in their activities (whatever they might be).  Bemused by his nonchalant and oblivious friendliness, our heroes spend the night with the friendly swamp gnome.  They figure it has to be relatively safe; any dangerous inhabitants of the area must know better than to attempt to attack a herd of death cows!

Indeed, the morning rolls around without any disturbance, and after buying some cheese (and receiving a gift of something not quite milk and not quite cheese that the gnome calls “cottage cheese”), the party continues their downhill journey, the lowing of the death cows receding behind them as they depart.  They are in luck.  Within an hour, they find a lost Tydonian cook who has somehow gotten separated from his folk in the swamp.  Now he is frightened and alone, and he surrenders almost instantly to our heroes.  

Upon questioning the unhappy Tydonian, the party learns a great deal.  “We were told to move immediately away from the area, and not to stop on pain of death,” he recounts, speaking in the tongue of his people (which several of our heroes understand).  “There were thousands of soldiers all around us, but we moved through the arch and then- then we were here!  There were just a few of our people in the area- about a dozen- and not all of them even looked like soldiers.  There were a few people there.   I don’t know who they were, but they weren’t in uniforms.  A man, a woman and a halfling.  We were marched away immediately and told not to stop until we had reached a certain distance, as our sergeants would inform us.  I... I dropped behind for a few moments to relieve myself, and- and I lost my unit, and now I’m lost...”  He stops helplessly.  “Please, do you have any food?”

Kyle tosses him some rations.  “Now you are our prithoner,” declares Sir Cedric.

The man is helpless.  Our heroes leave him behind after questioning him as best they can, seeing no threat in him.  After all, he is only a cook; he is not even a soldier!  If they can, they will retrieve him on their way out and take him back as a prisoner of war.  If they cannot... well, good luck to him.

***

The party finds the circle after traveling for six hours in the swamp.  The area has been roughly walled off by hedgerows; a lowered area has become a stagnant, stinking pond.  The circle itself is on a roughly cleared area that is covered in mud and scum.  The trees within the circle have been cleared with the exception of one massive willow.  Around the base of the tree, an area about 20’ in radius has been built up with dirt to provide for a dry hump for the collection of tents near the tree.  A palisade surrounds the motte.  

The Tydonians’ secret method for movement is, at last, revealed!

Some kind of archway is in their clearing as well, and it appears to be the centerpiece of the encampment.  It is painfully obvious that this is what our heroes must deal with to end the Tydonian incursion!

The party skirmishes with the Tydonians, drawing a few of them out and leading them away from the Tydonian camp.  A night-time battle ensues that runs far longer than most.*  Our heroes at last manage to overcome their foes, but the enemy is remarkably tough.  “These are elite troops,” Otis muses after the dust settles.  

“Bah!” Sir Cedric snorts.  “By the power of my pinky finger, they cannot withthtand uth!”

“All right,” Goer says, “We’ve weakened them, now let’s get back there and take out the rest of them!”

_*Next Time:*_ The battle for the archway!


*14 rounds.  Entitled “The Battle of Miss” in the notes.  From Goer’s turn on round 9 to Dahlia’s turn on round 14, there were 4 hits and 24 misses!


----------



## the Jester

Our heroes move quietly into position near the archway that the Tydonians are using to move their troops into Kamenda.  _There are only a few guards,_ notes Dahlia.  _Why?  Why don’t they have hundreds of troops guarding it now?  That cook we found said there were thousands on the other side- why not move more of them here?  There must be a reason... but what?_

From beneath the great willow tree’s drooping branches, sounds drift out.  The Tydonians are joking amongst themselves, laughing and talking like all soldiers do when not expecting trouble.  _They aren’t too concerned about their friends,_ thinks the hermit.  _They must be confident in themselves._

Me begins creeping forward quietly, a feral grin on his face.  The few sounds he does make are masked by the combination of swamp insects buzzing, the burbling and dripping of water and the laughter of the Tydonians themselves.  The rest of the party slinks after him, staying low to the ground, attempting to be as stealthy as possible.  At first all is well, and our heroes close the distance.  They are almost at the outer perimeter of the camp when there is a cry from the willow.  And then, almost instantly, the battle is joined!  Arrows whiz out from beneath the concealment of the leaves, and a strange chanting fills the air.

“They have a wizard!” screams Kyle, naked fear in his voice.  Then he gives an incoherent cry as he feels magic stealing over his body, _slowing_ him.  He looks at Goer, who is suddenly moving as if he was walking through water and not air, and groans.  The apprentice wizard begins falling (slowly) back.  “Master, help!” he wails.

At the front, though, Me puts on a burst of speed, attempting to tumble past a pair of the Tydonians.  They are skilled enough to land darting blows on him, however!*  He growls like a bear, but he’s focused on the wizard.  He ignores the Tydonians that slice and stab at him, viewing them only as obstacles attempting to prevent him from taking out his chosen target, and suddenly he has managed to get right in front of the spellcaster.  A single mighty blow from the barbarian scout cleaves the head off the shoulders of the wizard!  The decapitated corpse collapses to the ground, but Me is already frantically defending himself as the Tydonian warriors leap to the attack, jabbering angrily in their tongue.  He no longer views the wizards’ guards as mere obstacles, for he is suddenly fighting for his life!

A crack of lightning descends from the sky, however, damaging one of Me’s assailants.  From a short distance away, Dahlia watches and smiles grimly.  She will do her part; the elements are at her command!  Meanwhile, the Tydonian archers, cleverly stationed on perches in the tree, launch a volley of arrows.  One pierces Sir Cedric’s epaulet, wounding him.  He yells, “By the power of my pinky finger!!” and blunders forward, swiftly cutting one of the archers down with a few blows of his sword.  

Colder fires his crossbow over and over to support his friends.  Most of his shots miss, and he growls in frustration as he winds the crank back and slips another quarrel home.  Finally, one of his shots lands true, sticking a Tydonian champion in the leg.  

In the front of the action, Me aims a tremendous backhand slash at one of his attackers.  There is a spray of crimson and the man’s body spins back and to the ground.  Then Me tumbles away, with more success than he had when he initially tumbled into the fray.  Goer, _slowed_ by the wizard, ponderously moves to do battle with one of the enemy.  Even though his blows move less swiftly than they should, the man finds himself pressed back, then wounded, and then finally cut to the bone and bleeding to death.  He collapses and Goer turns to charge the next closest enemy.

From their perches, the archers have identified Dahlia as the source of the lightning.  They start firing at her.  She begins moving towards them, presenting the most difficult target she can by dashing back and forth, and draws her scimitar.  One of the Tydonian swordsmen charges at her, and they begin dueling.  She squawks at the strength in her foe’s arm, and Sir Cedric, having overcome his opponent, moves to aid her.

That is when the hidden halfling strikes, flanking Cedric and stabbing him in the back.  “Aargh!” the knight cries in pain.  “Mithcreant!  I thall thtrike you down!!”  He swings around to face the halfling who, until now, no-one had seen.  But then the Tydonian champion facing Dahlia aims a grim blow at the wounded Cedric, hoping to take him out of the fight, and deals him another wound.  Sir Cedric grunts angrily and turns back to him, blood covering his torso.  With a mighty blow he finishes the Tydonian.  Then Me tumbles up and, in another of his spectacular displays of puissance, hews open the halfling’s chest in but a single blow!  A great gout of crimson washes over him and stains the marsh grasses around.

Dahlia blasts one of the archers in the tree with one of her called lightning blasts, and he screams, falls out of the tree and breaks his neck.**  Then there is only one archer left.  He drops from the tree, hoping to flee, but both Sir Cedric and Me are close enough to swing on him.  Only the greatest luck in the world could save him from these two mighty (albeit badly wounded) warriors.  

He does not have it. 

For a few moments our heroes remain on guard, looking for other threats.  None of the enemy survived; none fled successfully.  They have done it!  They have secured the archway!  As the night insects of the swamp begin to congregate to feast on spilled blood and hewn flesh, the party slowly relaxes.

And so they turn their attention to it.  The archway itself is big enough for three men to march through abreast.  It appears to be very old, shaped of stone.  It is worn smooth, with no signs of decoration or ornamentation.  “We mutht dethtroy it,” declares Sir Cedric.

Me smiles and flexes. 

***

Flee!

It’s very late by the time Me is done.  The party’s attack took place deep in the night, of course.  The party has no doubt that, at some point, someone will notice that the portal has been destroyed and its guards dealt with.  They have no intention of sticking around to see what happens then.  The Tydonians are- should be- cut off.  Now the party’s goal is to report the news.  Then, with luck, the invading army will either withdraw or be lured into a costly siege.

_We’ve done it!_ Goer thinks with a thrill.  _We’ve as good as beaten them!_

The party moves about an hour away from the Tydonian site after destroying the altar.  Dahlia turns into a mangrove tree, and the others camp beneath her roots.  The swamp buzzes with mosquitoes and the strange sounds of frogs and night-birds haunt our heroes’ exhausted sleep. 

They set watches, of course, and hear distant shouts in the dark- but far enough behind them that they can rest, never coming close enough for them to feel in imminent danger.  After several hours of fitful sleep, the party moves on.  Soon, as the morning brightens, they break out of the dipper and onto the plains, and then it’s just a matter of moving as quickly as they can to get back to Kamenda City.  The Tydonian forces, across the river, appear to be beginning to fall back.

Our heroes grin.  Word must have reached the main Tydonian force.  They really did do it!  They have broken the back of the invasion!

Colder offers to run ahead with news of their victory, but wiser heads prevail and he agrees to simply ride with the others.  Were he to run into a Tydonian patrol, he could be captured.  “They may not know they don’t have any reinforcements coming,” Otis says, “but if they torture you they could find out.”

But our heroes return to Kamenda City unmolested.  They report in to Sir Martin, Sir Gygax and the baron, who grin at them upon hearing their report.  

“Well done!” declares Sir Martin.  “Now, you all look exhausted.  You should get something to eat and some rest.”  Grimly, he adds, “And we’ll be harassing the Tydonians while you do it.”

Our heroes _are_ exhausted.  They can’t help but agree to his suggestion.  A meal, some heavy drinking (especially for Sir Cedric) and some rest are in order.

Sweet sweet sleep.

_*Next Time:*_ Rewards!  A baby!  And don’t we have a New Year’s Eve appointment with a black magic cult?  


*We use the countertumbling option from _Sword & Fist_- if you have ranks in Tumble, you may make an opposed roll against someone’s tumble check to get past (or through) your square without taking an AoO.  If you succeed, you get your attack of opportunity after all.

**The _call lightning_ bolt knocked him below 0 (knocking him out).  The falling damage finished him off.


----------



## the Jester

Who would have thought our heroes could rise so high?  Certainly, none of them ever anticipated this ceremony in the baron’s own hall, and certainly none of them ever expected to be so greatly rewarded for their efforts.  None of them ever thought, until the last few days, that their efforts could be so pivotal in something so important, so _large_, as a war.

But the war is over, now; the Tydonian forces are withdrawing so quickly that it is nearly a rout.  They have obviously learned that the archway is lost to them.  The archway presumably led from Tydon to the heart of the Dipper in southern Kamenda, though nobody is positive about that (since nobody actually went through the archway), and the Tydonian forces used it to bring their reinforcements in from an unlikely angle.  Now the archway lies shattered in the marsh, with its defenders’ corpses strewn about in the muck.  Our heroes have slain them and destroyed the archway.  The Tydonian forces are not sticking around to feel the full wrath of Kamenda’s forces when their food runs low.  They have very little in the way of a supply train (as they had counted on the portal to allow easy transportation of food and materiel), and no secured route of escape.  The journey home for them will be dangerous, full of harassment, arrows and sling stones.  

But all that is in a distant portion of our heroes’ minds.  Now they are focused on one thing: the ceremony that is bestowing upon them the rewards that they have earned.

Beneath Baron Rusk’s grand hall, our heroes stand proudly.  They are bathed, brushed and primped.  They wear clean clothing for the first time in a week or more.  They are perfumed and combed.  The proper amount of makeup has been applied.  Their weapons are polished, their armor oiled and buffed.  A large audience of knights, courtiers and peasants watches, beaming at our heroes.  

Smiling at them, Sir Martin intones, “You have done great service to the Barony of Kamenda.  You have done great service to Baron Rusk.  And you have done great service for the Kamendan people.  Your aid has been pivotal: without you, our enemies would still have a direct path to the heart of Kamenda.”  He beams at them.  “I am very proud of you, and more than pleased to present you with suitable rewards.”

Pages step forward, pinning on the breast of each of our heroes a medal celebrating their valor.  Sir Martin announces, “You have all earned this medal.  You have fought hard and well, traveled through dangerous areas to overcome our adversaries, and risked your lives to oppose the Tydonian scum who would have destroyed us.”  Applause wells up around the party from the courtiers.

“Furthermore,” Sir Martin continues formally, “I hereby announce that, by the will of Baron Rusk himself, those of you who are not already gentrified are hereby raised to the gentry, entitling you to own land for yourself, as well as for your liege.”

Our heroes gasp, save for Sir Cedric, who is already a noble.  The right to own land sets them fundamentally apart from their previous lives!  No longer are they of the peasantry, bound to their lord and their land.  Now they can own a plot of their own, or perhaps even more!  Dahlia wonders if this might formalize her ownership of the ruined Castle Laagos- a boon she had asked of Sir Martin previously.  Baron Rusk beams at them from his baronial chair, a great seat of oak filigreed with silver and inlaid with precious stones.  He seems excited and full of joy, as well he should be: had things gone too much worse, he would likely be a head on a pike now.  He nods slightly to Dahlia, and her pulse quickens.  She finds herself more than pleased when Sir Martin goes on in ceremonial tones, “I hereby bequeath upon Dahlia ownership of the Castle Laagos.  With this,” he warns, “goes a great responsibility.  She must defend her land and her liege with all her might- not that she has not done so already.”

Dahlia grins, her normal reserve and discomfit and being around so many people at once breaking down before the swell of gratification that rises from her chest.

Sir Martin smiles again.  “Jorgen Boatwright, step forward.”

The Sheriff of Whitewater does so, looking uncertain but proud.

Sir Martin draws his sword.  “Kneel,” he commands.  Jorgen’s eyes widen as he obeys, unable to speak.  He recognizes the great honor about to be bestowed upon him.  “I dub thee Sir Jorgen,” he declares, smacking the flat of his blade onto Jorgen’s shoulders and head.  Jorgen’s head swims.  He has just been knighted!  He never dreamed it was possible, and yet... there it is!

“Fwaigo Smith, step forward.”

Goer blushes at the use of his proper name, but he bites his lip and steps forward.  At Sir Martin’s bidding, he kneels.  He is in shock as the liege lord he has served his entire life knights him.  _I’m not a squire anymore,_ he realizes with shock.  _I’m a knight, now.  Sir Fwaigo.  A knight..._  He shakes his head.  _I won’t be able to go by Goer anymore, except amongst my friends.  But I’m a knight!_

Colder is called up next.  When he steps back in line with the other members of the party, he has become Sir Colder.  His face is as shocked and awed as those of the other two.  Then an odd thing happens, as Sir Martin speaks up next, calling an unfamiliar name.

“Percival, step forward.”

_Percival?  Who’s that?_ wonders Kyle.  And Me steps forward.  The others realize with a shock that the fellow that they have called “Me” for the last week or more has a different name.  Me isn’t his name: he just isn’t able to pronounce his own name!  (Our heroes have noted that Me seems to be limited to words of two syllables or less.)  But now they know his _real_ name: Percival.  And suddenly, Percival is not enough: he is _Sir_ Percival, and surely he has earned his title.  Me- Percival- is a knight now.

“Sir Percival and Sir Colder,” Sir Martin continues, “you are both hereby promoted to the rank of Knight-Captain in the forces of the barony.  Do not shirk your responsibilities, nor abuse your privileges.”  The two of them nod, overwhelmed at the honors bestowed upon them.

“Finally,” Sir Martin says, looking at his son, “with the disgrace of Sir Harth, I will be joining the baron’s council.  This means I must needs be absent from Whitewater for extended periods of time.”  His tone becomes suddenly less formal.  “I am passing the day to day administration of our land to you, son.  I am naming you Lord of Whitewater.”

“What!” exclaims Sir Cedric, suddenly paying close attention.  He is quite intoxicated, and cannot believe his ears.  “But father, what of my brother?”*

“You will have an heir,” Sir Martin states firmly.  Left unsaid is the fear that Cedric’s older brother will not.  “Beyond that, your achievements are incredible, and you deserve a commensurate reward.”

Sir Cedric can’t seem to gather his (drunken) thoughts at first.  After gaping for a moment, he protests, but Sir Martin is not to be swayed.  He tells his son, “You must protect Whitewater as best you can.  You yourself have seen the kind of dangers that surround the town.”

“But what of my adventureth?  May I thtill go on thothe?” Cedric asks.

“You must protect Whitewater, son.  If you leave, you must appoint a caretaker seneschal to watch over our land.”

“Oh, a thenethal.  I thee,” Sir Cedric nods.  His brow furrows in concentration and he goes silent, pondering his father’s words.

Baron Rusk stands up.  “Congratulations, all of you- and thank you.”  He grins at our heroes and squeaks, “Thanks in no small part to you, we’ve beaten the damn Tydonians back!”  

Cheering erupts from the audience at the baron’s words, and our heroes and heroines grin at each other.  They’ve done it!  They have defended their baron and their homeland!

And for months, all is well.

***

The wizard who had been helping the Tydonians guard the arch had a book- a very interesting one at that.  Written in Elven, it was called _the Book of Forbidden Knowledge._  It was heavily notated in Tydonian.  Together, Kyle and Otis poured through it, translating the interesting bits for the others.

_...our folk looked far away, across the gulfes of space and tyme, through vast distances to dimensions far and far away.  Through the centuries our diviners ferreted out more and more of the secrets outside reality.  It would be our salvation in the end.  Our wizards developed more and more mighty magicks, delved deeper and deeper into lore unknown by mortals.  Compacts with far beings allowed us a greater and greater vision of the true nature of reality..._  To the side in Tydonian: *Taught magic to them?  How long ago?*  Above it, the notation *Far x2* in the same Tydonian hand.  To the other side, *Elves = secret of immortality?  Never shared!*

_...tensions built over the centuries as the other nations ceased cleaving closely to the elf-ways. The human wizards, fearing the things we had learned, began attempting to cast down our works.  The greatest assembilage of magical power in twenty thousand years struck out at us, and soon all the terrible disasters began.  The Invisible Playgue was first, and it led directly to the War of Wishes and then the Transvalent Storm.  After that the conflict only worsened until the very continents and islands began to be broken and melted down.  Though victorey was possible, it would not come without a terrible price- one too terrible to pay..._

To the side, in Tydonian: *Power must be centralized to avoid mistakes like this.  *Only us**

_...they decided to depart.  Some few of use would not go; we elected to remain behind, but most decided to wend their way through the Gates of Glass and Fire when the comet blazed overhead.  Those of us unsure of the wisdom of this policy begged them to leave weapons and items of power behind against the need of their return some day, but whether they did or not I cannot say..._

On the left of this passage: *”Ancient hubris of Elder Elves?” (from book of Elven history)?  On the right: How many stayed?  Hidden enclaves?

...when the black moon rose into the sky, as it does every seven years on New Year’s Even, they chanted the spell and performed the sacryfice.  The Sword of Sacryfice was necessary, and the life’s blood of an elf; a terrible price, but those departing all drew lots.  With the proper numerological roles filled, the ritual proceeded perfectly.  The sacryfice’s blood opened the gate at the Tower of Inverness and our people left our plane...

Sword of Sacryfice = Glass Blade?  Glassteel?  Or something else?

Another notation in the margin: Subtitute?  Ghost Tower?  Inverness = Battle Rise?

The book becomes more disturbing near the end.  Very much so indeed.

...a few of them have come back, but they’ve changed.  The touch of things material can burn them, and sometymes they are born deformed and translucent.  I fear that our people have changed beyond recognition...


...I am afraid.  Most of the others that stayed behind are gone, missing or vanished; and the humans in this area, a piece of a kingdom calling itself Pellinsia, have a wizard on their side, one that they keep in a box.  A weasel decorates it.  I pray I am wrong, but I suspect it may be Hologrim...


...I must put these writings away for the last tyme.  I dare not return here.  My former people, elves no longer, seek me from the shadows and from within strange anghles.  I must flee, forever.  This will be the final entry in this tome, which I have upon reflection determined to call the Book of Forbidden Knowledge, for never again must the powers of the elves be called forth.  Entire continents were sunken beneath the waves by our arrogance.  Our magical playgues ended forever hundreds of species.  Worst of all is what happened to my folk...

Kyle lets out a low whistle and closes the book.  He shivers.  

***

Sir Cedric and Cara have a baby on 11/2/272 A.F.  

The birth is hard, but not too hard, and Dahlia stands ready to help.  She is not necessary, however; Ovina, Whitewater’s priestess, is enough help for this. 

Dahlia Shikexil is her name.  Shikexil... sometimes Sir Cedric wonders if Otis did the right thing in turning the elf over to the Keepers of the Cerulean Sign.  Jorgen- no, Sir Jorgen- occasionally thinks on the matter of the elf and curses his luck.  He actually ran into the Keepers of the Cerulean Sign while heading back to Kamenda City after capturing Dalgen, the villain who had kept Jorgen’s sister prisoner in his basement for years.  It is quite possible that the Keepers had held the elf in their wagons when the sheriff encountered them.  Shikexil might have been only yards away, for all he knows.  (And indeed, to add insult to injury, the elf had been only yards away in a wagon.)  But at the time, Jorgen had had every reason to believe that Kyle still had the limbless elf.  He curses aloud each time he replays that meeting, that missed opportunity.  His face twists in a frown when he wonders what the Keepers have done with the elf.  “Killed him, perhaps,” Jorgen mutters to himself, and then sighs. 

As the new year comes closer and closer, soon only a month away, the party assembles again.  

“New year’s eve at the ghost tower,” states Jorgen.  “We can take out the rest of the black magic cult that Sir Harth was involved with.”

“If they go,” points out Kyle.  “We’ve interfered with them quite a bit.  Who knows whether they will still go to the tower?  What if we’ve scared them off?”

“Not likely,” snorts Sir Colder.

“I believe we will see them there,” states Otis.

“We should try to get there about a week early, or at least a few days,” opines Goer- er, Sir Fwaigo.  “They probably aren’t going to wait for the last minute.”

“That’th a very good idea!”  Sir Cedric takes a deep drink from his cup.

“I have to agree,” nods Dahlia.  “Besides, if they’re already there, we might need a little time to take care of them.  If we get there at the last minute, we might find that we’re too late- we can’t stop them in time.”  Beneath her breath, she mumbles, “A nice place like that in the middle of nowhere, they should leave it for the hermits.  One of use could fix it up nice, I bet.”

“It’th thettled, then!” declares Sir Cedric.  “We thall leave in time to arrive about a week before the end of the year!  And by the power of my pinky finger, we thall finith off these black thorthererth onthe and for all!!”

And, late in the year, our heroes mount up and leave sleepy Whitewater for the Rise of Battle and to the Ghost Tower atop it.

Next Time: The Ghost Tower!


*Sir Cedric has an older brother, whom we have not yet seen in game but we have talked about.  This brother is a ‘saved slot’ for a pc to take at some point in this campaign (there are only so many available ‘slots’ for pcs in Whitewater, though there are also some pcs not from Whitewater.  Er, I guess there have been two- Cur Sed Seed and Colder.  Anyway, Cedric and his father (Sir Martin) had a conversation once that implied Cedric’s brother is unable (or unwilling) to have children.*


----------



## the Jester

It is just shy of two weeks before the new year when our heroes arrive at the Rise of Battle.  It is south and east of the Dipper by a few miles, the site of several famous battles from the glorious past when the Barony of Kamenda was a part of the Kingdom of Pellinsia, before Pellinsia fragmented and fell apart.  Now the tower that once proudly watched over the surrounding land is a half-collapsed ruined shell.  Weather, siege and monsters having taken their toll on the place; time has not been kind to the Ghost Tower of the land once called Inverness. 

As they approach, everyone keeps a wary eye out.  Who knows whether the cult they are seeking might have someone here already, keeping a lookout!  But there is no evidence of recent trespass- no tracks, no old camps, no smoke coming off of a cook fire.  As the party gets closer they can see that the upper levels of the tower are gone, and broken stones and chunks of shattered masonry lie about the surrounding space.  Clumps of weeds grow here and there, and a single withered oak tree hunches about thirty yards from the tower’s wreck.

There is a walled courtyard surrounding the square tower.  As our heroes approach it, they note that there are many holes in the wall, and in places it looks like they could walk through.  A rusted portcullis stands shut, but it is damaged and bent and looks easy to pass.  Passage into the courtyard is easy, and when they enter the group sees large pile of rubble along the most-ruined edge of the wall that edges up almost to the tower itself.  The tower was once whitewashed, but sun, rain and dirt have obfuscated almost all evidence of this.  It is now obvious that only the ground floor has truly survived; pieces of the second floor still exist, but they appear to be buried in the rubble of the higher levels.

“Well,” says Sir Colder, “let’s move in and check it out.”

Dahlia agrees.  “We should make sure it’s clear before we set up our ambush for the cult.”

The party begins moving towards the ruined tower, but suddenly a noise from the rubble pile catches their attention.  Something growls, sounding almost like a big cat.  There is the sound of rocks shifting and pebbles bouncing down the pile of rubble; and then a terrifying and unnatural _thing_ creeps into view atop the mound.

For a moment, our heroes can only gape.  It is hideous. 

It has the body of a lion.  Great bat-wings flex, and a tail bristling with spikes lashes the air behind it.  It growls again, a weird mix of cat-yowl and man-sound, and it shakes its head.  As it does so, its most terrible feature becomes clear: _it has the head of a man._  Then, with a bristling growl, the monstrosity launches itself into the air, its wings beating powerfully as it moves above the party.

Our heroes scatter, some seeking cover, some drawing bows.  Otis gets a good angle and cackles wildly as he casts a _fireball_ into the sky!  The blast of flames roars around the monster, sizzling and burning its flesh.  The creature gives another roar, this one full of pain and outrage.  Then its tail snaps down, and a volley of spikes zings at Otis and Kyle!  Each of them cries out in pain as long black spikes sink into their flesh.  Kyle is nearly rendered unconscious, and immediately turns to flee to a safer location.*

“My apprentice!” cries Otis, and launches a volley of _magic missiles_ back at the monster.  Bolts of force zip back up at the creature, blasting three small wounds into it.  Arrows, sling stones and crossbow bolts fly at the thing as our heroes rally, but they seem to be having a difficult time connecting...

The monster again screams in rage, and its tail snaps down again violently, releasing a barrage of spikes.  Otis staggers back as one hits him, another, another.  The others miss, as if by the intervention of fate.**  Unfortunately for the creature, it flexes its tail so hard in doing so that it breaks it!***  Gritting his teeth, dizzy with pain, the wizard staggers away and flees towards Sir Cedric, who stands ready for the monster’s approach with his sword.  

But it is still circling out of range.  Arrows keep missing, until finally Colder lands a shaft in the things wing.  Its flight becomes slightly erratic.  Both Otis and Kyle launch more _magic missiles_ at it.  

“Thith varlet ith not coming any clother,” complains Sir Cedric.  He drops his sword and draws out his bow, fits an arrow to the string, and fires true.  His arrow strikes it in the eye, and it gives a loud, outraged bellow before plummeting to the ground.  His arrow does not kill it- but the fall does.  A cheer erupts from the rest of the party, albeit a rather ragged one in the cases of Kyle and Otis.

“Well done, my Lord!” cries Sir Colder.

The party checks out the rubble nest, where they find a few scraps of bone and some silver coins.  Then they return their attentions to the tower itself.  Entering the place, they find that the remaining floor is choked with rubble, and that there are few features remaining.  However, each corner of the tower (for it is a square tower) holds a stairwell leading downwards.  

“Let uth thtart at the thouthwetht,” suggests Sir Cedric.

“Stairs,” Me- that is, Sir Percival- expresses.  He smiles dumbly, pointing.

“Yeth, of courthe,” Sir Cedric replies, taking a nip off the flask that Sir Fwaigo hands over to him.  The party begins their descent.

Down they go, finding a passage that twists and turns beneath the earth for a couple of dozen feet before ending in a door.  Sir Percival throws open the door and steps through out of sight of his friends.  From beyond the threshold he yells, “Big thing, CRUSH!”

Even as our heroes surge forward into the room to help Sir Percival, the ‘big thing’- whatever it is- disappears.  They catch just a glimpse of something fading into the air as they spill into the chamber.  Sir Percival cries out in rage and strikes where it just was, and to his glee his hits!  Something grunts, then chuckles.  Then the ‘big thing’- some kind of 12’-tall, blue-skinned humanoid with little horns- appears out of nowhere as a _cone of cold_ slaps over the party!  

*Kyle is 6th level and has 13 hp at full.

**i.e. Otis burned Wyrd here.  A Wyrd is kind of like a fate point in my game, though it also has other effects.  

***Pretty bad fumble on one spike.


----------



## the Jester

Me- Sir Percival- roars in anger.  The air is suddenly deadly cold.  Frost forms on our heroes, who groan in pain as the _cone of cold_ blasts over them.  Only Kyle manages to tumble out of the way in time to evade the deadly cold.  Gulping in terror, he casts _mage armor_ as the thing’s eyes flick momentarily in his direction.

It is large, broad-shouldered, with bright blue skin and little horns.  It wears a cruel demeanor across a broad, flat face.  It wears fancy, exotic-looking silk garments.  It laughs at Kyle, and then at the rest of our shivering heroes.  With a single _cone of cold_, it just brought most of them nearly to their knees.

But not quite all of them.  

Me roars again and paws the floor with one foot, as if he were a bull.  He charges the monster and swings with all his might- and connects!  His blow cuts into it with incredible force.  Bones shatter as flesh and muscle are torn apart.  The blue giant gives a surprised yell and drops to the ground, its chest hacked open!

But-

“Its wounds- they’re healing!” cries Sir Colder.  

“Ready torcheth and oil!” orders Sir Cedric. 

Sir Jorgen and Sir Fwaigo do so, and Otis tries an _acid splash_ directly to the face, dropping it in the monster’s mouth and melting its teeth!*  Soon the party is covering the monster in oil and burning it, and soon after that the creature stops regenerating.  

“Whew!” declares Kyle.  “That was a close one!  That guy had magical powers the likes of which I’ve never seen before.”  He glances at his master, Otis.

The wizard cocks an eyebrow.  “I believe that this creature was an ogre mage,” he states.  “I have heard of such things, but I thought they were only legends.”

“Look here,” calls Sir Cedric.  “A door, with thtrange markingth upon it.”

The party crowds around.  Indeed, a door made of metal is just off of the ogre mage’s chamber.  Its face has a strange inset area.  The area is shaped like the perimeter of a square, but with round, almost tower-like areas at each corner.

Dahlia and Goer- er, Sir Fwaigo- look at each other.  “That piece of metal,” she exclaims.  They had found an odd, flattened piece of metal with a rounded end up above, in the manticore’s nest.  Not being sure just what to make of it, they had put it away until they had more of an idea.  Now they pull it forth and find that it is the right size to fill up one side of the inset area, with the rounded end fitting into one of the corners. 

“There must be more of them,” Sir Jorgen thinks aloud.  

“Perhaps the other stairways?” suggests Sir Colder.  

The party troops back up the stairs, preparing to examine the other stairs in the other corners of the courtyard.  As they ascend, Kyle says, “We should be careful.  Didn’t we hear that there were two-” 

As they emerge in the shattered courtyard of the tower, they fall under instant, furious assault by a second manticore- the mate of the first!  She had been out hunting, and now she is out for revenge!  Tail spikes cut through the air, and Sir Cedric’s shield deflects a few of them.  But then his sword hand takes a hit- and _his pinky breaks._

“Crikey!” cries Kyle.

Sir Cedric screams out in pain and horror, “MY PINKY FINGER!”

Otis fades into _invisibility_ as the beast howls and snarls.  It springs for him, its nostrils dilating, and Otis shrieks as it rakes him with its claws.  Still _invisible,_ he scrambles to get away from it.  

Meanwhile, however, Sir Fwaigo has drawn forth his longspear, and he and Sir Percival- who _nobody_ can stop thinking of as simple Me- proceed to harry the manticore from either side.  It tears back at them, enraged at their temerity.  Sir Cedric, recovering from his momentary loss of morale, angrily smites it at the ankle, hamstringing the beast.  He shouts something about his pinky incoherently at the monster.  

Then, from behind the cover of some rubble, Otis casts a volley of three _magic missiles_ at the manticore, and she gives a last frustrated yowl and then falls dead before our heroes.  

“After that, I don’t think I can go on without resting,” Otis gasps, wincing at his wounds.  Dahlia and Sir Cedric move to bind the wounds of the others as best they can, though after the ogre mage they are essentially out of healing magic.  Even so, they stop the bleeding and splash some whiskey on the cuts (as well as a little down Cedric’s gullet).  

Then the party moves back outside of the ruin to camp.  They ensure that they move off a little ways so that they won’t be seen easily by, say, any black magic cultists heading towards a dark ritual on New Year’s Eve.  While they are camped, Otis muses, “I wonder if that door is the Gate of Fire.”

The others chew this over for a while.  The door had nothing to especially indicate that it was fiery in nature, but it certainly wasn’t an average door.  Reluctantly, our heroes agree that Otis might have something there.  It’s far from a sure thing- but the possibility cannot be discounted.  

Watches are set, and our heroes lay down to rest.

_*Next Time:*_ Our heroes explore the rest of the stairways!  Will they find the hypothetical other three keys?  Will they find any black magic cultists, or will any find them?  And how long until the inevitable return of Sir Harth?? 

*Crit!


----------



## the Jester

The ruins of the ghost tower cast strange, crazed shadows all around our heroes when they awaken early the day after their confrontation with the second manticore.  A chill breeze washes over them; clouds loom above, and sleet begins to spit down on them as they prepare for their forthcoming explorations of the next passage down into the dungeons below the ruined tower.  Winter has swept its mantle across the land.  Icy puddles melt as the day warms up, but refreeze by dusk.  The flat piece of metal with a rounded end that our heroes had found in the lair of the first manticore looks as though it would fit directly into one side of the strange depression on the oddly-marked door below the south-eastern stairway.  The party has surmised that there must be three more pieces like it, to complete the square formed by the depression in the door.  Thus it is that they troop down the next stairs, in the southwest of the ruined courtyard.  The southwestern passage leads to a set of crumbling, dusty hallways.  At first there is nothing but an empty hallway that doubles back on itself, but abruptly it opens into a chamber bearing the markings of an ancient bedroom whose furnishings have poorly withstood the ravages of time.

The party cautiously enters the chamber and begins to search, hoping to turn up another of the odd keys.  “I wonder when the cultists will arrive,” Kyle mutters to himself thoughtfully.  

As the party searches, the air seems to waver before them.  A spectral form materializes!  Dahlia blanches, remembering their previous encounter with a spirit in the haunted house in Kamenda City.  A small bloodstain over the apparition is obvious.  The figure is translucent and its image wavers and shifts.  Clearly this is indeed some kind of ghost.

However, before our heroes can respond to its sudden appearance, the ghostly figure gives them a hard look, and then does a double take.  In a wispy, ethereal voice, it states, _“You are not who I expected.”_

“Um, who _were_ you-” Kyle begins speaking, but the ghost ignores him.

_“But you have the key.”_ 

With a tremulous sigh, the ghost fades from view.  

Puzzled but pleased not to have to fight such a terrible creature, our heroes make a quick search of the chamber and easily uncover another flat length of metal with the same rounded edge.  Examining the two of them together, the party cannot tell them apart: they seem identical.

“I’ll bet there are two more of those things,” Kyle remarks.

“Obviously,” Otis nods.  He gazes at them thoughtfully.  

“They must be the key to that strange door,” suggests Goer.  Er, I mean Sir Fwaigo.

“The Gate of Fire,” Otis opines.

“Maybe.  We don’t know that for certain,” Kyle cautions.

“Should we open it at all?” wonders Sir Jorgen.  “Maybe we can destroy the tower instead.”

“But would that help?”  Dahlia sighs.  “The door is _beneath_ the tower.” 

“What if we could block the entrance to it?” suggests Otis.  “The rubble might be enough to slow the black magic cult down enough that they can’t do their ritual at the proper time.”

“Which would really slow them down a year.”  Sir Fwaigo smiles.

“If it has to be on New Year’s Eve for their ritual to work,” Kyle warns.  “Remember, we aren’t totally sure about that.”

“Bah!” Sir Cedric snorts.  “It ith altho pothible that they cannot perform the ritual on just any New Year’th Eve; perhapth the thtarth mutht be aligned correctly or thomething.  We jutht don’t know.  Tho, regardleth of whether we can pull down the tower or whatever, I think we thould retrieve the other keyth.”

“Just in case,” nods Sir Fwaigo.  “As my lord says, we can’t take the chance. We don’t know what these bastards are after or what this ritual is really all about, do we?”

“Not really,” replies Kyle.

“We know enough!” declares Otis.  “We know they’re trying to open a gateway to Hell!”

“We do?” asks Sir Cedric.

“It’s called the Gate of Fire,” Otis sighs.  “What else could it be?”

The discussion goes on interminably for a time, but finally the party decides that they don’t really have a way to check any of their speculation other than continuing with their plan to gather the keys.  Whether they will open the mysterious door or block the passages remains in question, however, and Dahlia points out that it is quite possible that simply collecting the keys could foil the enemy.  

Thus it is that they descend the next staircase, and soon they find themselves in an odd chamber.  A number of goblins stand motionless and unresponsive in the room, as if frozen.  Otis _fireballs_ them without a second thought, but to the party’s surprise they are unmarked.  However, they don’t move at all.  Hesitantly, our heroes enter the chamber; a quick search turns up the third key.

“All too easy,” snorts Otis in disdain, and our heroes ascend back to the top of the ruined courtyard.  Icy rain slathers down on them, but it is letting up already.  The sky is grey; the sun hides behind the dark clouds. 

Beneath the final staircase, the weather’s fine.

_*Next Time:*_ A puzzling chamber, the final key and a fiendish trap!


----------



## the Jester

Beneath the Ghost Tower of Inverness, our heroes come upon a strange room.  The floor is laid out in a grid, with squares of many different colors.  At the opposite end of the room is a statue of a kingly-looking fellow with his hand outstretched.  Our heroes look uneasily at the area for a few moments; Kyle, especially, looks for obvious traps.  But his nervousness makes him careless.  “I don’t see anything,” he gulps.

Sir Colder takes a single, hesitant step forward onto the corner of the grid.  Nothing happens.  He glances at his companions.  They seem to be waiting with bated breath.  Sir Fwaigo makes an impatient “go ahead” kind of gesticulation.  With a shrug, Colder does so, taking another step.

_Zap!_

A blast of electricity shoots through him.  He spasms in agony for a moment.  Then it stops.  Gasping, he looks back at his friends again.  “Careful!” he calls.  “There’s some kind of trap after all!”

“What happened?” asks Sir Cedric.

“I tripped some kind of shock or something.  I... I’m not too sure.”  Confused, he looks back at the square behind him, then forward.  “Anyone got any ideas, here?”

Sir Fwaigo takes a running jump and lands with a thump and- no zap.  Pausing for a moment, he takes a step- 

_Zap!_  He dances on the square for a moment as electricity runs through him.

“It mutht have to do with that thtatue,” Sir Cedric splutters.  After a moment’s consideration, he casts _resist electricity_ on himself.  Then he takes a step onto the colored tiles.  Nothing happens.  Slowly, he moves another tile forward; still nothing.

Frowning, Sir Colder takes another step forward.  _Zap!_  “Ouch!” he yelps, then curses.  “What am I doing wrong here??”

“Hold thtill, Thir Colder!” cries Sir Cedric.  “Perhapth I can deactivate it onthe I reach the thtatue.”  He advances on the statue, occasionally feeling a trickle of lightning, but his prayer protects him from the worst of it.  Upon reaching the statue he begins to search it.  After a few moments, he discovers the final key held in its grasp, and manages to pull it free.  

“Let’s see if that changes anything,” Sir Colder grins, and steps forward- 

_Zap!_

“OW GOD DAMMIT!!” Colder curses angrily.  “What am I doing wrong here?!”

***

Back on the surface, our heroes find a medium rain awaiting them.  Still, being underground brings a certain kind of oppressive gloom even a hurricane couldn’t match, so a little rain isn’t so bad.  Plus, it isn’t too cold.

“I wonder what’s behind the door,” Kyle says, rubbing his hands together.  

“Whatever it is, I doubt whether it’s good for us,” Otis responds dourly.

“I’m sure the black magic cult wants whatever is behind there.  Maybe we can go in and get it first.”  Dahlia looks at the others.  

“Why not just collapse the remaining tower sections into the stairwells?” suggests the wizard.  “We could probably make it so tough to dig out that they wouldn’t have time before new year’s eve.  Even if they have a way to open the door, they won’t be able to reach it!”

“I like it,” Sir Colder says.

“My master,” confides Kyle, “is brilliant.”

“Well, what do you think?” Otis presses.  “Collapse it?”

Our heroes stare at each other for a few moments.  They all agree: collapse it. 

It takes three days, and by the time they are done they are dirty, stinky and exhausted.  They leave, heading several miles away to a little rill of water they had found the day before.  There they wash and rest themselves for a night.  

It is on that night that they are captured by Sir Harth.

_*Next Time:*_ Why won’t the collapsing of the towers matter?  What does Harth want?  What are the gates?  What is the connection to the cyst at Goblin Gorge?  And what shocking surprise will our heroes learn about elves???

The next update or two should show us to the conclusion of the Year 271 Campaign (arc 1).


----------



## the Jester

Sir Fwaigo is on watch when they are taken.  

He walks back and forth, yawning occasionally, but alert.  There is no visible reason for him to fall asleep; no visible reason at all.  

Especially given that the fire is just embers, banked low; and especially given that it is an overcast, moonless night.  Sir Fwaigo sees nothing at all.  

***

The group awakens to find themselves bound tightly.  Me- Sir Percival- immediately begins to struggle, but it is, for the moment at least, hopeless.

Laughter dances across the early morning, and our heroes look upon a terrible sight.  Leading what is surely the black magic cult, Sir Harth stands before them triumphant.  “Fools!” he sneers.  “I’ve beat you at last, and now you shall only live long enough to see my triumph!”

Otis groans around a gag.  “This is terrible,” moans Kyle.  

“It doesn’t matter,” cries Sir Colder.  “We’ve collapsed the stairways!  You’ll never dig them out in time for your ritual!”

“Oh, but you’re wrong,” Sir Harth chuckles.  “We will get through your little barrier with ease.”  Gloating, Sir Harth turns and calls, “Come, my friend!  Show yourself.”

Something moves into view from the ruin itself.  It is a horrific ball of angry-looking eyes, with a great sharp-toothed maw snarling and spitting.  A huge central eye stares balefully out at them as the creature approaches, and atop its orb writhe nearly a dozen eye stalks!  

“Oh, no, my friends,” Harth smiles wickedly.  “We will not have any trouble at all.”

With that, one of the eyes fires a cold grey ray that blasts a hole in the ground.  Where soil and grass once were, now there is only a crater and a puff of dust.  It happens without a sound.    

“We won’t even have to dig...”

Harth’s gloating is interrupted by Dahlia, who has seen enough.  She _wild shapes_ free of the bonds holding her, turning into a bird.  She catches Sir Harth, his cultists and the strange eye-monster off guard and begins speeding away as swiftly as her wings will carry her!  A few rays of light from the eyes of the monster shoot past her, but she manages to avoid or resist them, and soon she is out of range!

_But what do I do now?_ she wonders.  _I can’t take out Sir Harth and his cult and that monster by myself.  I need help.  Maybe in Kamenda City...?  Sir Martin should be there- either he, or Baron Rusk, may be able to help me._  She grits her teeth.  _I have to move quickly.  We may need some time to muster forces to attack that thing._  Grimly, she realizes that the beams that shot at her were different colors, and most of them didn’t seem to disintegrate matter.  _That means it has unknown but highly dangerous and varied abilities,_ she groans to herself.  _This is trouble.  Big trouble. _ 

She wings her way north.

***

The others struggle, apparently unsuccessfully, to free themselves.  The strange eye creature begins clearing one of the stairwells of rubble, simply annihilating it with no mess and no trouble.  _All that work for nothing,_ thinks Sir Fwaigo regretfully.  It takes several hours, but once the passage is clear enough, the cultists carry our heroes downstairs, one at a time, and lay them against the goblins.  One by one they grow rigid, drawn into the goblins’ magical stasis.  Satisfied, the cultists leave after a moment more. 

Then, at last, Sir Cedric rolls off of the goblin.  In the darkness, the cultists could not see the sweat on his brow.  It took all his concentration to keep from being put into stasis, but somehow he had managed.  

Carefully, he rolls himself until he is in a position to saw at his bonds with the sharp edges of the goblins’ boots’ accoutrements.  A few minutes later he is free.  Chafing his wrists to restore his circulation, Sir Cedric hesitates for a long moment.  

_If I try to pull my friends free, and I fail, then we are all caught again- except for Dahlia,_ he thinks uneasily.  _Yet if I go for help I leave them at Sir Harth’s mercy.  Either way, I am taking a huge chance._ 

Sir Cedric searches himself, but he has no liquor, beer, wine or even mead with which to fortify himself.  He looks around uncomfortably.  The thought of all of them being lost to Harth is unpalatable.  But the thought of leaving his friends is frightful.  To leave their manly muscles in danger- it is unthinkable.

And yet, it must be done.

Sir Cedric steals up the stairway.  Near the top, he does his best to sneak up and look before he leaps (so to speak).  It is already late afternoon.  The position of the shadows favors him at this point.  The eye monster looks to be working at one of the other stairways.  Nobody is looking his direction.

Sir Cedric sprints for the wall.  He clambers through a hole at waist level, glancing over his shoulder only once.  “Nobody hath theen me,” he mutters to himself.  Then he hurries off towards Kamenda City.  _I must alert father, and the baron,_ he thinks. 

_*Next Time:*_ The next update will be the finale of this story hour.  It will bring us to the conclusion of arc 1 of the Year 272 Campaign.  A shocking surprise about elves!  One last chance to spoil Sir Harth’s plan!  The Battle for New Year’s Eve!!


----------



## the Jester

Final Character Update:

*Sir Fwaigo* ("Goer" to his friends): fighter 5
*Otis Optimus*: wizard 6
*Sir Cedric*, Lord of Whitewater: knight 3/cleric 3
*Kyle Goldenbow*: rogue 3/wizard 3
*Sir Percival* (also called "Me" because he cannot pronounce his own name): barbarian 3/scout 2
*Dahlia Laagos* (last name adopted when she was given ownership over the ruins of Castle Laagos): druid 6
*Sir Jorgen*, sheriff of Whitewater: fighter 4/rogue 2
*Sir Colder*: fighter 4/rogue 1

_Note:_ the Knight class was specific to the Year 271 Campaign, and bore little (if any) resemblance to the knight class in the PH2.


----------



## the Jester

*Finale: New Year's Eve*

Sir Cedric moves as quickly as he can.  The horses are taken.  He moves off on foot, clanking along as quickly as he can in his heavy armor.  He is huffing and puffing after a mile, but he perseveres, jogging through the night.  

Somehow he manages to avoid loose rocks, snagging roots and potholes that might trip him.  Despite the darkness, despite his quick pace, Sir Cedric makes good time and avoids injury.  Soon dawn is cracking over the eastern horizon.  Bone-weary, Sir Cedric nonetheless continues moving on until he finds an outlying farm, whose owner is surprised and happy to make so much money for an old nag of a horse like that.  But the important thing is that Sir Cedric is now mounted, and on an unfatigued mount at that!  They eat up some more miles, and finally in late afternoon Cedric halts and collapses into exhausted sleep for a few hours.  

When he wakes up, it’s evening.  He rides a few more hours, risking two hours of darkness; but progress is slow and the horse is tired.  

Dawn seems an eager knight riding hard, and it’s not long before the city of Kamenda comes into view.  In the early afternoon, Sir Cedric reaches the walls, where he gives the pass word and moves in, quickly seeking an audience with his father, Sir Martin.

“My son!” Martin cries, upon receiving him.  “We had feared the worst!”  He clasps Cedric to him for a moment.  A glimmer of water forms in the corner of his eye.  He straightens and blinks it away.  “Dahlia returned alone, and told us of Harth and the terrible creature with him.”

“Father, he hath my friendth!  We mutht go to their aid!” Cedric exclaims.

“Of course, my son, we will.”  Sir Martin’s face is grim.  “We are mustering right now.  It will take us another couple of days to get a force big enough to deal with that monster.  We may fail entirely.  But we will make our best attempt- and, with any luck, we will destroy Sir Harth for good this time.”

“And what of Dahlia, father?  You thaid that you had thpoken to her?”

“Yes.  She told us that Sir Harth had captured all of you, and only she had been able to escape.  She told us that he planned to sacrifice all of you on New Year ’s Eve.  We began summoning men to fight almost immediately.  But she is not here.  She flew away- perhaps to Whitewater- to plan and heal.”

Sir Cedric paces unhappily.  “We mutht thuctheed,” he says.  “We mutht rethcue them.”  

“We will do our best,” Sir Martin replies stoically.  

***

Time is running short.  Days slip past, and the New Year is starting to peek our from beyond the horizon.  When they have just enough time left, Sir Martin and Sir Cedric lead out all the troops they have managed to gather- about two hundreds of men.  It is a considerable force of soldiers, but many of them are barely-trained rabble.  About half are veterans that fought in the most recent war with Tydon.  They march forth with deadly serious intent.  It is a journey of three days to get to the Ghost Tower, and the afternoon is getting deep when the army arrives.  

The ruins of the tower and its surrounding wall look uninhabited as they march towards it.

***

Behind the walls around the tower, the beholder squints, narrowing the focus of its _disintegrate_ beam until it bores a hole just begin enough for one of its small eyestalks to fit into.  It drills other pairs of holes here and there along the walls as well, then inserts the appropriate eyes and begins laying the groundwork for the oncoming force’s destruction.

***

Beams of light shoot out as the army approaches, and the army halts and sets up a shield wall.  There is no obvious effect, and after a minute, the army begins advancing closer to the wall.  The lead members of the army- whom the rays from the eyes are continuing to bathe- approach the holed walls in several opportune areas.  

Then-

Suddenly, most of the men who have been bathed in the eye rays turn on their fellows and begin to attack.  There is a cry of fear as the noteworthy knight Sir Brand begins laying into the rabble he leads with his great axe.  

“What’s happening!” cries someone near Sir Cedric.  

“It mutht be the rayth of light!” Sir Cedric snaps his fingers.  “We mutht path beyond the wall, quickly!”

The army is in disarray, unfortunately.  The unexpected turning on their fellows by a dozen of the first wave- and more every moment- is not encouraging to the soldiers.  The rays continue to bathe the uncharmed folk, turning more allies to enemies.  The press of people starting to move back pushes Cedric away from the walls.  He howls in frustration, then forces his way forward.  

A cloud of living terror boils out through the portcullis, where another score men are bringing a huge ram up to batter their way in.  Screaming in fear, they begin to retreat from it, backing off for a few paces, and then turning and fleeing in abject terror.

The eye beams stop for a few moments, only to resume again from somewhere else.  The army begins to disintegrate as people turn to stone and disintegrate where the beams touch them.  More men are turning on each other.  The sound of steel clashing on steel and the coppery smell of blood fill the air.  

Things look very ugly indeed.

***

Dahlia wings her way beneath a grey sky, heading south and west from Castle Laagos.  The clouds overhead are ominous and threatening.  The Rise of Battle (once called Inverness) comes into view as evening starts to roll in.  A large cloud of dust- as if from a sizeable group of travelers, or a battle- is atop it, near the Ghost Tower.

Dahlia circles at a distance, then banks to her left and closes the distance between her and the tower, intending to fly in close enough to get a good look at the situation.  But she squawks and banks away again when the beholder comes into view.  Bodies and statues of men dot the area near the Ghost Tower, and there is bloody combat where men have seemingly turned on one another.   Her stomach twists at the carnage.  _Things have gone very, very wrong,_ she thinks in despair.  

From the air she spies Sir Cedric.  She lands near him and transforms into her true form, then hurries over to the knight.  

“Dahlia!” he cries.  

“What’s happening?” she asks grimly.

“Thith beatht ith overcoming the entire forthe!  It guardth actheth to the tower and our friendth!  None can approach it without being dethtroyed by itth eye beamth!”

Dahlia settles her sight on the beholder.  “I’ll do what I can against that thing,” she says, filled with trepidation.  She extends her hands and begins making pulling gestures at the sky, muttering to herself like a crazy old hermit.  After a long moment there is a flash of lightning as a bolt descends from the looming clouds overhead and strikes the beholder.  It gives a harsh cry of surprise and begins heading towards her.

“Save our friends!” Dahlia urges Sir Cedric.  She begins calling another bolt at the beholder, and with a crack of thunder another lightning bolt zigzags down from the sky to strike it!  The stink of ozone fills the air as the beholder grimaces.  It is smoking and small electric arcs are still playing over it as it roars and begins firing eye rays at Dahlia.  She resists disintegration and death, but the pain of the beams is almost overwhelming.  She throws off attempts to petrify her, to make her flee in fear, to charm her.  More rays stab out in other directions, charming, petrifying and killing more soldiers.

A ray blasts into Sir Cedric and he grits his teeth and staggers, wounded.  Another hits him and he falls to the ground asleep.  And at last, Dahlia’s luck runs out.  A brilliant ray of energy stabs out from one of the eyestalks and hits her in the center of her torso.  Dahlia groans and falls. 

“We can’t hold!” one of the soldiers cries.  He throws down his spear and shield and turns to flee.  Observing him, the men next to him start to retreat as well.  Another man starts to exhort them to firm up, and a ray from the beholder turns him to stone.

It’s a rout.

***

Dahlia’s eyes flutter.  She is very uncomfortable and sore, and seems to be in a strange position.  She-

Her eyes fly open.  

She is tied up, hands behind her back.  She glances around her.  Night has fallen.  The stars are out, winking down from above.  Her friends, similarly bound, are here as well. 

Dahlia tries to _wild shape,_ but she can’t.  The beholder glares at her balefully.  Somehow it is negating her powers!  

Sir Harth stands at the head of a circle of thirteen cultists.  A number of glassy-eyed soldiers are there as well, clearly in the beholder’s thrall.  One of the cultists holds a pair of leashes that lead to a pair of elfblood youths.  The treacherous knight smirks in the light of the torches that the cultists hold, their flames whipping in the wind.  The night is cold.  

“What’s going on?” groans Dahlia.  

“It looks like Sir Harth has captured us, and is about to perform his ritual.”  Sir Colder looks pained.  

“You fools thought to deprive me of the elf by turning him over to the Keepers,” Sir Harth says suddenly.  His voice is loud and mocking.  “But we have figured out another way to open the gate.  Two elfbloods, with as much elf as possible in them, should suffice.  Ahh, my friends, you will witness a great thing tonight!”  He grins, walking towards them.  Gravel crunches under his boots.  “And then, of course, you will die.”

Sir Cedric spits at Harth.  For an instant the smirk on his face is replaced by a look of malevolence so dark that all of our heroes quail.  Then he smiles again and sighs, “Ah, Sir Cedric.”  He paces for a moment.  Then he turns to the cultists and says, “Come.  And bring them.”

“What is this ‘great thing’ you want us to witness?” Sir Fwaigo demands. 

“You will see,” Harth gloats.

The soldiers herd our heroes down one of the stairwells surrounding the tower, and soon they are in the chamber in which the mysterious door stands.  Sir Harth now has all four pieces of the key, and he presses them, one by one, into the door.  There is a thrum of power.  With a loud grinding sound, the door slides open.

Beyond the mysterious metal door is a 40’ square room with but a single feature: a large archway set into the far wall.  

The cultists begin unpacking certain unsavory items and set up an altar before the arch.  Slowly they decorate it with odd oils and light pungent incenses.  A vague, nearly-formless lump of black stone is placed as the centerpiece.  Our heroes watch in horrified fascination.  The room grows smoky from the thuribles, and their eyes begin to sting and water.  There is something strange in the smoke that makes everyone’s head swim.

Sir Harth has donned cult robes over his armor and has taken up a long dagger made of what appears to be glass.  He and the cultists begin a dark ritual.  The soldiers stand behind the party, ready to slay them if they try anything tricky.  Sir Cedric scowls helplessly as they take the elfblood youths and prepare them for sacrifice, to spill their blood over the altar and the archway.  He struggles against his bonds, but to no avail: a master ropesman has tied these knots.  A few blows from the mailed fist of the soldier stops his struggles for the moment.

The youths are heavily drugged to prevent their struggling.  The first is brought next to the arch.  Harth’s glass knife rises and slashes out.  Blood sprays over the space beneath the arch, splattering the wall into which the arch is set.  

Immediately there is a flare of orange light.  A vertical line of blazing orange suddenly bisects the arch’s space. 

The cultists bring the other youth forward.  

Something wet lands on Cedric, and there is a soft _thump_ behind him.  A hand steals across his mouth, urging him to silence, and he can feel a blade cutting through the ropes that hold him tied.  He turns his head.  A lithe, small figure he does not recognize is seemingly freeing him.  She is cowled; her face is only half-visible.  

Sir Cedric does not question his good fortune.  She steals away and, as Cedric watches in amazement, she slits another soldier’s throat from behind without being seen.  Then she begins to free Kyle...

Sir Cedric smiles and quickly takes the spear from the slain guard behind him.  The guards are just starting to realize that something is going wrong as Sirs Cedric and Jorgen lead the attack!

But simultaneously, Sir Harth, that villain, has slit the other youth’s throat.  Blood splashes across the archway and the space beneath it, sizzling and smoking.  Orange light spills out as the line begins to widen like an opening door.  Churning, eye-burning light flows forth.  The sound of Sir Harth’s laughter rings out maniacally.

Then the battle is on, as the soldiers struggle to stop our heroes from bursting free at the last moment.  Sir Harth cries out, “You’re too late!”   He and his cultists- along with the beholder- move towards the blazing, stomach-churning light beneath the archway.  

“Stop them!” the lithe figure that freed Sir Cedric cries.  She fires a trio of arrows from her bow, his fingers a blur.  But it’s too late.  The villains escape into the light.

She exclaims musically in Elven.

“Who are you?” demands Sir Jorgen.

She throws back her cowl.  She is an elf!  Our heroes gape, but she answers none of their questions for the moment.  Instead, she cries, “Make ready!  This is not over yet!”  She gestures.  “The villains kept your gear over there.  You likely only have a few moments before the elves return.  You must be ready to fight them!”

“Fight them?” Kyle says incredulously.  But most of the party is already sprinting for the pile of equipment that the elf woman indicated.  

“They have changed in their exile,” she replies ominously.

The party straps armor into place and grabs up weapons.  The elf nocks an arrow and stands in a position of almost unbearable tension.  As the party moves back towards her, she cries, “Hurry!  I can see them coming!”

“We’ve only met one of your kind before, and he was-” Kyle starts, but the elf interrupts him.

“Hurry!!  They come!!” 

“But they’re elves, right?” persists Kyle.  “Can’t we talk to them, or...”

He trails off in horror as a half dozen figures emerge from the archway.  Yes, they are humanoid; but their resemblance to the elf that came out of nowhere to help them ends there.  

But our heroes have seen them before.  Oh, yes. 

Awkward-looking and unnatural, with the odor of a sick room clinging to them, the creatures are wearing resinous armor and carrying odd ribbon-dagger weapons.  The smell brings it back more forcefully than anything: _the cyst at Goblin Gorge._

The elf is already grimly firing arrows into them.  “Stop them!” she cries.  “Don’t let them come through!”

Our heroes charge to the attack.  The battle is brief and furious.  The creatures can unleash mind-twisting powers that stun or blind.  They can create clouds of hypnotic vapor.  Their weapons leave nasty cuts. 

But our heroes, together with the elf, attack fast and furious, and put the strange, warped elves down.  

The elf turns to them.  “I know you have many questions,” she says grimly, “and I will answer them when there is time.  But for now, we have to go after Harth and his band and stop them!”

“Where does that portal go?” demands Otis.  

“Into the past,” the elf declares.  “They seek to gain a powerful weapon and then come back here to use it to make themselves rulers of the land.”

“But-“

“I must go to stop them,” she states.  “I cannot do it alone; I need your help.  Please.”  She takes a deep breath.  “But either way, I must go.”  She puts her bow away and draws out her rapier and dagger. 

“I’m with you,” says Sir Jorgen.

“And I,” announces Sir Cedric.

“We all are,” Sir Colder tells him.

Otis frowns.  “Oh, why not.”

Together they go through the blazing portal.


*The End* _of the Year 271 Campaign: Arc One_


----------



## Dawn

Excellent story telling from the DM and action from the players.  Just read through it from the beginning.
Are you finding that the low magic makes the players rely more on their skills and creative use of everyday items?

Next update?


----------



## the Jester

Dawn said:
			
		

> Excellent story telling from the DM and action from the players.  Just read through it from the beginning.
> Are you finding that the low magic makes the players rely more on their skills and creative use of everyday items?
> 
> Next update?




Yeah, the lack of magic- at the end of the story hour, I believe there's a +1 weapon and a +1 suit of armor in the party- does make them rely more on themselves and their creativity, which is one of the great successes of the campaign.  That was one of my goals.

As to the next update... I hate to disappoint you... but _that was the last one._  The campaign arc ended there.  We will eventually get back to this game- though Arc 2 will be _vastly_ different from Arc 1- but I suspect it will be a while. 

Yes, I really did intentionally end the campaign like that.


----------



## Baron Opal

I have enjoyed reading your experiment, and look forward to the chronicleing of the next arc, in the not too distant future, I hope.

Two questions:

What changes are you going to make to the house rules for the next arc, if any?

IIRC, you have a pretty major player handout for your standard campaign world. How much detail did you write for the time between the standard campaign and this one?


----------



## the Jester

To those of you who read and enjoyed this story hour, HEADS UP!

We're a couple of weeks away from starting Arc 2!!!

In other words- more story soon...


----------



## Brain

We're about to play this game again today.  It will certainly be different, beyond the portal.  I'm excited!


----------



## the Jester

Question to the players: given the nature of the arc from what you can tell so far, should Arc 2 have its own story hour thread?  Or should I just continue this thread?

Question to the readers: given that Arc 2 will be dramatically, _drastically_ different from Arc 1- should it have its own thread?  Or should I just continue this thread?


----------



## Rikandur Azebol

Do as You deem more apporiate, Jester. But if You decide to create new thread ... leave link here.


----------



## Baron Opal

Breadcrumbs would be appropriate. But still, I think continuing it here would be appropriate as they are the same characters in the same meliu.


----------



## Brain

Might as well keep it in this thread, since the thread is pretty short.


----------



## Tony Vargas

I think you should keep it in this thread - having it bumped to the top periodically might attract new readers, and the 1st Arc was well worth reading.

You might want to change or add to the title, though, to let people know there's new stuff.


----------



## the Jester

Wow- pretty much a consensus so far.  I'll continue the story in this same thread.

I'll post the next update after work tonight; though I'm almost done writing the _second_ one to come, I want to go back, reread and edit a lil bit before posting.


----------



## the Jester

*ARC 2 BEGINS HERE: An Age of Madness!*

It feels like it has been seconds.  It feels like it has been weeks.  It feels like it has been years.

Slowly, our heroes begin to open their eyes.  Groaning, Sir Jorgen and Sir Colder are first.  They ache from their wounds, but they feel worse than just that.  Something feels _wrong_- crawling up and down their skin, itching and burning.*

Dahlia’s eyelids flutter and she slowly inhales very deeply, then opens her eyes- and gasps.   She is quite disoriented; her companions are scattered around the ground, outside in the Ghost Tower of Inverness’ courtyard.  Crushed and shattered rock all around seems to indicate that some sort of massive explosion or detonation took place below ground.  Overhead, the sky is a dull red color, and it makes her eyes watery and sore to look at it.  Neither sun nor stars are visible in the firmament.

Suddenly, in the distance, an intense flash of maroon light washes across the entire sky.  The itching, burning sensation that our heroes are feeling across their exposed skin increases notably, all over all of their bodies, only to gradually subside back to its initial disconcerting level as the sky resumes its abnormal red color.  The mysterious elf that rescued the party from Sir Harth’s clutches, whom they followed here, lies senseless and moaning on the ground.  She appears to be bleeding from the nose and ears.  As the sky flashes, she gives a cry of pain.

“Oh no!” exclaims Dahlia, dragging herself upright.  Otis and Sir Cedric remain unconscious nearby, lying senseless, but the elf is in terrible shape.  The strange hermit begins checking her for signs of poison or disease, and cries, “What’s wrong with you??”

“The sky... the flashes...” the elf gasps.  She coughs; her spittle is bloody.  She winces, then says, “Stop him.  You must stop him.  He’s... a fool.  Weapons are forbidden... with good reason.”  She moans.

“What is the sky?” asks Goer- er, Sir Fwaigo.  “I mean, how is it hurting you?  It’s not hurting us...”

“It’s... a weapon... spell so... powerful... it wiped out... the elves of this island.”  

“Would it help if we could get you under cover?” Dahlia asks.  The elf nods and responds faintly.

“Extend... my life... a few more minutes...”

Immediately the party begins checking the area for any kind of available cover.  The Ghost Tower itself is far from featureless, but it has no obvious doors or windows; so there is no way in.  However, the courtyard (which now consists of broken rubble) does have one area that is torn up pretty badly, beneath which Dahlia finds a remnant of the old dungeon.  Together, then, Sir Jorgen and Sir Colder haul the elf down into what remains- a 20’ wide, 40’ long length of hallway ending in one of the metal doors that required the four-part metal key.  Fortunately, Jorgen notices that all four parts of the key are in the door.  _A stroke of luck,_ the sheriff thinks.

Dahlia, meanwhile, has administered a few _goodberries_ to both Sir Cedric and Otis.  Slowly, they both stir and come to; neither feels very well.  Both are badly wounded; but then, the entire party is ragged and worn and barely standing.  “My goodneth!” Sir Cedric sputters.  “Quickly, my former thquire!” he calls to Sir Fwaigo, who is already pulling out a bottle of brandy.  “A drink!”

“What’s going on?” Otis groans as awareness returns to him.  Quickly, our heroes fill him in on the elf’s condition and her words so far.  “We must hurry!” the wizard declares immediately.  “Sir Harth is out there somewhere!”  Then he pauses and exclaims, “Salt!”

“Salt?” asks Colder.

“Yes, the so-called ‘elves’- remember, we defeated at Goblin Gorge them with weapons coated in salt.  Remember that goblin, Zeem, and her temple, after the weird creatures- the elves- had brought their cyst in?”

“Of course,” Sir Fwaigo replies.

“We must be prepared-” Otis stops as he notices the condition of the elf.  Sir Cedric and Dahlia are already leaning over her.  

“What can we do?” entreats Cedric.

“Nothing,” the elf whispers.  “Nothing for me.  But... stop Sir Harth.  You must defeat him!”

“What ith he doing?  Where ith he going?” Sir Cedric queries.

“Can’t be sure... I know... he is seeking weapons from this time.  He wants... to use them... to take over your homeland.  Thankfully... he does not... realize how meager... his ambitions are.”  The elf groans again.

“Who can help us here?” Sir Fwaigo demands.  “Who can aid us?”

The elf fixes him with a dying eye.  “You don’t understand...”

“Are we in the future or the past?” Otis inquires.

“The past... at the height of... the Age of Madness.  The elf-slayer is... just one powerful weapon... of many.”

“Which one is Sir Harth after?” asks Colder.

”Can’t be sure... doesn’t matter.”

“What kind of weapons are we talking about here?” asks Kyle.  

“Many... different, powerful... magical weapons.  Some of them can even... draw moons down from the sky... to crush entire islands.  Some of them... make the air unbreathable for miles.”

Sir Colder and Kyle exchange a glance.  

“So who can help us?” Fwaigo- Goer- asks again.

The elf fixes her eyes on him.  With a groan, she says, “You... don’t understand.  There isn’t anyone... at least, not many.  Most... gone.  All the elves, maybe... by now.  You may not find... ANY... friendly folk.  This is... a very dark time.”

“Did you live through it before?” Kyle asks.  When the elf manages a weak nod, he asks, “How?  Surely _some_ of your people made it...”

“Not... here.  On Island... of the Elves.”

“But what about the dragons?” Kyle inquires.  “Surely they weren’t slain here...”

“Some... some slain, some fled... bad time... very dark...”

“And how do we get back home?” Fwaigo demands.  “We followed you here- guide us!  Who can help us?  Surely there’s someone... or a way back...”

The elf says nothing.

“We must find Harth,” Otis states.  “There is no time to waste.”

“Great,” murmurs Jorgen.  “But how?”

“I can check for tracks,” Dahlia offers.

“It’s dangerous up there,” Kyle shivers.  “And we need to rest first.” 

“I don’t think that you comprehend the magnitude of our situation,” Otis sniffs.  “Time is of the essence.  We dare not delay.”

“We’re in no shape to go exploring,” Colder argues back.  “You and Cedric- hell, and myself- can barely stand!”

“We don’t even know where we’re going, or where Sir Harth went,” adds Jorgen.  “We need to know where to go before we head out.”

“We could always check the Ghost Tower,” Sir Colder suggests.

The group debates for a few minutes, and in the end they decide that Dahlia will go look for tracks while the others guard the poor elf.  It is then that they realize that, while they were talking, she has died.

Somberly, our heroes look at each other.  They are alone, now, in a world blasted by magic far more powerful than anything they have ever seen.

“Great,” groans Kyle.

_*Next Time:*_ Our heroes look for clues- and decide what to do!


*Everyone woke up with 1 point of con damage.  This was enough to knock Otis and Cedric unconscious, given their wounds from our previous adventure.


----------



## the Jester

“Well, I guess I still may as well look for tracks,” Dahlia grumbles to herself, and so she ascends the pile of broken rocks that leads up to the surface.  As she emerges, the sky flashes again, and the druidess feels a flare of crawling itch scrawl itself across her skin.  She shudders.  Something is profoundly unnatural here... _profoundly._

She is wary and cautious, but there are no real signs of life that she can see.  An eerie, distant rumbling noise comes periodically from the distance all around, and there is still no sign of stars or sun.  Dahlia bites her lip; this time is terrible, terrifying... _shattered._ 

Spiraling out about half a mile from the Ghost Tower of Inverness, she begins to search for signs of Sir Harth and his cultists- or anybody else.  Any clue as to how long ago the villains arrived, any sign of other life- _anything._

Meanwhile, most of the rest of the party carries the dead elf up to the surface and begins building a cairn of the shattered stones over her.  It is a slow process; the rocks are difficult to walk over, requiring that our heroes painstakingly pick their way over the uneven ground.  Carelessness could cost a broken ankle- and here, in this hostile world, that could be enough to doom the entire party.

Only Sir Colder and Sir Jorgen wait down below, in the short piece of hallway that our heroes have found.  Sir Jorgen studies the metal door at the end.  “I wonder what’s behind this,” he muses aloud, approaching it.

“I don’t know if that’s a good-” Colder begins, but it’s too late.  Jorgen pushes on the metal door.  He is looking intently at the four-part key, already impressed into- and fused with- the door’s face.

It swings freely open.

The party has seen the chamber before; it is where they were nearly sacrificed by the dastardly Sir Harth and his black magic cultists.  It is where the Gate of Fire, or whatever they went through to get here, was located, and activated after Harth’s spilling of elven blood.  But now, there is no portal.  Jorgen grunts sourly.  Sir Colder sighs and follows him as he enters the room.  “I’m pretty wounded, you know,” he comments off-handedly.

Sir Jorgen nods.  “We’ll be careful.”

Colder sighs and the two look around.  The walls, floor and ceiling of the chamber are all made of the same smooth, blue-gray metal that the key and the doors were fashioned from.  The room has three other doors leading into it, but they are buckled and damaged beyond opening by the force of whatever titanic explosion destroyed so much of the dungeon level below the tower itself.  The room itself shows signs of having been in use in relatively recent times; an old fire pit, with a considerable buildup of ashes, is near the entrance.  A pile of refuse in one corner seems less than ancient, as well.  In the ceiling, near the center of the chamber, is a 5’ diameter hole.  Neither the refuse nor the fire pit nor the hole were in the room when our heroes were here before- although, Sir Jorgen reflects, that time is technically yet to come, at least from what he can tell.  It’s all so confusing... but there is work to be done!

Sir Jorgen pulls out a rope and grappling hook while Sir Colder merely shakes his head. 

***

While the rest of the party works on the elf’s cairn, Me- Sir Percival- pulls out his spyglass and surveys the scene.  Standing on a particularly high pile of rubble, Me turns in a full circle.  It is impossible to know which way is north; there is nothing to orient on.  So he starts by looking in the direction of the flashes.  Distantly, he can see mountains.  The Ghost Tower is located in a range of hills running perpendicular to the direction of the elf-killing flashes.  Left, as Me turns, is a smudge of mountains, then an area that is glowing red and covered with some kind of haze or smoke.  Turning further, Me sees what looks like fire for miles and miles- covering perhaps a sixth or fifth of his entire viewing arc.  Frowning, he keeps turning; there are a couple of forests further along, the hills... back to the flashes.  

Sir Percival- Me- frowns.  He doesn’t understand what he sees, but he certainly doesn’t like it. 

He goes back to piling stones on the corpse of the elf.

***

Dahlia, meanwhile, has hit paydirt.  Well, something like that; she’s found traces of someone, all right.  Poop.  Poop from humans- and there is a lot of it all around.  A couple of months old, she figures.  _If it’s from Sir Harth and his group, at least that will give us a clue as to how far behind them we are,_ she considers.  _There were fourteen of them, plus the weird eyeball-monster.  Together, they would generate a lot of poop.  Enough to leave clues for us- hopefully a lot of clues._

She keeps searching for signs, but though she finds obvious signs of human presence, the trail is cold enough that she cannot discern a trail.  Shrugging to herself, she returns to the Ghost Tower deep in contemplation.  _There is very little alive here,_ she thinks.  The thought makes her cold.  _We have to eat.  We must be very careful._

***

Meanwhile, Jorgen, after several attempts, manages to catch his grappling hook on something up the shaft.  After tugging it several times to ensure that it is solid, he begins to climb.  Sir Colder, weak from his wounds, watches anxiously as Sir Jorgen vanishes up the shaft. Uneasily, Colder realizes that everyone else is out on the surface- and they are unlikely to hear any sound of trouble.  

But a moment later, his fears are assuaged, at least momentarily, when Jorgen’s voice floats down to him: “There’s a ladder up here!”  Though muffled, the sheriff is completely comprehensible.  “I’m going to climb it.”

“Wait a minute!” Sir Colder protests.  He grits his teeth and grasps the dangling rope.  “Mangle dangle,” he moans, and begins pulling himself up the shaft.  About 20’ above the ceiling of the room below, he discovers that Sir Jorgen is right: there are bronze rungs anchored in the wall of the shaft.  

Above Colder, Sir Jorgen emerges from the top of the chute.  The air is full of a warm, thick, rolling mist that limits his vision severely.  The ground is broken and uneven, with loose rock all around.  He can see no ceiling, but the entire area is suffused with a dim light for which Jorgen can discern no source.  “If we can’t see more than about ten feet, we’d best be very careful about moving too far from the shaft.  We’d better tie off if we’re going to do that,” he mutters to himself.

“We’d better wait for the others,” Colder says as he pulls himself out of the shaft and stands up in the misty area.  He glances around.  “I can’t see a thing.”

Jorgen lights a torch, giving them some brighter light; but the thick, cloying fog does not recede, and the majority of the room remains masked from view.  A moment after the torch begins to burn, however, a strange loud sound issues from somewhere in the mist: like a screech mixed with a loud, violent exhalation.  It is a strange cry, unlike anything the two heroes have ever heard before.

_Fwoosh, fwoosh..._

“Wings,” whispers Jorgen.

The two draw their swords.

***

Dahlia picks a small piece of cloth from a jagged stump of burned brush.  _This has not been out in the weather- if there is weather anymore- for more than a couple of months.  And it’s the same color as the cultists’ robes.  It isn’t conclusive, but it’s enough; I’m convinced.  It was Harth’s group.  But if only there was some way to track them!_  She glances back over in the direction of the Ghost Tower and sighs.  _Perhaps there are clues in the tower,[/] she reflects.  Either way, we have lost the elf- A momentary poignant sorrow wells up in her breast- but we still have her mission.  We have to stop Sir Harth.

Dahlia begins walking back towards the Ghost Tower of Inverness.  When she reaches them, most of the others are finishing the cairn, but there is no sign of Sir Colder or Sir Jorgen.  They must still be down below, Dahlia thinks.  

“Hey, Dahlia,” Kyle nods to her.  “Did you find anything?”

“Lots of poop,” she replies.

***

Skree!! Skree!!! 

The beasts swoop in at Jorgen and Colder: three weird, winged creatures, with long, pick-like heads.  They are like something from a previous era, some terrible precursor to birds, and they are as big as horses.

Alone, our two wounded heroes brace themselves.

*Next Time:* Colder and Jorgen, outnumbered and alone, against a trio of pteranodons!_


----------



## the Jester

Sir Jorgen and Sir Colder are as prepared as they can be for the approach of the enemy.  Colder’s foot braces the butt of his longspear; he is readied for a charge.  Jorgen’s sword is held out as well, ready to stab and fend any approaching foe.  Then, with a terrifying shriek, the three pteranodons swoop in!  Each of our heroes slashes out as an enemy comes within reach.  Blood spews where Colder’s spear strikes home, impaling the beast!  It roars and struggles, but when he yanks his spear free from it, it dies in a shower of gore.  Sheriff Jorgen hacks into one of the flying reptiles as well.  The beasts _skree_ loudly as they fly by, trailing blood.  In seconds they have swung back around, and there is another brief clash.  Colder’s spear bites one into the shoulder of one of the beasts, and Sir Jorgen throws himself across its path and hews out its neck; unfortunately, the other monster bites Colder savagely across the shoulder.  He screams as flesh tears and bones grind, and then he drops limply to the ground.

“We could use some help up here!” shouts Sir Jorgen, desperately trying to keep the beast located by sound as it vanishes into the mist.  “Hey, guys!” 

Unfortunately for Jorgen, the rest of the party is too far away to hear his cries.  They are outside of the little section of dungeon that remains after the devastating blast that did so much damage to the earth around the tower.  

Jorgen is alone, as Colder slips closer to death, and so he takes a deep breath, firms up his resolve, and readies his attack.  A moment later, when the flying reptile swoops in again, he cuts it down!  With a final loud _skree,_ the beast plows into the ground and rolls to a bloody stop.

Jorgen hurries to his fallen companion and begins bandaging him.  He continues to shout down the hole, hoping someone will hear.  When the sheriff is satisfied that his companion is stable and is unlikely to slip away, he sets to the task of pushing the pteranodon bodies down the hole.  “We have to eat something,” he mutters to himself. 

Outside, meanwhile, the rest of our heroes are just starting to wonder what Jorgen and Colder have found, and they clamber back down into the blasted remains of the dungeon beneath the Ghost Tower of Inverness and mosey over to the strange metal door with the key set into it.  Peering through the doorway, they are surprised to notice the corpses of three strange reptilian winged creatures.  “Those weren’t there before,” comments Dahlia.

”Me!” Me says. 

Jorgen’s voice drifts down from above.  “Hey, you guys, come help!  Colder’s hurt!  Wait, I’ll drop a rope...”

Realizing that something bad has happened, our heroes hurry to aid Sir Jorgen with Colder’s unconscious form.  Soon the messenger has been lowered to the metal-walled room by rope, and a few moments later Jorgen has rejoined his companions.

“What did you find up there?” asks Goer- Sir Fwaigo.  

Jorgen gestures at the pteranodons.  “Those things.  The chamber up there is all misty; I couldn’t see far enough to really know what’s up there.  The flying lizard things seemed to have plenty of room to fly about, though, so it must be a pretty big area.”  He turns to Dahlia.  “What about you?”

“There were people here, but the most recent signs are weeks old,” she answers. 

“Sir Percy took a look around with his spyglass, too, didn’t you, Percy?” Goer prompts Me.

“Me!  Fire... red haze... woods...” The dumb half-orc shakes his head.  “Me,” he finishes solemnly.

“I guess the real question,” Kyle says, “is: what do we do next?”

“We must find Sir Harth,” Otis opines.

“But we don’t know where he is,” Kyle points out.

“There might be some clues in the Ghost Tower,” Sir Jorgen suggests.  “I say that we explore that first, and see what we can find out.  In fact, there’s already this fire pit down here, and the refuse.  There’s bound to be a clue or two in here!”

Dahlia, Kyle and Jorgen get to work examining the area more thoroughly. The trash includes feces, discarded food remnants (such as pig bones, onion husks, etc), a few broken arrows, discarded bits of worn clothing, the stubs of a couple of torches, etc.  The evidence is circumstantial, but our heroes believe that the fire and trash were from Sir Harth and his cronies.  Dahlia’s skill with tracking allows her to ascertain that there were about a dozen figures that traveled around the area, probably for quite some time before leaving.  Still, the trail is cold- about as cold as the traces she found outside.

“Well, I know thith,” Sir Cedric declares.  “In order to purthue and defeat the thcoundrelth with Thir Harth, we mutht firtht retht and recover our thtrength.”  A melancholy look crawls onto his face.  “In thith terrible land- I only hope that there are children thomewhere.”

“Here, my lord, have a drink,” Goer interrupts his liege, passing him a bottle.  

“Ah!  Well thaid, Goer!” Cedric exclaims.

“And regardless of the other part, I must agree with Cedric as far as we should rest.”  Kyle groans.  “I can barely stand!”

“Time is of the essence,” Otis warns direly.

“So is our strength,” replies Sir Jorgen.

***

The party manages to rest undisturbed in the central room beneath the Ghost Tower of Inverness.  Their careful watches are peaceful.  Upon waking and poking their heads above ground, they find that the sky remains maroon, and the jagged flashes of maroon radiance continue.  They seem to be the only feature distinct enough to orient on.  The debate- strike out overland or explore the tower- reignites briefly, but Otis is the only one arguing for an immediate departure.  Scowling, he gives in, especially as he has no idea of where to go.  

So it is that our heroes ascend the rope and the shaft to the misty area where Jorgen and Colder fought the pteranodons.  The meat from the beasts is laid out in strips on the rocks below, drying out for use as rations; even without a fire, there is a certain amount of preservation that can be done.  At the top of the shaft, the party uneasily spreads out a little bit, but if spread apart more than about 10’ they can’t see each other.  “It’s like pea soup,” Jorgen mutters to himself, then turns to the task at hand.  He runs another rope from the top rung of the shaft, and the party clings to it and heads off into the mist in a random direction.  They run out of rope before they run into a wall.  

“Room big,” comments Me.  

The party begins a sweep of the radius of the rope, moving steadily to the left.  Soon a wrought iron staircase becomes visible in the mist ahead.  It spirals up out of sight.  It seems to have a significant amount of some form of guano layered on it, and the pervasive fog has made the whole thing quite moist 

_Skree!_

Suddenly, with a terrifying screech, another pteranodon flies at our heroes from out of the mist, obviously coming from some kind of roost above on the stairs!  Cedric gives a cry of surprise but manages to ward off its pick-like beak attack.  The beast flaps out of sight, vanishing into the thick fog.  

“Make ready!” cries Goer, and a moment later the beast reappears.

This time Cedric is ready, and in a mighty pair of blows, he severs the creature’s head from its body!  “By the power of my pinky finger,” he intones solemnly.

“Look there!” cries Kyle.  Where he points, a mound of... something... is just barely visible through the mist.  

“Let’s check it out,” urges Sir Jorgen.  The party carefully makes their way over to the strange nest.  

A large mound of earth and stone, stained with blood and scattered with bits of dried grass, straw and hay, looms out of the mist as our heroes approach.  The corpse of some kind of large beast is rotting atop it, festooned with arrows and showing the signs of stab and chop wounds.  From the smell, it has been here for a month or more.  After a brief examination, Otis pronounces it a type of sphinx, specifically a hieraco-sphinx.  Then he busily explains to his apprentice, Kyle, how he could tell.  (“It’s all about the head,” Otis elaborates.)

“I wonder if there are any clues on it,” murmurs Sir Jorgen.  “Perhaps the fletching of those arrows will tell us something.”  He moves onto the mound and approaches the corpse- when suddenly, an ugly brown beetle erupts from the body!  It is about 2 ½’ in length.  The back of its carapace has markings that suggest a skull on it.  It has vicious looking mandibles and short, fuzzy antennae.  It appears to have been burrowing through the sphinx’s corpse.  Jorgen cries out in disgust, pulls out his sword and cuts the bug in two.  “Be careful,” he calls, and as he speaks, another beetle chews its way out of the body to see what all the fuss is.  

“What’s going on?” Dahlia cries.  From her position, she is too far removed to see anything through the mist.  “I can hear noise, but...”  Frustrated, she draws her scimitar.

Indeed, most of the party is in largely the same boat as Dahlia.  The mist curtails visibility so severely that only a few of our heroes have a chance to see what they are being attacked by.  More beetles burrow up, but between Sir Jorgen and Sir Colder, they are cut down almost as fast as they arrive.  Me squishes one easily as well, when it comes close enough for him to see it, but otherwise it is Colder and Jorgen that carry the day.  The beetles are slow, stupid and uncoordinated; thus, our heroes easily defeat them.  

“Now let’s check that fletching!” Jorgen chuckles, and indeed, a close examination reveals it to be very similar to that used in our heroes’ time.  “It’s not conclusive,” the sheriff muses aloud, “but it’s persuasive.”

“Me!” agrees Sir Percival.  

“Looks like the nest has already been looted,” announces Sir Colder, after inspecting it.  

“Well, we can go up the stairs,” Kyle points out.

“Yeth!” declares Sir Cedric.  “We mutht athend the thtairth!”

“Very well,” nods Sir Jorgen, taking the lead.  The others fall in behind him, Cedric pausing to take a gulp from Goer’s wineskin on the way.

The party ascends about 20’ to the ceiling, and then continues up through another shaft.  The staircase leads up into a well-lit area free of the mists.  Instead- oddly, for being inside a tower- the group appear to have come to an area of thick forest, with trees and dense undergrowth all around.  The ground is rich loam, soft and dark brown.  There is a narrow pathway twisting away through the otherwise daunting undergrowth.  The air is hot and humid, and the ceiling 30’ overhead is brushed by several of the trees.  

“What the hell is all this?” Dahlia blurts out.  “A forest??  _Indoors??_  That makes no sense!”

In the trees, _something_ hears our heroes and moves to observe, discretely.  At least for now it will not reveal itself. 

_*Next Time:*_ Our heroes play with monkeys!


----------



## the Jester

*Monkey Business*

The buzzing of insects, the occasional chirp of birds, the croak of a frog, the dripping of fat beads of water as they fall from wide rounded leaves... all within the tower.  Looming over our heroes, trees up to 30’ high brush the ceiling of the level of the Ghost Tower of Inverness that our heroes are presently exploring.  The undergrowth is so thick that it is impassable; a trail would have to be cut through it for our heroes to advance off of the path- for a single path leads away, through the rampant growth.  

“Thith ith prepothterouth!” exclaims Sir Cedric. 

“Clearly, my lord, we must explore,” Sir Jorgen says smoothly.  

“Here,” Sir Fwaigo adds, handing his wineskin to Cedric.  The former squire squints as he looks around.  “Well, I guess we only have one way to go, unless we want to spend hours cutting through the brush...”

With that, the party sets off down the winding path.  Its width varies and it seems to wander one direction and then another.  As they walk, Kyle catches a glimpse of motion off in the woods.  He whips his head around and Peers nervously in that direction, but the only thing he sees is some kind of monkey.

“It’s weird,” he comments, continuing to walk the path, “that there is a forest in this tower.”  Nervously, he pulls out his shortbow and nocks an arrow.

“Me like furry,” replies Sir Percival, pointing at Dahlia’s badger companion.

Otis suddenly cries out, “ABOVE US!!”

Silently, two monkey-like creatures have crept into the branches that arch above the path.  They are ugly-looking things, overly muscled, with prehensile tails and feet that seem able to grasp like hands.  The creatures’ fur is a dirty gray; their tails and faces are black, and their paws are a bloody red. 

Kyle is fast.  Even as Otis begins casting a spell, the elfblood fires his arrow at the monkey.  The shaft takes it in the throat, and blood begins to spurt from the wound.  The things gives a choked screech, and then Otis finishes his spell.  A magical dart of energy flies out and blasts the wounded monkey in the chest.  With a loud shriek, it teeters and falls out of the branches, crashing to the ground 25’ below!

The other monkey bares its fangs in rage.  Suddenly Otis cries out in pain, pressing his hands to his temples.  “Beware!” he cries.  “They have some kind of mind powers!”  Gritting his teeth, he fights off the psychic blast and struggles to focus.  Another _magic missile_ shoots from him as he gains his equilibrium,  He watches as a series of projectiles fllies up from the party, sticking the monkey in two, three, four places!

It plummets from its perch, smacking into the ground with lethal force.  

“What are those things?” wonders Otis.  “I have never heard of them before!”*

“Monkeys with mental powers,” Kyle marvels.  “Master, it’s fantastic!”

“Perhaps we’ll have a chance to research it sometime,” muses Otis.

The monkeys do not have any clothing or tools, and thus have no treasure.  Our heroes shrug and continue along.  The other monkeys, noting that the adventurers killed two of their numbers without suffering a wound or any mental effects, wisely decide to fade back into the thick woods and avoid further conflicts.**

The party wanders along the twisting paths.  Once or twice the path splits, and Dahlia begins making a map lest the group become lost.  Eventually something strange and disturbing comes into view.  Topped by what appears to be a human skull, a rack of bamboo woven with weird bits of hide, bone, fur and feathers stands about 7’ high in the middle of the path.  It looks like some kind of weird totem or fetish. 

“What the hell is that?” exclaims Goer.

“It looks like some kind of totem or fetish,” Jorgen answers (repeating the boxed text).  

“Nobody touch it,” Otis commands.  “It may be cursed, trapped or dangerous.”

“It doesn’t look relevant to us anyway,” Sir Jorgen muses.

The party thus leaves the strange totem be and continues along their winding way.  Soon there is another branching, and their path curves and comes back to the totem again. 

“Let’s return to that last branch,” Jorgen suggests, “and go the other way.”

The party does exactly that.  Soon, they come into a clearing that is roughly 20’ in diameter, with three other paths leading from it.  Throughout the place, rosebushes grow, scenting the area with their delicate fragrance.  Two statues of men with daggers upraised are in the place; the moldering, headless corpse of what appears to be a human woman lies near the entrance of one of the paths. 

“Whoa,” says Sir Fwaigo.  

The party moves into the clearing and begins examining the scene.  The two statues prove to have been wearing Sir Harth’s livery and sign (a rose twined around a blade).  They also bear wavy-bladed daggers similar to those used by Harth and his cultists.  “Interesting,” murmurs Jorgen.  As the sheriff, he has become quite an investigator, and he is carefully assembling all the clues the party has seen so far.  

The decapitated body seems to have been left behind at least a month ago.  In the bushes nearby, Kyle finds the head- but instead of hair, it has a mass of (now-dead) snakes atop its head.

“Well, we have several other paths to explore,” says Dahlia, looking down one of them.  It winds away, just like the one that led the party here.  Our heroes complete their examination of the area and then pick a path.  It loops around and leads to another clearing.  Across it, our heroes spy another of the signature wrought-iron staircases that this tower seems to prefer.  

“Well, well,” smirks Otis.  “We have found another ascent.”

“Let uth forge ahead,” commands Sir Cedric.  

The party moves towards the clearing, and suddenly, from either side of the path, two piles of bones which were hidden by the grass leap together, forming skeletal wolves!  Jorgen, near the front of the party, charges, barreling into the beasts, slamming his sword through the ribcage of one of them!  The skeleton staggers, but then snaps forward.  On either side of the sheriff, the skeletons bite at him, tearing into his left forearm and his right hip!  Sir Fwaigo hurries up and stabs one of them, but his blade turns ineffectually off of it!  Likewise, Kyle finds his arrows to be useless.  With a gulp, he nocks another arrow.  

Then Me rushes in with a roar.  “BAD DOG!!” he shouts, and his huge blade crashes through the one that Jorgen wounded, shattering it into its component bones!  

“By the power of my pinky finger!” declares Sir Cedric, “We shall dethtroy thethe monthterth!!”  He moves forward, bringing his blade free of its sheath, but is too far back to get an attack in.  Dahlia hurries up beside him. 

Meanwhile, in the front line, Jorgen slams his blade into the remaining skeleton.  Bits of yellowed bone go flying, but it still stands.  And then- Otis, of all people, moves in.  He clutches his staff in his bony fingers, and then swings it with all his might, slamming it into the skull of the undead wolf, and crushes it!  The skeleton collapses. 

“Interesting,” murmurs Sir Jorgen.  

“Shall we go up?” asks Kyle. 

“Indeed!” cries Sir Cedric.  “Brotherth in armth, againtht all oddth- we thall triumph!  Here, Fwaigo, have thome of my whithkey!”  He passes the bottle over.

Up our heroes go, climbing about 20’ before coming to a stone landing with two pathways projecting from it, away to the right and left, and looping away.  The pathways and the landing are about 1’ above the surface of what seems to be a sea of fire.  The flames lick upwards to heights of 2’ to 3’ above the surface of the sea, and breathing is a little difficult due to the smoke and sulphurous fumes.  The flames lick up before our heroes, but they can make out an island in the center- the long paths seems to loop around to it.   Across the 160’ diameter circular chamber is what appears to be a wrought-iron spiral staircase leading up to a ceiling 20’ above, but our heroes’ vision of it is somewhat obstructed by the soot-black giant standing 12’ high in front of it.

Kyle is in the lead, trying to be somewhat stealthy, and he hisses in surprise and pushes the others back down the stairs about ten feet.  “A giant!” he gasps.  “And a lake of fire!”  He shivers.  “I don’t want to go up there!  Maybe we missed something down here, along the other paths or something.”

But a few minutes’ exploration reveals that they just loop around, one leading back to the fetish and the other to another clearing.  

“I guess it’s the giant, then,” Goer says. 

Weapons ready, our heroes ascend.

_*Next Time:*_ Against the giant!!

*Of course, most of my _players_ identified these things right off!   However, none of the characters could make the appropriate check.

**Alas, that means that they’ll never fight the cool advanced su-monster chief I had statted up.  Oh well.


----------



## the Jester

The choking smoke rolls through the air, making our heroes’ lungs burn.  The stink of sulphur fills their nostrils.  

_Me think of training,_ Sir Percival tells himself.  _Big man tough._ 

And then he is sprinting down the long, looping path that will lead ultimately to conflict with the giant. He ignores the burning in his lungs, the flaming lake all around the paths. The others start moving in behind hi, and for the moment the smoke aids them all; it takes the giant a few short moments to notice them.  

But when it does, it issues a booming laugh, dips its hands into the burning liquid surrounding the platform on which it stands- and pulls out a rock, glowing hot from its long immersion in the flaming sea.  And then it whips its arms back and throws.  The stone sails up in a long, lazy arc- and smashes down on the platform, inches away from Sir Colder.

Fwaigo skids to a halt and pulls out his sword.  “Umm,” he says, his mouth gaping, and he inhales a huge cloud of smoke.  Blinded and coughing, his eyes tearing from the irritating air, he shakes his head to clear it. When he can see again, he gasps: flaming forms are lifting out of the flaming lake near Me.  Roaring, he slashes at them, but the bat-like forms dive in and tear at him. One attaches to his shoulder, sucking his blood and burning him.  

Otis, too, stops closing the distance with the giant and casts _magic missile,_ blasting the fire bat that is clinging to Me from his body.  It explodes into a mist of red flames. The wizard grins to himself, but outwardly remains aloof; he must maintain his image.  Dahlia pulls her scimitar and begins dueling with the birds, aided by Sir Cedric; but Colder, Jorgen and Percival (or Me, as the big dumb lug calls himself) sprint past.

The giant’s laughter booms through the chamber.  A whistling sound announces the arrival of another boulder, which smashes into Me with bone-crushing force!  He throws himself aside at the last moment, avoiding the worst of it, remembering his training, and then throws himself prone to dodge another of the huge heated rocks.  Scrambling back to his feet, he keeps moving up... and sees another of the rocks sail past him and smash Colder in the leg.

Kyle, near the back, fires another _magic missile_ at one of the fire bats.  Cedric hacks into the thing and it explodes too; he and Dahlia are holding their own against the flaming things.  _It’s the giant we have to worry about,_ Cedric thinks grimly, running another fire bat through.

Meanwhile, Me sprints around the last curve before he has a straight shot at the giant- and finds himself suddenly confused and falling!  “Whooof!” he cries, as he crashes into the ground- 

_Huh?_ Me thinks. 

Everything has turned upside down.  Why... why are his friends on the ceiling?  Befuddled, he hesitates for a moment.  Otis, simultaneously, shouts, “Beware!  There is some kind of _reverse gravity_ field! Beware!!”

Jorgen edges along near the outside edge of the walkway. “I think the edge is okay!” he shouts.  Then he sees the giant lining up a shot on him- and gulps.  But fortunately for him, the thick smoke obscures him just enough that the giant’s boulder misses!*  Jorgen whistles in relief, pulls out his sword- and charges.

The others, meantime, have finished off the fire bats, and now they resume their approach towards the giant.  Kyle stops, drops to one knee and pulls his bow.  _I don’t want to get close to that thing!_ he thinks to himself.  _He could cut me in half in a single blow with that huge sword!_**  Sighting down the shaft, he fires for the giant’s upper body, hoping to miss his allies.

Both Colder and the sheriff of Whitewater dance with the giant, and from the ceiling Me roars.  He runs to get as close to the giant as he can- and suddenly, he’s falling- CRASH!  Disoriented, he groans and shakes his head.  “What... where...” he mutters, and then realizes that everyone is on the floor again.  Confused but happy, he charges with his greatsword.  It is perhaps half the length of the one that the giant is pulling from a great baldric across its broad back, but it is just right for Me!

Otis fires another volley of _magic missiles_ at the giant, peppering him with small wounds.  Jorgen and Me have already cut into it in several places.  Roaring, the black-skinned giant cuts into Jorgen with devastating force, slitting him open from his left shoulder to his thigh.  The sheriff screams in pain, staggering back.  He grits his teeth and clutches his sword in shaking hands as the giant swings again, and this time Jorgen barely manages a parry.  

Then the giant falters and falls back with a great shout as an arrow hits him in the cheek, and Colder stabs him in the foot.  

Beset by the gnats around him, the giant growls deep in his barrel chest.  _He will not be defeated by little ones again so soon!_ It is intolerable!

Another of our heroes arrives in melee, bastard sword in both hands.  Cedric!  He springs forward and slashes, but the giant blade crashes into his legs with a backhanded sweep as he closes on the giant.  He howls in pain, then cries, “My friendth, enough ith enough!  We mutht dithpothe of thith mithcreant!”

The heroes close in, and the giant cannot fend them all off.  Suddenly another cut slashes across his leg, another on his arm.  He swings his sword into the half-orc, aiming for the head, but Me is fast; he springs out of the way enough that the blade only hacks into his arm.  

“AAARGH!” the giant cries, as another arrow hits him, this time in the neck. 

Then two swords simultaneously stab him, and that’s all. The giant falls to the ground with a great smashing noise.

Panting, our heroes exchange glances.

“Hey,” Jorgen says, his tone startled and displeased.  “That’s not a stairway.”

Indeed, what they had taken for a staircase turns out to be merely a wrought iron column. 

“Well what the hell, then,” Fwaigo says crossly, having finally broken his paralysis and come across the long, looping pathway to the giant’s area.  The party is very carefully navigating to avoid any further _reverse gravity_ shenanigans; a little experimentation quickly reveals the location of the edge of the field, and our heroes chalk a mark on the ground to indicate it. Avoiding it then becomes much easier.  Once everyone is at the giant’s platform, they begin to search.

The iron column that they had taken to be a staircase proves to have an interesting back side.  An inset area contains an anvil and some giant-sized forge tools.  Goer takes some, despite their bulk; as a smith, he is very interested.  “Some of this should be usable, and it will help us at least maintain our armor and weapons. And who knows, maybe it will be worth something somewhere.”

There is also a sarcophagus-like object next to the giant. The stone lid is very heavy and resists a casual attempt or two at lifting it.  While the stronger party members prepare to make a more serious, concerted effort, Kyle searches the giant’s body. Almost immediately, he cries, “Hey, everyone, look at this!” 

The others cluster around. Kyle says, “Check out his arm.”

Indeed, one of the giant’s arms has a relatively fresh scar on it- a scar shaped as a rose wrapped around a sword.

“Thir Harth’th heraldry,” Sir Cedric intones flatly.

“Well-carved, too,” notes Jorgen. “They took their time about it.”  He shivers. 

For a moment the party studies the face of the dead giant. He looks old- were he a human, about 50. What was his story? They will never know, now. But clearly, Sir Harth featured in it somewhere.

“Well,” Jorgen thinks aloud, “at least that is more evidence that we’re on Sir Harth’s trail.”

“Now what?” asks Sir Colder.  “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m pretty badly wounded.” Several of the others nod in agreement. “I think we should wait to open that sarcophagus until we’ve rested- but I don’t want to rest up here next to it,” Colder continues, and again he gets general agreement. 

“How about if we rest in the forest?” Kyle suggests.

“Thoundth good,” Sir Cedric agrees.  

So it is that our heroes retreat to the wooded level of the strange tower that they are exploring, and as there is a clearing immediately at the base of the stairs, they set their camp right there.  Dahlia passes some _goodberries_ around, and soon the group settles in to rest.  Watches are kept; when morning rolls around, our heroes elect to continue to rest, at least for the rest of a full day.  They are fairly beat up, and the rest does them a great deal of good, allowing wounds to mend, spells to be refreshed, the strange sickness that afflicted them all when they first awoke in this blasted land to be overcome.  The _goodberries_ keep away hunger, and Sir Cedric employs a bottle of whiskey to good effect.

“Well,” Otis declares, “it is clear that we need to go to the top of this place. We need to figure out how to ascend from the giant’s chamber. Also, have you noticed- there seems to be an elemental theme to this place.”

“What?” Goer looks confused.

“Yes,” Otis affirms. “The first level was airy, with mist, and flying beasts. The second level was a jungle, full of earth.  Then a fire level. I posit that above the giant we shall find a level of water.”

“My master is brilliant,” Kyle breathes. He is really quite impressed.

“Well, let’s see what we can figure out,” suggests Otis. “Let us head up there. We are rested, recovered. What say you?”

“I agree,” nods Goer.

The rest of the party does so as well.  Indeed, they are eager to get back to it. Though a few of them have some wounds remaining, none of them are now in dire straits. It is time to find the way up.

Back up in the giant’s chamber, they decide to attend to the sarcophagus first. A concerted group effort, Sir Percival in the lead, manages to remove the lid.  Within it are merely a large brass armband and a large hammer. 

“Ooh, a hammer,” Goer says, and snatches it up. It does not appear to be remarkable in any way other than its giant size, but again his smithing nature prods him into taking it with him.

“Hey, I found it!” cries Kyle.  He’s pointing at the ceiling. “Up there,” he announces. “There’s a hole in the ceiling, in the middle of that magic gravity trap thing.”

“The _reverse gravity_ field,” Otis corrects him.

“Whatever,” Kyle nods. 

Otis’ eyes flash. _This will be noted in your grade,_ he thinks frostily of his apprentice.

“So we have to fall up?” Sir Colder haltingly asks.

“Me fall again,” Me says. 

A long discussion about the mechanics of the _reverse gravity_ trap ensues, with the party trying to decide how best to get onto the ceiling without hurting themselves. They try a few rope-based attempts involving one person on the floor and one person in the field, and a few heads are bumped, and eventually someone is on the ceiling.  Then they tie one end off to the big pllar of iron on the ground.  With a couple of people bracing it on the ceiling, it becomes a workable bridge that can be climbed- though even so, the gravity reversal is disorienting enough that a couple of people take minor bumps and bruises. 

Otis peers down the hole. “As I surmised,” he announces. “There is water down there- or should I say, _up_ there.”

Dahlia declares, “Hold on a second and I’ll cast _water breathing_ on everyone.”  The party groups around and she dispenses her spell.  Everyone has just under two hours worth of _water breathing._

Goer sighs. “Here goes nothing,” he says, and jumps into the hole.

_*Next Time:*_ The water level!

*Everyone over 20’ away had a 20% miss chance.

**At full health, our 6th-level Kyle has 13 hit points. Yikes!!


----------



## the Jester

*Dramatis Personae (updated)*

Our heroes currently consist of:

*Lord Cedric of Whitewater,* knight 3/priest 3.
*Sir Jorgen Boatwright,* sheriff of Whitewater and captain in the guard of Kamenda; fighter 4/rogue 2.
*Sir Fwaigo "Goer" Smith,* captain in the guard of Kamenda; fighter 6.
*Sir Percival "Me",* captain in the guard of Kamenda; barbarian 3/scout 3.
*Sir Colder*, captain in the guard of Kamenda; fighter 4/scout 2.
*Otis Optimus,* wizard 6.
*Dahlia,* lady of Castle Laagos; druid 7.
*Kyle Goldenbow,* apprentice to Otis; rogue 4/wizard 3.


----------



## Seance

You sir, are a slacker!!


----------



## the Jester

There is a moment of dizziness and disorientation as our heroes, one by one, splash into warm, salty, green water, apparently about 15’ deep.  Struggling to surface, they see a small island ahead (about 25’ away) with sand and two palm trees.  To the left and behind them, coral several feet high grows on the bottom of the small sea. Once again, the party must remind themselves that the place is indoors- here, a strong light, almost like sunlight, fills the area.

“Perhapth we thould check out the island,” Lord Cedric suggests.

The others agree, and begin stroking towards the sandy beach. Before they can reach it, however, Kyle cries, “Look!” He gestures with one hand as he struggles to draw out his dagger.

A dark form is moving quickly through the water towards our heroes- a _big_ dark form.

“It’s some kind of fish!” Sir Colder cries. Otis treads water and fires a _magic missile_ at the thing, peppering it with small darts of force. 

“Hold on, I’ve got it,” Dahlia declares. She gestures and mutters, and suddenly the level of the water in a large area around our heroes drops precipitously! In only seconds, it recedes to a depth of only about 2’, and the great fish is unable to swim. Its massive bulk flops and twists, but it is out of its element now, and our heroes wisely back out of its reach.

“What is it?” wonders Kyle, even as Cedric hurls daggers and epithets at it. The party pours on the missile fire.

Dahlia tells him, “It’s an ancient type of fish. I’ve heard about them before- the weird ladies in Whitewater told me about it. They had some pictures of the bones of these things. It is called a dinicthys.”  

“Who cares?” Goer japes. “Just help us kill it!”

Sir Colder is getting cocky. He gets too close, and the fish’s great mouth clamps down on his elbow! It starts trying to suck him into its mouth; the messenger gives out a shriek and struggles madly against it. “Help!” he yells. “I think it’s trying to eat me!”

“Worry not, Thir Colder!” Lord Cedric cries. “We will thave you!” With that, he leaps forward, swinging his heavy flail. The spiked ball slams into one of the dish plate eyes of the dinicthys, and clear gel squirts out. Then Sir Percival- Me- charges in, rumbling and gnashing his teeth and frothing at the mouth, and he smites the fish in the head, penetrating its brain and killing it!

The party wrenches Sir Colder free of the fish’s death grip. “Whew!” he breathes a sigh of relief. “Thanks! That was a close one...”

“Indeed,” Lord Cedric says emotionally, and gives him a crushing bear hug that goes on for an uncomfortable length of time. “Ah, my friendth, it ith quite a thing to be thtuck here, ith it not? We mutht find our foeth and dethtroy them! Brotherth in armth, together againtht all oddth! I am honored to be in the company of thuch fine men... fine men indeed!”

“_I_ am a lady,” sniffs Dahlia.

Otis is standing near one of the edges of the _control water_ effect as our heroes converse. Suddenly, he cries out and begins moving away from it. “I think we should withdraw!” he calls.

“What?” Kyle asks. He backs up against the edge of the water near him. Suddenly, he cries out! Something in the water bites him! Whirling free, he sees- some kind of ray! Then his eyes widen as he realizes that there are more- and one of them emerges most of the way from the water in order to viciously bite his thigh, then withdraw back into the green water. “There are some kind of rays in the water!” he calls out a warning, backing off and wincing as his leg bleeds. 

Otis and Kyle each launch a volley of _magic missiles_ at rays near the interface. Each slays the one that he targets. Meanwhile, Cedric lays his hands upon Kyle’s wounded thigh and caresses it while whispering sweet words of Clymorian, his god. The wound closes, but it creeps Kyle out a little bit. 

“They look to be retreating,” calls Lord Cedric. “Quickly! After them!!”

The party surges into the water in pursuit of their foes, and more of the devil rays glide through the water at them. The party is out of their element, but able to breathe, thanks to the _water breathing_ spell that Dahlia cast upon them before they left the fire level. This prevents any unfortunate breathing incidents; however, it is no help when one of the rays starts casting spells, chilling the metal that Me carries, then healing the injured rays. The battle leads over the coral growths that our heroes saw previously, until finally most of the rays have been defeated and the caster is wounded. It attempts to flee, but Otis shoots it with a _ray of frost,_ and this proves to be enough to knock it unconscious.

Taking stock of their health and resources, our heroes decide to investigate a little and then retire to the apparent safety of the island. Swimming further over the coral, they spot a large metallic hatch with a wheel-like device projecting from its center.  The wheel is neither rusted nor corroded. 

“Let’s open it,” Otis suggests.

“I’m still pretty wounded from that fish bite,” Sir Colder cautions. 

“And several of us were wounded by the devil rays, too,” Sir Jorgen points out. 

“Bah, we can handle any problemth that we uncover,” Lord Cedric snorts overconfidently.

Otis nods and attempts to turn the wheel, but to no avail. 

“Oh, here, Otith- let me help you!” Lord Cedric throws his arms around the hatch from behind Otis, encircling the wizard in his embrace. He groans as he slowly tugs it open, revealing a shaft that heads upward. Goer swims forward in the shaft to scout it out, and after about five feet he feels a strange stomach-turning sensation. His head breaks water. The shaft continues upward, but there are rungs set into the wall, allowing for a relatively easy climb.

Quickly, Goer swims back to his friends. “I definitely think we should rest before we go to a whole new level of this tower,” Sir Jorgen opines, and the party agrees.  While they talk, Kyle pulls out a bottle of peach brandy- they’re still underwater, mind you- and opens it. He tries to breathe it in, but it doesn’t really work; it just makes him cough a little. Ah well, you never know until you try.

The party swims away from the hatch. “At least we know where to go next,” remarks Sir Jorgen. Soon they reach the isle. It is about 40’ or 50’ in length and 20’-30’ in width.  Two palm trees, about 15’ tall, are on the isle; near the shorter one is a large boulder.  A few shrubs and some tall grass dot the small island as well. All in all, it is enough room to rest comfortably, but not enough room to be very interesting.

Their opinion changes when they search the isle. They uncover the remains of a small fire pit, probably about two months old. Moreover, there is a spot just off the island that has been used as a refuse dump. A few things seem to indicate that Sir Harth’s group passed through here, such as an old, torn, tattered tunic bearing his heraldry. There are also the remains of a couple of rays. _They ate them,_ Sheriff Jorgen realizes.

“We’re on the right track,” he says grimly.

***

Our heroes settle into comfortable places on the little isle, eating some of their rations. Their food will not last forever, they already realize. If the entire land is as devastated as what they have seen so far, it will be hard work finding more.

“We should take some of that fish,” suggests Goer.

“It won’t really keep,” Kyle points out.

“True,” Sir Fwaigo (“Goer”) sighs. “What I really wish we had is some venison.”

Soon enough, our heroes’ musings on food are interrupted. A clicking, clacking sound starts coming from the far side of the isle, emerging from the sea, as crabs begin skittering up on the isle. 

Quite a few crabs, and big ones. Over half a dozen emerge, none smaller than 3’ in diameter and several closer to 6’.

“Well, there’s our food right there,” Otis announces, and casts a _fireball_ into their midst. Three of them cook in their shells. The others scream crabby screams and scuttle forward, snapping their claws. The party mostly parries their blows, but Jorgen gates clawed by one of the little ones, which grabs onto his leg and won’t let go. The sheriff cries out, grabbing the claw in both hands and prying it open. The party struggles with the crustacean threat, suffering several decent wounds, before they finish the crabs off. Even Kyle performs strikingly well in melee, using a rapier for nearly the first time!

The party’s planned rest is deferred for a crab feed.

***

After resting- and this time, they are undisturbed- our heroes ascend the shaft. At the top, they find themselves emerging into a large room. It is well-lit, with a domed ceiling 50’ high at the apex.  The chamber itself is over 100’ in diameter.  Three desiccated corpses lying on the floor.

“Well, well,” says Kyle. 

Cautiously, with an eye for traps, our heroes examine the scene. The Sheriff muses aloud, “I hope those corpses don’t jump up and get us.” 

Kyle suggests, “Yeah, maybe they’re vampires!”

Jorgen gulps and grips his spear tighter.

Then the corpses shamble up to attack. 

Jorgen screams like a little girl and slams his spear forward into one of the corpses. “VAMPIRES!” he shrieks. The animate corpse makes a low grunt as he strikes it. Then a volley of _magic missiles_ from Otis shoots out and takes it down.

The party slays the other two in a flurry of blows, and then Jorgen wipes his brow. “Must not have been vampires,” he says with relief. “That was a close one!”

“Well, we’re at the top,” Kyle states. “There must be something here.” 

“Or else Sir Harth _took_ something from here,” Otis hypothesizes.

The party checks the area, as well as the bodies. There are no exits that they can find other than the shaft that leads to the water level, below. The center of the room holds a small raised dais, atop with lays a cushion. Kyle examines it closely and pronounces that something rested on the cushion for a long time- but it is gone now.

“Harth,” Sir Jorgen nods.

“Harth traitor! Crush traitor!” Me snarls. 

“He must have gotten what he was after, and now he’s trying to get home,” Kyle suggests. “I mean, think about it: he must think he has a way home, right?”

“Good point,” says Goer. “How are we getting home, if not for him?”

The question hangs in the air.

One of the bodies still has a ppurse (holding 41 cp, 15 sp, 1 gp), a wavy-bladed dagger, a suit of leather armor, robes like those worn by Sir Harth’s cultists, and a crude map of the area around the Ghost Tower. Better still, the corpse has three full water skins and 7 days rations.

“A map,” Cedric breathes. His pulse quickens.

“Show map to Me,” Me demands.

The party passes the map around. Off to the ‘north’ of the map is marked a cave with the notation “(safe from sky?) water!”. The map’s markings indicate it is a two day journey to the cave. One day to the east is what seems to be a wood noted “elfs”. Arrows pointing off the edge of the map are marked “capitol (Litel?) smoke?”.

“My friends, we have a clue,” says Sir Colder.

_*Next Time:*_ Our heroes leave the Ghost Tower behind them!


----------



## the Jester

*Across the Blasted Land*

Our heroes march beneath a maroon sky. The ground is shattered and virtually lifeless; a few weeds poke up here and there, and occasionally there is a dying, wilted bit of scrub, but there is no real sign of life. The Ghost Tower of Inverness recedes behind them as they move into the mountains, following Sir Harth’s map towards this alleged safe cave. Dahlia, _wild shaped_ into a bird, scouts in the air; there are no other visible birds or other flying creatures.

The party ascends a mild slope to the ridge surrounding a small dell.  When they reach the top, they see a scene of utter devastation. Below them, the blasted remains of a small dell about a half mile long are visible.  Splintered remnants of trees dot the cratered ground in places.  A huge number of corpses, at least in the hundreds, lie blistered and burnt throughout the dell.  The stink of death drifts up from the carnage.

“Ugh,” says Sir Cedric eloquently. 

“Should we search?” wonders Sir Colder with distaste.

“No,” Sir Jorgen opines. “We’re on a mission. Besides, it doesn’t really look like there’s anything left out there worth searching. And the last thing we want,” he gulps, “is for more corpses to attack us!”

The party passes quickly through the area. The dead are, to put it mildly, numerous. Here for the first time, our heroes see some evidence of life- flies, insects and other small scavengers feasting on the dead. The sheriff urges the others to hurry, and Colder and Me keep a grim watch for any hidden aggressors. Our heroes’ march through the battlefield is unmolested, but the dead everywhere are unsettling.

A few hours later, there is another field of dead- but this time they are different: some kind of small folk. “They look like the guy who kept the death cows,” Sir Colder muses.

“Gnomes!” exclaims Dahlia. 

_Dead_ gnomes, about 100 of them. And scattered in their remains, the shattered metal bodies of about a dozen constructs that look basically like metal skeletons.*

“Odd’s bodkins!” exclaims Colder.

“Thethe thingth look motht unnatural,” Lord Cedric announces.

“Yes they do,” Dahlia confirms. “They’re some kind of machine or something.”

“Constructs,” Otis says grimly.

“Let’s go,” suggests Jorgen.

“Wait a minute,” Otis protests. “We should at least search this area quickly.”

“I don’t think we’ll find anything,” the sheriff demurs.

“Well, I’m willing to try, but if no one wants to help me, I’ll keep whatever I find.”

Jorgen shrugs. “Fair enough.”

The others take a break while Otis searches several areas of the field, returning triumphantly, bearing two rods and some kind of scroll.

“Well, well,” he smirks. “I found these two rods- as well as this map.” He unfurls it. “The writing is in Gnomish,” he adds, gesturing at the strange characters on the parchment. This map shows much more than the area on the map from the corpse (presumably) of one of Harth’s men, and fortunately Otis can read Gnomish. “This,” he points, “is labeled ‘human capitol’... this is ‘Melgith, safety’... ‘mountains this way (danger)’... this jagged gash is just labeled ‘demons’.”

“Fantastic,” says Sir Fwaigo (“Goer” to his friends). “The demons are between us and the capitol.”

“I spotted a chasm far ahead,” Dahlia muses. “I’ll bet that is what the jagged line represents.”

Perusing the map, Otis states, “Going around the demons necessitates going into the woods, _here,_” he jabs his finger at the map, “or _here,_ into the mountains marked ‘danger’.”

“We can worry about which way to go when we get closer,” Dahlia presses impatiently. “For now let’s get to this cave of safety!”

“I’m getting tired,” Kyle whines. “Isn’t it time to rest for the night?”

The group pauses. With the sky never much changing, with no sun or stars, it is difficult to rate the passage of time. Their muscles are sore, their bones weary. Kyle is right. So our heroes spend a little time finding a reasonably defensible position before making camp for the night, with fair success... not that there seems to be much to defend against, at least so far.

As they bed down, Otis examines the rods he found more closely. Each has a number of glowing crystals on it; each also has a button. The only obvious difference between the two rods is the number of glowing crystals. Otis moves somewhat away from the party and holds one of the rods perpendicular to himself, then presses the button- and he is rewarded by a jet of flame that shoots from the rod! Cackling, he performs the same experiment with the other rod, to similar effect, even as the rest of the party bursts into motion, spooked by the display. Once they realize that it’s just Otis, they relax- but Kyle hurries over. “Master, you should let me have one of the rods,” he pleads. 

“No,” Otis declares. “I searched them out; I earned them. Perhaps when you graduate.”

Sullenly, Kyle slinks away, but that night, whilst on watch, he pilfers one of the rods from Otis.

The next morning the party begins to break camp. Otis hurries over to Kyle and demands, “Kyle, where is the rod?”

All innocence, Kyle replies, “What rod?”

Otis glares. “Give me the rod.  And give me your spellbook.” Reluctantly, and only after a great deal of complaining, Kyle complies; and Otis scrawls a fat “F” on the first page. Kyle is mortified.

Our heroes move forward. They can all feel their bodies weakening due to some powerful environmental effect; moreover, the few of them with magic items are distressed to see them become worn and tarnished while exposed to the maroon sky.** But there seems to be nothing that they can do about it, at least for the moment.

The party advances into a hazy area where the very air seems to put the group into a malaise. After an hour, they become slightly sick.

“Let’s hope we can get through this fast,” groans Sir Jorgen.

As the party moves through the haze, something gradually resolves into visibility ahead: a row of wooden Xes. 

“Oh crikey,” Kyle whispers in horror. 

The Xes run in a great long row, receding into the mist and out of sight. There are scores, at the very least, of elves hanging crucified from the wooden Xes. 

A gulping sound reaches our heroes. They cast about for its source for a moment, and then Dahlia points. 

_“Caw! Caw!”_ Five surprisingly big vultures, with strange, red eyes and odd, slightly twisted shapes, are crouched atop several of the crucified elves, gobbling at tearing at the corpses. The sight makes Kyle and Dahlia slightly ill. It is but a moment’s work to dispatch the mutant vultures, which are surrounded by a stench so strong as to be nauseating; but they are no match for lances couched in a mounted charge, and for one of Otis’ _fireballs_.

“Search them?” wonders Otis.

“Not me,” protests Kyle.

“They are crucified,” Jorgen points out. “They _were_ alive. Surely whoever had them captive didn’t leave any good loot on them.”

“Good sense, sheriff,” Otis nods approvingly.

As the party moves along, the wizard moves up to walk next to Goer. “Sir Fwaigo,” he announces, “I believe that you should have this.” He produces the wavy-bladed dagger that the party found at the top of the Ghost Tower of Inverness. “My investigations have shown it to be magical.”

“I use a sword,” Goer points out.

“But there may come a time when you will need a dweomered weapon to harm your foe. You may need it.” He sighs. “Besides, it doesn’t appear that it will last for long.”

When Otis drops back by Kyle again, his apprentice begins trying to persuade him to let him carry the second rod. Otis reminds him that he has an F. They squabble for quite a while, until finally Otis turns _invisible_, finishing the discussion.

“Fine,” Kyle grumps, folding his arms and staring off into the distance. He gives a start. “Hey, look!” he tells the others. “Some of the elves have been taken down!”

The party hurries over to check out the situation and see what, exactly, has happened to the bodies. It turns out that some of the Xes have been ripped from the ground and left to lie; the bodies are partially consumed.

“What did this, I wonder?” Jorgen muses.

“I’ll scout as a hawk,” Dahlia says, and her form changes in just a few seconds. She spreads her wings and launches herself into the sky. Meanwhile, Otis starts searching the elven bodies, finding the predicted not much. Kyle, meanwhile, says a few words over the dead in Elven. 

A bottle of whiskey goes around at Cedric’s insistence, burning as it goes into our heroes’ bellies. “Brotherth in armth!” Lord Cedric cries. “Bound together by adventhure!”

The party continues marching after building a small cairn for the elves. Soon, they march on, and almost immediately they see a bird- whom they presume to be Dahlia- flying towards them. It leads the party on. Soon they spy a cave, and below it, a blasted crater. 

Dahlia swoops up and circles the crater, then comes back. 

Slowly, cautiously, our heroes approach until they can get a glimpse of what Dahlia is trying to tell them. When they do, the thing they see is bizarre and unnatural-looking. A brute of a giant, with three arms and an extra half a face, lounges in the crater. It looks like it’s napping.

“Oh boy,” whispers Goer. 

_*Next Time:*_ The crater giant!

*Think the Terminator without its human outer coating.

**Every day in the current environment, the pcs suffer 1 point of Con damage and put a wear point on all their magic items. Three wear points will ruin or reduce a magic item.


----------



## the Jester

*The Story of Athach*

The weird mutant giant yawns and stretches its three arms. Our heroes hurriedly drop back and begin whispering amongst themselves. Some feel that Kyle should attempt to sneak up and kill it; others feel that that would be a great way for Kyle to get himself killed. (Well, Kyle feels that, even if nobody else does.)

“Bah,” Otis Optimus snorts, ending the argument, “I shall kill from here- with my mystical powers!” And with that, the wizard stands up, glares at the sleeping mutated giant, and casts _fireball_.

The group is a good hundred yards from the giant; most of our heroes simply gape as a small red bead streaks out with amazing speed, leaving a trail of smoke twisting behind it in the air, and explodes right over the giant. Orange and yellow flames burst down, scorching the already-shattered crater. 

Otis cackles with glee.

The giant roars in anger and wakes up.

Its shaggy hair burns off in an instant. Its skin reddens and blisters, and in places it even briefly ignites. The rough hide it wears blackens and gives off smoke. It survives the blast, however, and appears nothing if not enraged. It lurches to its feet, glares- with two hideous faces- at our heroes, and picks up a big chunk of rock.

“We mutht dethtroy it!” Lord Cedric declares, and begins moving forward as quickly as he can on Thunderpuss, his brawny mare. However, the broken terrain impedes him, and he is soon frowning as he realizes that he won’t be charging anywhere soon. _This whole landscape is blasted,_ he thinks grimly. _There is no intact footing, we have seen no living folk- only the dead. There are no children singing here._

“My lord!” cries Sir Fwaigo, aghast, as Cedric moves forward. He spurs his own mount to follow as quickly as possible. The others follow suit; they have no real choice. 100 yards is too great a distance for them to close easily, and to their dismay, the giant is able to throw his rock into their midst, missing Sir Colder by only a couple of feet. The giant mutant begins moving to meet them, pulling up another rock and throwing it as he comes. This one strikes Fwaigo’s horse, which whinnies in pain and distress as the chunk of rubble smashes into it. “Forward, horse!” he cries.

“Come, beatht!” Lord Cedric taunts as he starts circling off to the side. The giant throws another rock, this one at him, but the knight ducks it. “Yeth, that’th it! Wathte your prethiouth rockth on me!” 

The giant keeps advancing, but suddenly it finds itself stepping into an area of _spike stones_ that Dahlia has created! It grunts and keeps moving forward, clearly even more angry than before. 

“Come, thtupid thing!” Cedric taunts again. “Meet my thword, and we will kill you!”

A bolt of lightning suddenly strikes down from the heavens, momentarily transfixing it. Dahlia has _called lightning._ The giant roars again; it seems to be weakening, and then a volley of _magic missiles_ strikes it from Otis. It groans, brandishing its weapon- an uprooted tree with a tangle of roots and brambles- and swatting Lord Cedric with it! The Lord Whitewater reels from the impact, but maintains his position in the saddle. Grinning, he moves in and stabs the giant mutant. “Have at thee!” he cries.

The others are starting to get in on things, too. Sheriff Jorgen charges into the foe with his lance, piercing it rather severely. Me is pelting it with sling bullets. Bolt after bolt of lightning is striking the creature. Finally, it drops its weapon and falls to its knees, clearly surrendering.

Our heroes accept the surrender, although they are wary. The creature is a dumb brute; our heroes cannot communicate with it. The closest thing to a shared language they have is Dwarven, and the giant does not speak Dwarven. A few bits of structure sound familiar to those in the party that speak the Dwarven tongue; a few words are shared. But, all in all, our heroes must communicate with the giant- whose name they take to be either Aflek or Athach or something like that- through gestures. Lord Cedric makes a generous gesture almost immediately, casting _cure light wounds_ on Athach. 

“My lord, what are you doing?” exclaims Sir Fwaigo. “We can’t trust this thing!”

“Bah,” Cedric responds, “if it cautheth any problemth, we can thlay it eathily! The thmall amount of healing that I jutht gave it would be inthignificant. Bethideth, it hath thurrendered. It ith not going to attempt any thennanigans.”

Athach leads the party first into the crater; but as Kyle (who is in the lead, searching for traps, as the party proceeds) heads in, he immediately recoils, shaken. “Something’s _wrong_ in there. There is some kind of weird energy or something.” He shakes his head. “We shouldn’t go in there.”

The group pantomimes to the giant, and a moment later the three-armed freak shuffles out of the crater. It then guides them to its cave- which Dahlia had previously seen from the air- and our heroes search it. Unfortunately, there is nothing of value or real interest inside; just old bones. Nonetheless, Sir Colder says, “Well, I’d say that encountering this guy is a good sign.”

“Huh?” asks Me.

“What do you mean?” Sir Jorgen elaborates.

“Well,” Colder answers, “he has to eat something, right? In fact, judging from the bones, he has to eat quite a bit.”

“So,” the sheriff realizes, “there must be something for him to eat.”

Sir Colder nods. 

The party puts their heads together, debating whether or not to rest for the... well, in this marooned-skied land of madness, there is neither day nor night. But they discuss resting. In the end, despite worries about the loyalty of Athach, the party decides to rest. They set heavy guards, and soon most of them are asleep. Athach seems to nap; perhaps he, too, is worried about being murdered in his sleep.

Too soon, all the watches have passed. Smoked pteranodon meat makes for a tough, stringy breakfast; and then the party presses on. 

_We must catch Harth,_ most of them think.

_Me crush traitor,_ thinks Sir Percival.

***

Our heroes approach an area with dark clouds rumbling overhead.  Lightning flashes with unnerving frequency. Several times, a bolt of electricity arcs down nearby. Then Kyle is subjected to a literal bolt from the blue, as a lightning bolt zarks down from the sky. He leaps aside, narrowly evading it. “Crikey!” he exclaims.

As they traverse the wasted land in what they are coming to know as the Age of Madness, our heroes are subject to several more random bolts. Another one nearly cooks Kyle, but he dodges it again. Lord Cedric is not so fortunate; a bolt transfixes him for a moment, and he shrieks in pain. It is not lethal, though it might have been to a lesser man; afterward, Dahlia and Cedric tend his burns. His hair is virtually floating with static electricity.

As the party climbs out of a jagged crater, they spot what appears to be a wagon about a hundred yards off.  It is turned on its side and appears badly damaged.  It appears as though the beasts that pulled it have been slain, though at this distance it is hard to be sure.

“Maybe there’s a person,” Sir Jorgen says hopefully.

The party approaches and examines the scene. Kyle and Jorgen note strange damage to the wood- some sections appear almost melted- and etched bits of metal.  Pieces of the horses that once drew the wagon are also melted away.  A corpse, apparently of the driver, is within the wagon- or at least most of his corpse is; his legs are missing. 

Unfortunately, just as our heroes are getting into a serious search of the wagon, Goer notices the ground beneath him heaving just an instant before a terrible mutant bug erupts from underneath him, biting him across the shoulders! The creature’s mandibles drip acid, and Goer cries out as the thing inflicts a terrific wound on him.

Our heroes react quickly, with Otis using one of the strange rods to fire a blast of flame at the beast. The monster squeals, then bites Jorgen as he moves in to attack. Jorgen, too, screams, for the monster inflicts a huge amount of damage on him.

“Rragh!” Athach attacks. 

Which is to say, he attacks _Jorgen._

His club smashes down, but the sheriff rolls to the side, crying out, “Athach, no!”

A crack of lightning! The mutated bug squeals again. 

Me glares at Athach and growls. He goes into a rage, angered at the thought of _traitor!_ But the bug is in the way. 

_Whissk._ His greatsword clears his baldric, gripped in both hands, and with a roar Me attacks, swinging the blade through the creature’s body and cutting it basically in half.

Athach tries to run, but Dahlia strikes him with another lightning bolt. This time, the giant staggers. Otis and Kyle fire the rods that the party found again and again, hitting the giant with one blast of flame after another, and finally Athach collapses. 

Dahlia keeps zapping it for a while just to be sure. “That thing was not natural,” she exclaims. “Two heads? Three arms?” She shakes her head, directing another bolt from her _call lightning_.

As the party prepares to move on, Otis nods to Kyle. “You did well in that battle,” he acknowledges. “Let me see your spell book.” He raises Kyle’s grade to a D- and allows him to keep the rod. “We might as well use it up,” the wizard says, “before the environment does.”

Our heroes search the wagon. The driver (who was a human) wore fine clothes (Kyle estimates that they’re worth about 5 gp; Colder takes them).  He has a purse with some coins in it (85 gp, 20 sp).  Moreover, the wagon’s contents are intact.  Most of this stuff is rather mystifying to the party- specifically, several boxes of strange, flat metal rectangles measuring about 1/8” thick, 10” wide and 30” long. The metal is a strange, light green alloy that Goer (a journeyman smith) does not recognize. There are four such boxes (measuring 32”x42”x42”), each containing over a thousand treads. Of more interest to our heroes is a lead-lined box that holds what appear to be 20 potions.

_*Next Time:*_ Our heroes spot a village!


----------



## the Jester

“It is an unbelievable wealth of magic,” Otis declares in wonder. “All of these are magical!” 

The lead-lined box, along with a strange, padded interior made of some sort of heavy woven fiber, sits before our heroes, its lid open. Within are twenty small bottles of reddish liquid.

“But how?” wonders Kyle. “This environment seems to suck the magic out of things. How could these have survived?” The lapidary-cum-wizard’s apprentice scratches his head in consternation.

“Hmmm...” Otis contemplates for a moment, and then closes the box. “Aha! The box must have some kind of special properties. When I close it, I can no longer detect the magical radiance of the potions with my magic.”

“Maybe we can tranthport the whole boxth,” Sir Cedric suggests.

“We might even be able to preserve more magic items in there!” Dahlia exclaims excitedly. 

There is a _crack_ as a lightning bolt strikes down, not far from the party. Lord Cedric cries out in startlement. Our heroes are reminded again that the very environment itself seems to be set against them in this age of madness.

“We should be coming up on the ‘safe cave’ mentioned on the map of Harth’s that we found back in the Ghost Tower,” Sheriff Jorgen muses. “We can stop there, out of the lightning storm, and check the potions out.”

Indeed, the intrepid adventurers have been following the map since they left the tower, heading towards the cave, and it is not much longer before they reach it. Along the way, however, a lightning bolt stabs down and blasts Otis! He is badly wounded. “Perhaps we should rest when we reach the cave,” Colder says wryly. 

The cave, when the party reaches it, turns out to be comfortably large, with no secondary passages. It does, however, have a spring in the back of it, which our heroes find to have a mineral flavor but to be perfectly potable. They fill a few empty skins, but are not too concerned with the issue of water, since Dahlia can create it almost at will. Kyle washes himself off as best he can in the little pool before the spring.

Outside, the lightning continues; but the bolts cannot enter the cave, and so our heroes are safe, at least for the moment. They examine the box of potions. All of the potions look exactly the safe, and it appeared to Otis (while his _detect magic_ was running earlier) that they are all radiating the same kind of magic. Boldly, the wizard drinks one of the potions.

He gasps as some of his wounds knit. 

“These are invaluable!” he exclaims. 

“And maybe we can fit other stuff in there too,” Kyle smiles.

The party tries inserting a dagger that they found into the empty space where the potion was. Unfortunately, it does not fit correctly, and it begins to tear the inner lining of the box. Otis removes the dagger immediately. “We must be careful not to damage this box,” he declares.

Then rest and recovery- especially for the life-draining aspect of this deadly era- for a period of three days. Healing spells are cast, long term care is performed, and the electrical storm is given time to pass.

It doesn’t.

So, at the end of three days, the party sets off again. The map references an apple tree, but when they find it, it is burnt and destroyed. 

The party consults the map. “According to the elf who accompanies us here from our time, Harth is heading to the capitol,” Otis says. “That isn’t on this map, but...” He pulls out the map that he found when he searched part of the field of gnomish bodies that the party found. “It _is_ on this one!” He unrolls the map and jabs his finger down.

“Then let’s go,” cries Sir Colder.

Lightning bolts strike down periodically around our heroes- sometimes _at_ our heroes. Otis is struck by a bolt again, and he again suffers a significant amount of damage. Dahlia heals him as best she can (and then casts _protection from lightning_ on herself as an afterthought), but the party is very nervous about the amount of lightning coming down. “I hope that this storm doesn’t last much longer,” Jorgen thinks aloud.

When it is time to rest, Otis takes the greatsword that the party took from the fire giant in the Ghost Tower and plants it in the ground as a lightning rod. That night, the lightning strikes twice- and each time, it hits the sword. In the morning, our heroes find that the sword is twisted and blasted by the force of the bolts; it looks unlikely to be useable again.

Under a bloody sky cracked with lightning, our heroes keep moving. The lack of any normal life is chilling. There are no birds singing, anywhere. There are no small animals, not even any insects. Here and there a few plants struggle to survive. Dahlia shudders at how unnatural the place feels.

While they travel, of course, our heroes cannot use their makeshift lightning rod technique; again, the bolts strike down. This time, one hits Otis’ horse; another hits Jorgen’s horse, almost killing it. The party extracts a potion from the box and feeds it to the horse, which helps; but the poor beast is still somewhat hurt. 

Hours of walking over jumbled terrain... the going is slow. It drags on and on. Lightning almost hits Sir Fwaigo. Broken rocks underfoot. Ankle-turning, if one is not careful. Hard on the shoes, too, Sir Colder reflects. 

No people, anywhere, at least so far. At least, _alive._

Finally, an end to the day’s walking. Our heroes fall into an exhausted slumber, with only two at a time awake and on watch. Again, they set up a makeshift lightning rod. 

Jorgen and Kyle are on watch, deep in the night. They are talking quietly, alert for trouble. Suddenly, in the distance, there is a brilliant yellow burst of light.  It is miles off, but still plainly visible in the distance.  It is followed by a second, and then a third.  The lights fade after about ten seconds. They seem to have originated miles away.

The party snaps alert and begins debating whether to investigate. “It isn’t that far out of our way,” Jorgen argues.

“But we have to catch Harth,” Otis retorts.

“We will invethtigate,” declares Lord Cedric.

The party veers off towards the apparent source of the light when they beginning traveling again. They never even know when they pass through an area whose air is ripe with the plague called the _dwimmerills_. Fortunately, none of our heroes catch the magic-impairing disease. 

As they wander across the blasted plains of the age of madness, our heroes spot a pair of strange clouds of sparks and bursting flames. The two clouds begin moving towards them. 

“Are they hostile?” wonders Kyle, casting _mage armor_ and moving back. The clouds are accelerating. 

Otis _fireballs_ them, and then draws forth the rod. The clouds are plainly harmed by his spell, but both keep moving forward. The first rushes Sir Colder, who jabs it with his longspear as it comes, but it misses him. The other flows towards the more distant Lord Cedric. 

Cedric spurs his horse, and she springs forward. With a glorious crash, the two of them charge away from the approaching cloud and into the one that is attacking Colder, but they are dismayed to discover that they cannot seem to harm it! Their blows simply cut through it ineffectively!

Jorgen charges the one that everyone is starting to dog pile with his lance. The shock of the impact splatters weird cloud-creature all over the place. Otis finishes off the other one with a volley of _magic missiles._

“What were those?” Kyle asks in wonder.

Nobody has an answer. 

The party continues to move towards the source of the flashes. Now they can spot a weird, reddish forest in the distance ahead of them. Arguments break out about whether or not this is such a good idea, and the closer to the weird forest our heroes come the more the arguments grow. But closer they get, until ahead of the party stretches a strange, warped wood.  The deformed, off-colored trees rustle even when there is no wind. A strange, muted sound, like a multitude of sighs and groans, seems to rise from the wood. The trees are strange, twisted things, of no sorts that any of our heroes can recognize. Some are the dark red color of congealed blood, others a strange, fleshy pink-brown. Still others are the grey of meat gone bad.  The smell from the weird forest is disconcerting, as well; it smells of earth mixed with blood, rot and feces. Amongst the sounds is the pattering of a gentle rain of suspect-looking fluid that splatters from the tops of the trees.

“We’re not going in there,” announces Sir Fwaigo.

“I think that the source of the flashes was a little further to the right- look!” exclaims Kyle, pointing.

In the distance is a village. But there are no signs of movement. There are cattle in the yards, however.

“You should go check that out,” Goer tells Kyle. “Aren’t you our sneaky guy?” 

“I guess so,” Kyle answers, “but...”

“Kyle, I dare you to go tie a rope to one of those cows,” Goer says.

Kyle (who just can’t seem to say no to a dare) reluctantly takes a rope and starts moving towards the nearest cattle herd. “I’m gonna get myself killed,” he grumbles.

_*Next Time:*_ Will Kyle get himself killed? Will our heroes investigate the village? And what’s the next environmental hazard that they’ll face??


----------



## Alcar

*Athach*

Afflack


----------



## the Jester

Kyle creeps forward, towards the still village. Closer... closer... closer still. He gulps nervously. He nears the cattle pen. None of the cows move. His eyes flick towards the rest of the village.

Kyle halts. His eyes bulge. “Crikey,” he whispers to himself.

Now that he is a hundred feet closer to the village than he was- than the rest of the party is- Kyle has gone up a subtle rise, and from his new elevation, he can see the bodies. The village is littered with the corpses of (presumably) its previous inhabitants. They lie scattered here and there, with no order, rhyme or reason. Kyle gulps again. He has always had a hard time refusing dares, but walking into this area just might be suicide.

Meanwhile, back at the party, Sir Fwaigo “Goer” Smith frowns. “What’s he waiting for?” he wonders. Scowling, he pulls out his shortbow and nocks an arrow. “Let’s see what happens if I shoot one of the cows!” he suggests cheefully.

Dahlia would normally object to the idea of shooting a cow; however, under the circumstances, she holds her tongue. _I doubt very much that these are normal cows,_ she thinks grimly. She watches as Goer lets fly. The shaft shoots away, arcing up into the sky and then falling to earth, sinking fletching-deep into one of the cows.

“Did you see that? That was perfect!” Sir Fwaigo crows.

“I think Kyle is heading back towards us,” Sheriff Jorgen states, pointing.

“Hey, you didn’t finish the dare!” shouts Goer.

Kyle is hurrying back. “Screw that!” he exclaims. “That cow didn’t even move when you shot it, and there are bodies everywhere in that village! I’m not going any closer to that place- I think we should just avoid it entirely.”

Another short debate breaks out, but Otis points out, “We have no time to waste; we must pursue Harth.” This causes the party to agree that there is no time to waste, and they travel onward, turning back to the northwest. (Our heroes are only sure of which direction is which because of the gnomish map that they found, and because Otis can read the strange, bubble-filled script of the gnomes.)

Soon they find the ground beneath them starting to soften. They leave footprints behind them, obvious ones; but there are no obvious tracks other than theirs that they can see. As they move along, the ground becomes softer and starts to become sticky, almost like mud. Kyle starts to have trouble lifting his feet free of the clinging ground.* In the distance, to the northeast, our heroes can see the strange, red-tinted forest that they spotted earlier. “No thank you,” mutters Sir Colder wryly. 

“This is getting ridiculous,” Kyle pants. “I need to rest.” 

Otis grumbles. 

“Unless someone wants to carry me?” the apprentice asks hopefully.

“ME!” roars Sir Percival. He lifts Kyle onto his shoulders, and the party moves on. 

The hours pass. At one point, Me has to put Kyle down in order to try to free one of his boots that the muck is reluctant to release. He cannot manage it, and moves on barefoot. The party members that are mounted find it somewhat difficult going, for their horses’ hooves tend to sink several inches deep into the ground, and any lengthy delay causes them to sink deeper still. It is as if the environment itself conspires against them. 

As our heroes proceed across the boggy area, they come to a small marsh about 60’ across.  In the center of it is small strange-looking hut raised about 5’ above the water on stilts.  The hut appears to be mostly wooden, but has what the party first takes for a stone roof. A rotting mound of vegetation hauls itself up from the marsh to oppose them, but they destroy it quickly and easily, and then they turn their attention to the hut. 

It looks to have been the scene of violence.  The body of an elf lies within it, savagely decapitated. “She was probably killed about two weeks ago,” Dahlia tells the others after briefly examining it. The interior of the hut is about 10’ in diameter and is strewn with broken effects. It contains a slashed sleeping cot, an overturned and partially burnt bookshelf, a small shelf holding a cup, bowl, knife and spoon and a small dresser that looks ransacked (articles of clothing are strewn about the hut’s interior). Searching it, our heroes find a bottle of fine elven wine that is in the corner on the floor. Otis is ecstatic to discover a partially-burnt spellbook that still has a few usable spells in it. (Later examination shows that it contains three usable spells- Otiluke’s resilient sphere, lead shield and whelming blast, none of which Otis has ever heard of before.) 

“Hmm,” he muses. “I am surprised that this spellbook maintained its potency, even inside this hut.”

“Hey, look at this,” Goer calls. “The roof isn’t actually stone- it’s _lead._”

“Ahh,” Otis breathes. “_Lead shield._ I see.” Slowly, he smiles. _I must learn this spell!_

Meanwhile, Me takes the elf’s boots. Grinning, he comments, “Me has boots.” He begins brushing the mud off of his feet and, after a few moments, he pulls the new boots on. They fit well enough, and Dahlia notes that they appear to be coated in duck oil.

“That’ll keep your feet dry,” she remarks. 

“I suspect that we can rest safely here,” Otis announces. “I believe that the lead roof will protect us, and one of the spells that is in this book is called _lead shield._ Given some time, I may be able to protect some of us from the environment.”

“Thertainly, that would be a worthy uthe of our time,” Sir Cedric lisps.

And so our heroes spend a few days resting, recovering their health, healing and- as best they can in this age of madness- relaxing. They try to stay within the confines of the little hut, making for a very crowded few days, but it is probably better than exposing themselves to the life- and magic-draining environment. Outside, the maroon sky looms overhead, ominous and omnipresent. 

Dahlia does spend some time scouting, _wild shaping_ into a bird and circling alone in the sky. Nothing else flies nearby. She beats her wings until she gains enough altitude to see miles ahead.

_A chasm,_ she realizes.

Indeed; there is a great gorge that cuts across the party’s path. Fortunately, a bridge appears to cross it. Unfortunately, at the bottom, Dahlia can see movement. Swooping closer, she is horrified.

The chasm is some 80’ across and easily 200’ deep.  The walls are sheer and acrid fumes rise up from below.  At the bottom, a field of hundreds of impaled bodies is plainly visible even from her vantage point high above, and large, demonic forms tending them are visible by the dozens.

_They’re mostly off to the side of the bridge, on both sides. I wonder..._ 

She _calls lightning,_ and a moment later a bolt of electricity shoots down from the sky at one of the great frog-like creatures. To her shock, there is no effect. 

The demon vanishes. A few moments later, it reappears- and about a dozen more appear with it.

_Uh-oh,_ she thinks. 

Dahlia swiftly flies away, taking a very circuitous route back to the hut in the small swamp. Her mind spins. _How are we going to get across that?_ she wonders.

_*Next Time:*_ How _will_ our heroes cross the bridge- or will they fail?? Find out next update!

*Kyle is the low-strength character in the party.


----------



## the Jester

“We will have to be very cautious,” Otis opines grimly. “From Dahlia’s description, if we are not careful, we may be beset by a large number of demonic enemies.”

“If we can get close enough,” Kyle offers, “I can turn _invisible_ and sneak across the bridge to scout it out.”

“Be careful,” warns Sir Colder. 

“Oh, believe me,” Kyle replies, “I will.”

***

Under a featureless maroon sky, with no sun or stars, our heroes trek from the sticky, swampy area and move forwards towards the bridge. The great chasm that it crosses comes into view soon enough, and as the party approaches the edge, Dahlia warns them of the horrors that she saw- hundreds of bodies impaled, some of them still alive and tormented by the demons below. It is a sickening garden of pain.

“Perhaps we could try to rescue them,” Sheriff Jorgen muses, but Dahlia shakes her head.

”Believe me, there are _too many demons._ It would be suicide.”

“I don’t know how much we should interfere with this time anyway,” Kyle adds. “What if we mess up the past, and damage _our_ present?”

The group proceeds in near silence. Shortly, the bridge comes into view- a rickety, wood-and-rope affair that looks unreliable and rather perilous. Gusts of wind shake it, and the creaking sounds of the cords that are strung across to the far side of the gap is all too audible.

“Our hortheth will not be able to croth thith bridge,” Lord Cedric points out. 

“We don’t have a choice,” Otis replies. “We must not let Sir Harth escape us! It will take us miles out of our way to go around.”

Cedric remains silent, but he places his hand on Thuderpuss’ flank.

“You’re up, Kyle,” Goer says cheerfully.

With a gulp, Kyle turns _invisible_ and begins to slowly, cautiously cross the bridge. It sways under his slight frame, and the creaking sound seems to grow louder. He swallows nervously, hoping that the bridge can hold his weight (_I’m light as a feather,_ he reassures himself).

Kyle looks down.

Gasping, he squeezes his eyes shut. _That was a bad idea,_ he thinks. Clenching his teeth, he continues his advance, foot by foot working his way towards the other side. His friends are clustered about a dozen feet from the edge of the gorge, where Kyle can easily see them but they should be hidden from view from the demons in the bottom of the chasm. _Fortunately,_ Kyle thinks, _there is only one really close by. As long as we don’t make a huge ruckus, we’re probably fine..._

He is almost across the bridge, now- no more than 20’ to go. And then he grows cold as a terrible-looking troll emerges from the rocks at the far side. The muscles of its arms are strange; they seem to ripple and flow, almost like liquid.

The troll rumbles out a laugh and coughs, “I can _smell_ you.”*

Otis- back on the near side of the bridge- does not hesitate for even a moment. _I hope Kyle isn’t too far forward,_ he thinks grimly, and launches a _fireball._

Everything happens very quickly.

The troll howls, staggering backwards as the flames lick up around it. Simultaneously, caught in the blaze of fire, the ropes at the far end of the bridge crumbles to ash, and Kyle can hear the _snap_ of the ropes breaking apart. “Oh crap,” he whimpers, and wraps several of the ropes around his arm- and then the far end of the bridge drops away, swinging back towards the near wall of the canyon, slamming into it with incredible force and almost bouncing Kyle free and down into the demon gap below. Gasping, the elfblood starts to slowly climb. He glances down just in time to see the demon, which had been idly poking at the impaled victims below, vanish.

Above, where the rest of our heroes stand ready at the top, the demon appears from nowhere is a puff of foul-smelling vapor. It guffaws crudely and opens its large, dagger-toothed mouth in a wide grin. The party and it exchange a few tentative blows, none of which even _hit_ the demon; its casual, backhand claw, on the other hand, nearly tears Jorgen’s arm from its socket. 

“Fall back!” shouts Goer.

“What about Kyle?” cries Dahlia.

Cedric, Lord of Whitewater, gives a wild battle cry and _charges_ the demon.

He half-expects it to kill him in a single blow; as he closes with it, it smacks at him, but his shield takes the worst of it. “RAAAAAGHH!!!” he roars, slamming into the demon with all his might, bull rushing it back- and off of the edge of the cliff! He watches triumphantly as the fat, frog-like thing plunges down, down- onto one of the stakes on which the bodies below are impaled! 

“Serves you right!” Sir Colder shouts after it. 

Kyle, meanwhile, finally reaches the top of the rope bridge, which is hanging rather precariously from its moorings at the near end of the canyon. Gasping, he pulls himself up and announces his presence. 

“Uh-oh,” Lord Cedric mutters.

Below, on the stake, the demon twitches. Its arms flail about. And then- it vanishes.

“Let’s get out of here!” cries Jorgen. “Those things seem to be able to move from place to place instantly, like that demon that was working with Sir Harth!”

“It’s probably going to get its friends,” Sir Colder says. “I concur with the sheriff. Let’s get away from here!”

The party moves away as fast as they can, riding double where possible and leaving the fastest on foot to run alongside. The demon gap recedes behind them as they retreat, and no pursuit is apparent. After a few minutes they halt to discuss their next course of action.

“Clearly, we have to go around the canyon,” Sheriff Jorgen states. “I don’t think going through it is an option. What do we know about the terrain?”

Dahlia replies, “Well, as a bird, I could see that there are mountains in one direction and that weird red forest in the other. The forest is closer, and I could tell that the canyon draws to a close a couple of miles inside of it.”

“So we would have to go into that unwholesome place,” muses Goer.

“Me not like woods!” Me exclaims.

“On the other hand, the mountains are back the way we came- in fact, I think that they’re the same mountains that we passed through when we left the Ghost Tower. It’s reverse progress, and I couldn’t see the end of the chasm.”

The party debates for a few moments, but Otis’ argument remains very persuasive: _There is no time. We have to catch Harth. No backtracking!_

“At leatht we did not have to leave our mountth behind,” Cedric says gratefully as the party turns towards the strange twisted woods.

As they make their way across the mad land, our heroes are alert for signs of pursuit from the demons of the canyon. None seems to be coming, however, and their nervous glances at the chasm to the north almost cause them to miss the next threat coming their way.

Whirring and clicking, two _machines_ come over a rise before the party. They halt and survey our heroes for a moment. Roughly man-sized, roughly man-shaped, they are clearly artificial. Like skeletons of metal and glass, with long sharp blades built into their hands, the things are clearly of the same ilk as the shattered specimens that our heroes found earlier amongst the dead of one of the battlefields that they have stumbled upon here. One of them shows some signs of damage.**

Colder steps up. “Where are your masters!” he barks. “Go back, I command you!”

But the machines seem to focus on him, Dahlia and Kyle- the three of our heroes with elven blood in their veins. 

They speak in unison, a single word that our heroes cannot comprehend, but its meaning is quite clear. The machines move to attack.

The battle is furious. 

There are only two of the things, but they are fast and deadly, springing into battle, leaving telling wounds and springing back out. The party quickly finds that the machines are deadly precise with their blades. They are also very magic resistant; neither Kyle’s _magic missiles_, nor Dahlia’s _call lightning,_ can do much of anything to them. No, this is a fight that will only be won with sweat and steel. Thunderpuss, Sir Cedric astride her, throws her chest into one of them, knocking it back, and Cedric strikes at it with his bastard sword. Jorgen, Me and Goer all put their best efforts forward. The constructs are too quick, difficult to damage, almost impossible to stop! When blades do manage to connect, they seem to mostly deflect from the hard metal of the killing machines. 

Finally, Sir Fwaigo, using all the strength developed in his arms over years at the forge, manages to land a blow solid enough to crash through one of the constructs’ head. Sparks and smoke flare out, and the first of the creatures seizes up, freezes and topples. The lights glowing behind its eyes dim and die.

Then everyone is able to surround the other one, and though it cuts and thrusts into our heroes with deadly skill, its movements are impeded. Able to focus better, to aid one another in landing solid blows, it only takes our heroes a few more seconds to finish it. With a pair of great hews, Sir Percival (“Me”) cuts the remaining war machine nearly in half!

All around them, wiring, nuts and bolts, springs, broken bits of metal and glass and strange, unidentifiable things litter the ground. Weird oil and lubricating fluids are pooling on the ground, slowly seeping into the cracked and blasted earth. 

Kyle starts digging through the mess, looking for anything interesting that he can salvage. 

“Me hurt,” comments Me. He is bleeding from several deep wounds. Dahlia and Lord Cedric are tending the party’s worst wounds. 

“Perhaps we should rest,” suggests Otis. “My spells are depleted, we are wounded and tired...”

“Let’s at least get away from here first,” suggests Jorgen. “For all we know, there may be more of these things coming.”

That idea is enough for Kyle to give up on trying to extract one of the eyes from the more-intact war machine head. Our heroes move away for about half an hour, then halt, make camp and set watches. Those not on watch settle in to a troubled night’s sleep- at least, as much as it can be called night when there is no difference in the sky from one minute to the next. Their night is uninterrupted; and in the morning, as refreshed as they can be in the life-draining land that they are forced to traverse, they break camp.

As they are packing their gear, Otis casts a spell upon himself: his new discovery, _lead shield._ He casts another on Kyle. “That should protect you from the disabling properties of this land, as well as preserving the dweomers of your magic,” the wizard tells his apprentice. 

And they move on towards the strange forest.

As they travel, they once again come onto a ravaged battlefield.  This one is strange and disconcerting, however, for no clothes, armor, weapons or other things remain: only naked corpses, terrifically damaged. They show the signs of battle, including cuts and stab wounds, but nowhere is even a single broken spear or a tattered remnant of a banner. The ground itself looks scoured, and rather than the churned earth one normally finds at the sight of a battle, there are only pitted stones and broken gravel. There are probably several hundred corpses here, all of them apparently human.

“Bad magic,” grunts Me.

“I think you’re right,” Otis says slowly. So far, he has been the one to insist on at least a cursory search of the battlefields that the party has come across; but this time, he decides against it. After all, there is no sign of any treasure (as the only things visible on the field are naked corpses), but there is a real chance of danger.

_We must pursue Harth. There is no time._

The party moves on, and soon they are near the horrible wood again. Ahead of the group stretches a strange, warped wood. The deformed, off-colored trees rustle even without wind. From the woods, strange groaning and spattering sounds emerge. The twisted trees are distinctly unnatural, more the colors of meat than of plants, from the dark red color of congealed blood to a strange, fleshy pink-brown or the grey of meat gone bad. The smell from the weird forest is disconcerting, as well; it smells of earth mixed with blood, rot and excrement. 

“No,” Dahlia murmurs to herself, “I don’t like this _at all._”

_*Next Time:*_ Within the Warped Wood!

*Speaking in Elven.

**Think of them as being similar to the Terminator, once all the human-looking junk is stripped away.


----------



## the Jester

Dahlia shudders as she passes beneath the spoiled trees. She shivers when a droplet of some strange, greasy fluid falls on her from above. Her nostrils flare at the unnatural, strange odors emanating from the place. 

It is horribly _unnatural._ It is _abnormal_- in fact, it is an _abomination._

And yet, there is no choice.

Her gorge rising, she reluctantly follows her friends beneath the pink and grey boughs of the warped wood. Neither the sights, nor the sounds, nor the smells of the place are right. To Dahlia, who is tightly tuned to the normal rhythms of nature, it is an experience both disgusting and terrifying. She glances at her companions; they are all plainly disturbed and unsettled by it, but they simply do not understand just how fundamentally _wrong_ the forest is. 

She shudders again. After a moment’s thought, she turns into a bird and flies up, slightly above the canopy. To hell with being in this forest.

***

Pushing through a thick mass of pulsating growth, our heroes see a bizarre creature, like a rabbit but with a single twisted horn coming from its brow, sitting atop a greenish stump, covered in vines with flowers sprouting from the top.  It cocks its little bunny head, the sharp-looking horn swiveling around as it looks at them.

“What,” Lord Cedric cries, “ith that??”

“I believe,” Otis replies calmly, “that it is called an _al-mi’raj_. We should leave it be.”*

“Very well, on your recommendathion,” Lord Cedric says. He glares at the al-mi’raj suspiciously for a moment.

Suddenly, the stump erupts with tentacles that reach out, battering and grabbing- Goer! With a cry, Sir Fwaigo is torn from the saddle and ripped into the air! He yelps and tries to draw his sword as tentacles pummel him, but he is knocked unconscious before he can even finish pulling it from its sheath!

“Goer!” cries Lord Cedric.

Kyle and Otis both blast the weird creature with _magic missiles,_ while Sir Percival- Me- moves forward. Cedric charges in on Thunderpuss, slamming his lance’s tip deep into the stump that the ‘al-mi’raj’ is sitting on. Weird, gravy-like fluid beings flowing sluggishly out of the wound. Thunderpuss slams a hoof down, pounding into one of the tentacles. The creature squeals in pain. 

Jorgen, meanwhile, pulls out his rope. It is already tied into a lariat, suitable for catching wrong-doers; as the sheriff, he never knows when he might need it. He whirls it above his head, spreading it open, and then flicks his wrist- and lassos Goer! He begins tugging at him, trying to pull him free of the weird plant-bunny-monster thing’s firm grip. 

Then Me charges into the fray. The monster is too distracted by its tug-of-war against Jorgen to land a blow on the pissblood as he rushes in; and then, in a single mighty stroke, Me finishes the thing off, hacking it nearly completely in two! Sick-smelling, gravy-like stuff spews all over. Me roars, Goer falls, released, to the ground, where Dahlia is flittering down to join the group (and thus is able to quickly stabilize his wounds), and everyone heaves a sigh of relief.

“This place,” Sir Colder grimaces, “disturbs me greatly, mangle dangle.”

“You’re not the only one,” Sheriff Jorgen nods with a hollow laugh.

The party continues; what else can they do? The same thought goes through all of their minds: _Harth. Must stop Harth. Catch him, stop him. Harth. Harth the traitor._ Even simple Percival, who cannot say his own name due to its having three syllables, is on the same line of thought as his companions.

After following a small creek for a moment, the party spies a strange hut sequestered amongst the weird trees of the wood.  It is a hovel, really; it looks to be of slipshod make, and that is assessing it generously. 

“Could there actually be someone _living here?_ In this forest??” Kyle seems dumbfounded. 

“Probably just more corpses,” Sir Colder opines. The party moves up towards the hut and opens the door.

An old, balding half-elf stands up within as the door swings open. He has a silver corona of hair dusting the top of his head, but that is all. Wire spectacles perch atop a crooked nose. His chin is prominent. He is thin but not scrawny, with a suit of armor made of the hide of some thick-skinned beast. He says something in a demanding tone of voice, but none of our heroes can understand it. 

“We mean you no harm,” Sir Jorgen says, hurriedly stepping forward before someone else opens their mouth and ruins all hope of making friends with this guy. “We’re hunting some powerful criminals. We need to stop them. Can you help us?”

The half-elf stares at him. 

 “Who is this guy?” Goer demands. “What is he doing here? I don’t think we can trust him, not if he lives out here.”

“We need to try to talk to him,” Jorgen insists. At his urging, the party tries all the languages that they know collectively. Unfortunately, the hermit doesn’t respond to any of them. 

“I don’t trust him,” Goer repeats. 

“Well, what do you suggest? We certainly can’t just kill him. For all we know, he is one of the last survivors of the entire kingdom here.” Jorgen shrugs.

Sir Colder adds, “For all we know, he might be your ancestor.”

“That’s a sobering thought,” Kyle says with a nervous chuckle. “We should be very careful about changing things back here, in case it messes up our time.” 

“‘Your time’? What do you mean, ‘your time’?” the hermit demands, in perfect Kamendan.

_*Next Time:*_ The twisted hermit!

*In all fairness, Otis’ player instantly knew what this beastie was.


----------



## the Jester

*The Twisted Hermit*

Otis bows respectfully to the strange half-elven hermit. “Our situation,” he says gravely, “is complicated... but it is gratifying to find a rational, living person. Tell us, how is it that you have survived here? This forest does not seem... safe.”

The hermit gives Otis a sharp look. “Well, you didn’t answer my question,” he notes. 

“You need to answer _our_ questions!” Sir Fwaigo snaps. “How are you surviving out here? Who are you? Whose side are you on?”

“Have you theen,” Lord Cedric interjects, “any other people, traveling? Perhapth with a beholder- that ith, a thtrange ball of eyeth that floatth through the-”

“You should mind your familiar,” the hermit snaps at Otis, ignoring the others. He glares at the bird-form of Dahlia, who was trying to sneak into the hermit’s hut.

Dahlia mentally shrugs. She could play the familiar, and try to trick this weird hermit; but she sort of relates to him, as she is a crazy hermit herself. So she changes back to her normal form and nods to the hermit. “I am no familiar,” she announces.

The hermit frowns darkly. “Well, you stay out of my hut unless I invite you in! Don’t you think that it’s rude to go into someone’s home uninvited? Punks.”

“Look, we mean you no harm,” Goer says, growing exasperated. “We’re trying to catch some criminals from our time that are headed to your capitol.”

“My capitol?” the hermit asks archly. “What makes you think that I have a capitol?”

“The capitol of Palantia,” Lord Cedric throws in. 

“Perhaps you could help us pass through this, ah, lovely forest of yours,” Kyle hints. “Then we’d be out of your hair right away.”

“I don’t,” the hermit retorts flatly, “have much hair.”

“Well, figuratively speaking-”

“And what makes you think that this is my forest?”

“Well, you’re living here,” Kyle answers lamely. 

“Look, how _are_ you surviving out here?” Goer demands.

“Have you theen thith thymbol?” Cedric queries, producing Harth’s ancestral ring. His symbol- a rose wrapped round a sword- is etched upon the face of it. 

“Wait, wait...” The hermit holds up a hand. Everyone goes quiet after a moment, Goer fuming. “You’re all talking too fast. Start over. Who are you, and what do you want?”

Dahlia speaks up. “We’re sorry to bother you- I know you probably just want to be left alone- but we are pursuing a criminal and his beholder ally and his cult. He is trying to capture powerful weapons to take back to our homeland, and we’re trying to stop him. But there’s a big canyon full of demons that we can’t pass through, so we are trying to go around it. This weird, warped wood that we are in seems really dangerous, but you’re doing all right here. We were hoping that you could lead us to a path, or give us directions, or something, so that we can get around the canyon and back out of the woods.”

“You don’t have to talk so loudly,” the hermit complains.

“Sorry,” Dahlia sighs. 

The hermit rubs his chin. He seems lost in thought.

“Please,” Otis asks, “if you have any knowledge that would help us-”

“Knowledge? That would help you? Wait here.” The hermit moves back inside his little hut, slamming the door behind him. About five minutes pass before he returns, bearing a book (which he hands to Otis). “This should have some helpful knowledge in it. It’s about art history. Do you know anything about art history?”

“Not much,” admits Otis. “Thank you.” He glances at the book, but cannot understand the script on the cover. _A great treasure,_ he thinks to himself. _Knowledge- any knowledge- from this period may prove invaluable._

“Really, I can’t imagine what they teach you kids these days,” the hermit says sourly. “You kids don’t seem to ‘get it’, if you know what I mean.” He shakes his head. “Anyway, yes, I can lead you to a path that will get you out of here, and without you encountering the gibbering heap. I _can_- I _could._” 

“The what?” Goer exclaims.

“Do you know anything about those metal skeleton things we keep seeing?” asks Jorgen. 

“Have you theen thith thymbol?” repeats Cedric.

“And what do you eat out here?” wonders Dahlia. “Would you like a berry? They’re quite fulfilling.”

He peers at her proffered berry suspiciously. “No,” he snaps. With a shrug, Dahlia eats the _goodberry_ herself. 

The hermit frowns, glancing from person to person. “Wait, wait, wait!” he barks. “You’re talking too fast! Slow down, you’re confusing me!”

Our heroes collectively grit their teeth. Getting information from this frustrating old hermit is like pulling teeth from a wild steer! 

“Thith thymbol,” Lord Cedric repeats.

“And there is no need to shout!” yells the hermit. And then he adds, “That looks like some kind of symbol of love.”

“It is the heraldry of our foe, Sir Harth,” Jorgen informs him.

“What is your name?” Dahlia asks.

“Me!” pipes up Me.

“I am called Randall,” the half-elf sniffs. 

“Has this forest always been like this?” the druid asks again.

“Like this? Of course not!” Randall exclaims. “This happened during the war.”

“The war?” asks Sir Colder.

Randall sighs. “I cannot believe how ignorant you are! Where have you been while the world fell apart?”

Dahlia replies, “We are from... another time.”

“Oh, so you’re finally going to answer my first question,” Randall snorts disdainfully.

“From the future,” the druid goes on. “We _are_ ignorant. In our time, all of this is forgotten. The world is a primitive place, with nowhere near the magical powers you seem to have in this time. All the elves are gone. Please- anything you can tell us would be very helpful. Who was the war with? What was it about?”

Randall nods. “Your story is unbelievable.”

Dahlia shrugs eloquently. 

“But then, so is everything else these days,” the strange hermit mutters. He sighs. Goer opens his mouth to talk again, but Randall jabs a finger at him and hushes him. “The war was with the elves, of course. It was all because the _stupid humans_-” he glares at the party- “thought that the elves knew the secret of immortality, and wouldn’t share it.”

“But isn’t that just because of the way elves _are_?” Dahlia inquires.

“Yes, but the humans didn’t believe it. They figured it must be some kind of magical potion or ointment given to elven babies. Fools! They understood nothing. Bah, that’s why I am here- no one ever understands me.”

“I can relate to that,” Dahlia muses. “I live alone, away from the townsfolk, in my time. They’re always calling me a witch and they think I’m to blame for whatever misfortune they have.”

“Yes!” Randall shouts. “Three-eyed calves, poisoned wells, ill weather- oh, it must be Randall. Bah!” 

“Better to be alone,” nods Dahlia. The two hermits eye each other. It seems as though Dahlia’s words have struck a common chord in Randall. Suddenly he becomes much more helpful, and- although mixed with invective and bitterness- information begins to flow out of the twisted hermit. He tells them that the metal skeleton constructs are called, quite simply, war machines. They are agents of the Palantian military, sent out roving to destroy the elven invaders. Sir Colder wonders why the war machines attacked the (mostly human) party. Randall replies that Palantian citizens are marked magically when they are born; that is how many magical effects know where to propagate, or where not to propagate. He shows Dahlia his secret garden of weird, fleshy plants with fruits that strongly resemble organs.

”But how can you live on this?” she wonders. “Is it harmful?”

“To others, yes. But not to me,” Randall replies smugly, “I’m a twisted hermit.” He scrutinizes her. “I could teach you,” he offers. 

She considers the offer as she continues to draw out more information from him. Sheriff Jorgen is relieved to hear that the Warped Wood (as Randall refers to it) is _not_ home to any vampires. Simultaneously, meanwhile, Goer tries to teach Me to play rock paper scissors, with hilarious but unsuccessful results. 

“Would you like some apple seeds?” Dahlia offers.

Randall almost chokes up at the offer. It seems to be the deciding factor for him, as he offers to lead our heroes around the ‘gibbering forest’, whatever that is. Soon the party is moving through the weird, meaty forest. Suspect fluids spatter down from above; odd smells drift through the air. After a few hours, they hear a faint gibbering in the distance, but with Randall’s help they circumvent it. 

“This wood was once home to many elves,” Randall tells the party. “It weeps for their murders. This was murder, not war. That’s what the fluid is, at least some of it- the blood of the elves.”

Whatever it is, it makes our heroes queasy. Dahlia tries to talk to the woods, and they seem to almost sing a sad dirge to the elves; and then, about five hours after Randall begins to lead them away, he stops. “Just keep going straight along this path,” he directs the group. “It will lead you out. I am going home.”

“Why?” asks Jorgen. “Maybe you should come with us. It might be safer-”

“My home is safe enough,” Randall retorts, “for _me._”

The sheriff shrugs. “Very well, then; thank you.”

An hour later, they exit the strange wood.

_*Next Time:*_ A piece of normal! Another village! And signs of Sir Harth’s group!!


----------



## the Jester

Trudging under the sunless maroon sky, our heroes continue their journey towards the capitol city, or whatever remains of it.

”We’ve been here for weeks, probably,” Kyle says suddenly, “and we’ve only found one friendly person. The elf was right, when we arrived- there’s no help to be had.”

It is a gloomy thought. None of the others respond to his words, leaving them hanging in the air. The only thing that allows the party to feel any hope is the fact that they _know_ that things get better. After all, they are from the future, and though the insane power of magic evident everywhere here has been lost, civilization has rebuilt itself over time.

Our heroes clamber up a pile of blasted rocks- and gasp. They stop in wonder.  About 50’ ahead i a beautiful grove of trees, verdant with growth and singing with birds.  A ring of standing stones surrounds it.  The whole thing is in stark contrast to the devastation all around it, and measures about 30’ in diameter.

“What the hell is this?” demands Sir Fwaigo indignantly. “This can’t be right!”

“No,” Dahlia whispers. “It _is_ right- the rightest thing we have seen since we got here. I can feel Nature in it...” She half-closes her eyes. A smile wanders across her face. 

Carefully, the party advances into the circle. Normal plants and animals are thriving in unnatural numbers. A central pool offers water. The great stones- menhirs- loom above them. Dahlia feels an almost-overwhelming desire to touch one, but she resists, casting a suspicious glance at the stones.

The party dallies in the area for a while. Dahlia speaks to some of the animals, who seem frightened of the area surrounding the circle. She also speaks to the trout in the pool, then catches oe for Jorgen, who cooks it. 

It is the most relaxed our heroes have been since they plunged through the portal to this terrifying apocalyptic landscape.

After a time, Dahlia begins to frown. Something makes her stomach turn. Something is not right- and, the more she thinks about it, the more she realizes that it is her. She looks at the stones closely; there are similar, ancient standing stones of unknown origin in her home land- could these be the same? Slowly, a sad realization dawns on her. “They reject me,” she groans. “I’m not natural to them- none of us are- because we’re not from this time!”

“Oh. Perhapth we thould leave?” Lord Cedric asks her.

She sighs and nods. Sadly but fairly quickly, our heroes leave the circle of stones behind, and the life that it carries. 

“That was cheering,” remarks Sir Colder happily. “We’ve now seen that some life survives fairly well, at least in the short term.”

Sheriff Jorgen nods and smiles. “You’re right. I hadn’t thought about it that way, but that was a wonderfully _hopeful_ sign.”

***

Hours and hours, miles and miles they travel- and then Me grunts and points. “Me see something!” the big dumb loveable half-orc rumbles.

The others stop and peer in the direction that he is pointing. He pulls forth his spyglass for the party when asked, grinning tuskily. It appears as though there is a small walled village ahead.

“We should at least check it out,” Goer says. “Maybe Harth left some signs there.”

The party moves forward. The walls are of an unfamiliar white material that is neither ceramic nor stone nor metal. 

”Goer, do you have any idea what this is?” asks Jorgen. “You’re a smith.”

“I am too!” Lord Cedric declares. “By the power of my pinky finger!”

“Well,” Sir Fwaigo “Goer” Smith answers the sheriff, “it’s not metal, I can assure you of that.” He taps on it with his finger. “I don’t know...” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I can’t identify it.”

The party continues moving along the edge of the wall until they come to a damaged section. It shows the signs of great violence.  All around it, the ground is scorched and damaged.  Bits of rock and metal are actually melted here and there around the area.  A section of wall about 10’ wide gapes open, clearly blasted by considerable power.

Carefully, our heroes move through the wall at the destroyed section and look the village over. There is a building that might be some kind of church, with a weird instrument at the top of it, not far from their entry point; a circle of stones is a bit further to the left. Houses and small businesses are also in the town, as well as an orchard, an inn, and a smithy. Over a section of the town are strange, translucent sheets, strung between long poles thrust into the ground. 

Otis moves to explore the building with the roof-mounted instrument while Dahlia reluctantly moves towards this new circle of stones. Otis looks over the large building as he approaches. It has the look of a church.  It is tall, with stained glass windows that have been shattered, and a high, peaked roof.  In the center of the roof is a dome that ‘bubbles’ up from the main body of the church, with broken windows facing up and out.  Apparently it is (or was) some kind of observatory.

“Interesting,” the wizard murmurs to himself, and throws open the heavy oaken doors of the thing. Within are metal hounds. Immediately he pulls the doors back shut and begins making his way back towards the others. _Best to get the warriors,_ he thinks.

Behind him, there is a _crash!_ and the doors shudder in their frame.

Ahead of him-

As Dahlia moves into the circle, one of the menhirs begins to uproot itself from the ground. She takes a cautious step back, but suddenly the ground under her feet turns to mud. She spares a glance over her shoulder- the effect has caught several of her friends, as well!

Lord Cedric, mounted on Thunderpuss, leans and gives a wordless cry. Thunderpuss leaps forward out of the mud, and they slog in to melee with the thing. As they do, it lashes out and catches Cedric a glancing blow across the shoulder. 

“Aagh!” he cries out, stiffening. For a moment it is as if a skull is superimposed on his face. 

“Beware!” he gasps. “It will drain the life from you!”* He returns the elemental creature’s blow with a mighty strike of his sword- and is dismayed to see its stone nature turn most of the blow. Jorgen and Goer rush to the attack through the mud, but both of them find their blows are useless. 

Otis, appalled at the way things are going, fires a volley of _magic missiles_ at the weird elemental thing. It looks like a great stone face with arms and legs coming out of it- and yet, from Cedric’s warning, likely tainted with unlife!** _Bah,_ the wizard thinks. _Whatever it is, we’ll destroy it._ He is just getting ready to hit it with another spell when he hears the sound of shattering wood and the metal hounds come bounding out of the church.

One of them is coming for him. 

He fires off a maximized _magic missile_ at the onrushing gear hound. Metal _spangs_ as the force missiles blast into it. It keeps coming. 

Meanwhile, the party warriors surround and attack the undead elemental. Jorgen and Goer insist on missing; Cedric’s blow barely scratches it. He froths angrily, spluttering and ranting. Then Me, raging and shouting, smashing his sword into the creature and actually noticeably damages it! Our heroes cheer themselves for a second, but then one of the gear hounds bounds up and bites Otis! The wizard gives a cry as the construct shakes him viciously back and forth, then drops him. The other one lunges into the mud, but seems to have a little bit more difficulty in it than most of our heroes.

Dahlia has fallen back long enough to cast a spell; now, at last, she completes it. A bolt of lightning cracks down from the sky, blasting the elemental- but to no avail. _Spell resistance,_ she realizes. _Well, at least I can try the dogs..._ She stops herself. _Better yet!_ she thinks, and casts _heat metal_ on the metal dogs. 

The elemental lashes out, smashing Me and Goer’s horse, but missing Thunderpuss. It is a whirlwind of rocky death energy- not good news, if you’re the one that it is smacking around. Me visibly withers as the pall of negative energy accumulates on him; Goer’s horse screams and tries to rear, but the mud prevents it from completely pulling free. 

The metal dog ravaging Otis continues to, well, ravage Otis, biting him, shaking him, rolling him and tearing at him. He knows that there is no way that he can possibly cast a spell under these conditions. Instead, he struggles to draw out his rod, and then fires it. A jet of flame shoots out, catching both gear hounds and damaging them both. The other hound is still struggling to free itself from the mud. Otis groans. There is blood all over him from this beast’s rough treatment! He grits his teeth and does his best to fight back, but the construct has him overpowered. He recognizes the blaze of Kyle’s (less powerful) _magic missile_ zip in on his adversary, and is grateful; yet it is not enough to drop the accursed thing! He blasts with the rod again, but to no avail- it still holds him, still shakes him! Worse yet, its jaws are growing hot- almost red hot! He hisses through his teeth. _If it is Dahlia’s work, at least it will hurt the hound more than it hurts me,_ he fervently hopes. 

Now bolts of lightning are shooting down at the stuck dog. It finally manages to get free of the mud, just in time to meet Dahlia’s badger. The two are soon tearing at each other. Fortunately, the badger’s natural armor has been thickened by magic, making it very difficult for the gear hounds to damage it.

Meanwhile, Lord Cedric, Goer, Jorgen and Me keep up their assault on the necromental. Me accompanies his blows with mighty roars; Lord Cedric announces his assault “by the power of my pinky finger!” Bit by bit, they are chipping away at it- but its continued replies to our heroes and their mounts are wearing down their own life energy.

Kyle is down to arrows now, and he is firing into the gear hound-Otis grapple in desperation. “Master!” he cries. The hound gives Otis another vicious shake, and the wizard goes limp. The hound drops his bloody body and gives a tinny bark.

“No! Master!” Kyle cries. His next arrow catches the dog- already glowing orange from the heat of Dahlia’s earlier spell- right in the eye. There is a shower of sparks and smoke begins pouring out of the hound’s head. It collapses.

Almost simultaneously, Lord Cedric lands the pounding blow that finishes off the elemental terror. It shatters into hundreds of small stones. Me turns to the last remaining enemy- the other dog- and destroys it in a single mighty blow!

“Master!” Kyle cries again. He rushes over to the rag doll figure of the wizard.

Still alive. Barely, but still alive. The party quickly applies some first aid. 

“We need a place to rest,” opines Sir Jorgen.

“I bet the smithy is defensible,” Goer suggests.

“Let’s check it out.” The sheriff nods. 

The smithy has a shingle with a hammer and anvil painted upon it hanging above the door. Large windows, open to the elements, almost fill the front face of the building.  Behind the building, a large pool of water sits silently. The back side of the building looks like an attached outbuilding, with some kind of large chimney and a collection of large metal or metal-plated areas. The interior proves to have a number of smithing tools interesting enough for Goer and Cedric to take them.

”No bodies,” muses Jorgen. “Nobody around either, though.”

“Once again: creepy.” Kyle shivers. 

“Maybe a houthe would be better,” suggests Cedric. “More comfortable. More thuited to people of our thature and renown.”

Our heroes begin their search.

_*Next Time:*_ Our heroes continue their search of the town! Where are all the people? And will there be any signs of Sir Harth and his band? Find out- next time!

*Cedric just became the proud owner of a negative level. 

**For anyone who’s curious, this was a necromental galeb duhr.


----------



## the Jester

Our Heroes:

*Lord Cedric of Whitewater* (male human knight 3/cleric 4; Lord Whitewater; bears the rank of Captain)
*Sir Fwaigo "Goer" Smith* (male human fighter 7; bears the rank of Captain)
*Sir Colder* (male human fighter 4/rogue 3; bears the rank of Captain)
*Sir Percival "Me"* (male half-orc barbarian 4/scout 3; bears the rank of Captain)
*Sir Jorgen Boatwright* (male human fighter 4/rogue 3; bears the rank of Captain; sheriff of Whitewater)
*Lady Dahlia Laagos* (female elfblood druid 8; gentrified; granted title over the ruins of Castle Laagos)
*Kyle Goldenbow* (male elfblood rogue 4/wizard 3; gentrified)
*Otis Optimus* (male human wizard 7; gentrified)

*****

It seemed like a good point to update the party roster...

Please note that the "knight" class used in this campaign is NOT the one in the PH2; I created it as a paladin substitution for this campaign, significantly before the PH2 was out. I've stuck with it for simplicity's sake, though- in all fairness- I prefer the one in the PH2. Oh well, next time.... Also note that an 'elfblood' is mechanically equivalent to a half-elf, but is a human with a reasonable to substantial amount of elven blood; the flavor is different, especially given that there are no elves. Note too that several of our heroes are listed as bearing the rank of Captain. This refers to the decorations that they received after the Battle of Kamenda, and the rank applies in dealings with the Kamendan army. Any pc noted as "Sir" so-and-so has been knighted; this makes him a low-level member of the nobility, and entitles them to many perquisites, including the right to own land, the right to lord over serfs on land that they own or protect, the right to hospitality from other nobles, the right to hunt certain beasts that are off-limits to the peasantry, etc. Several others are "gentrified," which gives them only the right to own land.


----------



## the Jester

Our heroes, at heart, are small-town boys and girls. But they have been drawn into a dangerous chase that none of them will abandon. Trapped in a time of apocalypse, beneath an unnatural, maroon sky, our heroes desperately pursue their arch-foe across a blasted landscape. Sir Harth- their foe- seeks to steal powerful magical weapons from this era and then use them to conquer their own time. In this weird era, there is no sun; there are no stars. Flashes that fill the entire sky occasionally occur, and the very environment itself seems to be a tenacious enemy of the party. The environment drains magic and life; so far, in the- days? Weeks?- that our heroes have been here, they have found only one friendly face... and “friendly” was almost certainly an exaggeration. The landscape is dotted by horrific mutant creatures with extra limbs, strange stigmata or worse.

There have been two villages, including the one that our heroes are now beginning to search. The first one was haunted by some kind of ill-feeling energy and had a large population of corpses; our heroes elected not to venture into it, and simply passed it by. Now, as they move onto the main street of the village, the lead members of the party look in all directions for any sign of movement or life. Nothing. Sir Percival, known as “Me” (for he is too stupid to say words with more than two syllables, such as his own name), sniffs the air, inhaling deeply, searching for the smell of corruption. Nothing.

“I don’t see anyone,” Sheriff Jorgen calls out. He has re-sheathed his sword, but he keeps his hand near it. The hairs on the back of his neck prickle. “This place _can’t_ be safely abandoned,” he mutters to himself, “can it?” 

The party spreads out a little, looking over the buildings. Most of them are small houses, composed of bricks of baked clay. Opening one up, Sir Fwaigo finds only a pair of corpses. A search reveals nothing further, and the party moves on to another house.

“I wonder what those tarp things are,” Kyle muses, gesturing. There are thin filmy things stretched above parts of the village. They are translucent but brightly colored.*

The party goes over and examines some of the material, but they can’t figure out what it is. It is relatively fragile, however. The sheets also cover a good chunk of the orchard that is inside the village’s walls. Upon growing tired of messing with the film, the group returns to the matter of the buildings, opening up the door to the nearest house. This time there is no body inside. However, a search turns up a small box under the bed, which our heroes immediately open to find four flasks of weird liquid, each one different from the others.

“Hmm,” Kyle says, and casts _detect magic._ A grin breaks out on his face. “Hey, these are magical!”

“How?” Goer objects. “The environment should destroy them in a few days, right?”

Kyle throws open the window and looks out and up. “I think those colored tarp things protect us from the environment!” he proclaims. Gesturing, he goes on, “Look, we’re under one- at least partially- when we’re in this building. I bet that’s how the potions kept their enchantment.”

“Well,” Sheriff Jorgen says, “at least we know that there were people here recently.”

“We do?” asks Sir Colder.

Sheriff Jorgen nods. “Yes, because if there wasn’t anyone here when the war happened that started this” –his gesture takes in everything around them- “why would they build protection for some of the houses?”

“Good point,” Sir Colder concedes.

“More to the point, _where are they?_”

***

The house seems like a safe place, a comfortable place, and a protected place. It is there that our heroes rest, and they spend a couple of days recuperating- since they can. Kyle’s theory proves correct: under the colored tarps, they are protected, and are able to recover their strength.** Otis regains consciousness, Lord Cedric and Dahlia dispense what healing magic they have and everyone enjoys a lazy two days out of the terrible draining maroon sky.

Then they get back to work.

***

The interior of the church- from whence came the gear hounds that wounded Otis so badly when the party first arrived in the village- is a mess. There is a corpse on the ground, obviously a month old or more, wearing heavy armor and with a heavy mace cast aside on the ground nearby. The party looks around and takes the loot that they find, including the gear of the body and a chest of coins that they find. Otis casts _detect magic_ and is pleased to announce that the armor and mace and a scroll are all magical. The party gives the armor to Goer and the mace to Me, and after a quick _read magic_ ascertains that it is a scroll of priestly spells, albeit three copies of the same spell.

“Interethting,” Lord Cedric says. “Thith ith a thpell whothe thecretth have been lotht in our time. It will allow me to thpeak with the dead.” Otis and he confer about it for a few moments, and then the party moves on.

The upper level of the church looks, from outside, like some kind of observatory. A twisted stairway ascends to that area, and our heroes follow it upstairs. They find themselves, indeed, in an observatory. Weird, broken equipment- long metal tubes pointing out of the ceiling and out into the sky, and some kind of broken device for moving it around- almost fills the area.

“What do you suppose this is?” asks Goer, touching the big tube. 

Instantly there is a sudden crackle of energy, and a green ball of energy with four long tentacles coming out of it, appears! It immediately attacks Me, lashing out with tentacles that drip acid. It slaps the pissblood. There is a hiss and sizzle as the acid leaves horrendous burns on Me’s arms and chest. He roars. 

Goer stabs into it with his longspear, but the shaft just goes right through it, as if it isn’t even there. Immediately our heroes are reminded of the terrible _thing_ in the haunted house they investigated in Kamenda City- they could not even hurt it. “FLEE!!!” shouts Goer, and he and Me begin to move away.

The thing pursues, and the room is too cramped for everyone to get away from it. Its tentacles lash out again, dealing significant wounds to whomever they touch. Lord Cedric grimaces and casts _magic weapon_ on his sword, then manages to score a blow on it. “Hit it with magic!” he cries.

Me, trusting to Lord Cedric’s words, rumbles around and attacks with his new-found mace. He, too, manages to score a blow against it! Suddenly, our heroes- who had seemed on the edge of instant rout- rally, and after a long, hard battle, our heroes- sorely wounded- prevail.

Unfortunately, when they do, the beast explodes in a great spray of acid. Our heroes are doused, and heavily damaged.

What healing they have, they use; but afterwards, they are still in no shape to fight. By necessity, they retreat to the ‘safe house’ to rest again.

_*Next Time:*_ Our heroes finish checking out the observatory and move on to the inn... but _wheat happened to the people?_


*Like a big sheet of colored saran wrap going over big chunks of the village.

**Among other things, the environment the party is in does 1 point of Con damage per day.


----------



## Seance

BUMP!!

Come on Jester, you are not running it so write it...


----------



## the Jester

The interior of the observatory- for so Otis calls it- is a shambles. Especially after the acidic explosion of the strange guardian creature that the party fought two days before, the entire area above the church is pocked with holes, burns and scars. The twisted metal of the observing device (or at least, our heroes presume that is what the ruined device is, as it points at the sky outside and dominates the chamber) creaks and groans from time to time. “It’s probably not safe to stay here too long,” Sir Fwaigo warns the others. As a trained smith, he knows the signs of metal fatigue when he sees and hears them. “I’m surprised that more of the place hasn’t collapsed on itself already.”

A quick search turns up a few somewhat interesting, acid-scarred pieces of metal and the ruined remains of a few pieces of clothing, but there is nothing worth looting. Nor are there any signs of the people of this strange abandoned village. 

“We’ve barely begun looking,” Sheriff Jorgen mutters to himself.

***

The inn is the next building that our heroes check out. It is three storeys tall. The board out front bears the sign of a howling dog. Hitching posts, for horses, stand unused out front, and windows line the building. Some of these are shuttered, but others are open. Many of them seem to have once had glass in them, but most of that has been shattered. One side of the building looks as though a good-sized fire burned on it, but it still looks structurally sound at a glance.

Written across the front of the building in what looks like blood, in Kamendan, are the words _Come out or we will find you!_

“Hey!” exclaims Sir Fwaigo. “That’s written in Kamendan! That’s _our_ language!” He looks puzzled. “What do you think _that_ means?”

“It means that Harth was here,” Otis declares. There is venom in his voice.

Sir Colder moves up and examines the wall. “I wonder whose blood that is?” he muses. 

“Maybe Harth found one of the villagers,” suggests Sir Jorgen. He is growing angry. _Harth,_ he thinks harshly. _We’ll have justice for whatever you did here._

The ground floor of the Inn of the Howling Dog consists of a common room, a kitchen, an office and a curtained off private room. A search of the office turns up many volumes of unreadable papers that have the look of inventories, payroll records, bills, shipping manifests and other documents related to running a business. The kitchen has pretty clearly been looted thoroughly.  However, the party’s search yields a tantalizing clue: carved in a wooden table is a crude cut of Harth’s heraldry. They also find a trap door that appears to lead into a basement.

Finally, the party investigates the common room. A number of emptied bottles and dirty wine cups attest to the fact that a group of people spent a number of days here.  Dahlia inspects the signs and ascertains that the stuff here is only about two weeks old. 

“If that was Harth and his men...” Jorgen smiles grimly. “We’re catching up.”

“‘If?’” exclaims Cedric. “Of courthe it wath Harth! We thaw hith thign in the kitthen!”

The party ascends to the second floor of this building, which appears to consist of a long hallway snaking around the perimeter of the building, with doors along the wall every few paces. Near the end of the hallway where our heroes stand at the top of the stairs, a 10’ diameter hole is disintegrated into the wall. 

“Are those blood stains?” Kyle gestures, but before anyone can do more than peer in the direction that he has indicated, a horrendous _thing_ roars from within the room, and the door that leads to the room is thrown wide open! 

It is like a nightmare collection of vague threatening features. Spiky blades seem to radiate from it; it has tremendous, dangerous-looking claws; its maw is like that of a shark. Worse yet, its form seems to waver and shift as our heroes look upon it. 

Sir Colder instantly fires a crossbow bolt at it, but the shock of its terrifying appearance throws his aim off and he misses. Sir Fwaigo’s hand drops to the hilt of his sword, but then there is a ripple of unseen energy and the smell of burning metal. His hand jerks back, and he reels, numbed and unable to act. The creature has put him in a _brain lock!_

Sir Colder casts his crossbow aside, pulls forth his longspear and strikes. Again, his blow goes wide. Then Goer, recovering from the _brain lock,_ slams the door shut on the creature!

Our heroes rally, preparing to aid one another against the strange beast as soon as it throws the door open again. It does so, and lashes out at Goer with an _ego whip!_ Sir Fwaigo staggers but recovers himself, and strikes at the monster with his sword- but his blow does nothing! It bounces harmlessly from the beast’s weird, shifting form. 

Then Me rushes in, slamming the party’s new-found magical mace (from the ruins of the church) into the creature, slamming it hard.* Upon seeing this, Lord Cedric cries, “Magic ith the key!” and casts _magic weapon_ on his former squire’s blade. 

“Thank you, my lord!” cries Sir Fwaigo. He quickly validates Cedric’s hypothesis- now that it is enchanted, his blade _does_ seem effective against the weird monster! Between Goer’s blade and Sir Percival’s brute strength, our heroes manage to defeat the creature rather neatly, although Percival takes a blow to the mind that he can scarce afford!** After they slay it, the monster’s remains seem to... evaporate? Strange.

“Feh,” snorts Lord Cedric. “Let uth return below and theek a better plathe to ekthplore. Thith ith a plath where commonerth would thtay. Perhapth we will find better thingth elthewhere.”

Sir Colder bows. “As you wish, my lord.”

The party files back down the stairs, heads outside onto the street and moves to what appears to be a general store. It looks both abandoned and looted, but the party presses on inside just in case. Within they find a basement. 

There, only dimly-lit from the maroon sky outside and a lantern of their own, they find a wine cellar. It appears to have several nice-looking bottles in it. Cedric smacks his lips and cries, “Gather the wine!” He quickly uncorks a bottle and takes a liberal drink before passing it around. 

Suddenly something jerks the sheriff’s legs out from under him. Aghast, our heroes look down- to see worms slithering all over their feet and ankles. Almost like a net of long, tough roots made out of stringy flesh, none of the worms seem to have ends.  They glow faintly green.

The worms- the net- _whatever_ it is, or they are- starts to tighten.

_*Next Time:*_ The thing in the cellar! The thing in the house! And the missing villagers!

*Crit for 46 hp of damage. Ouch!! 

**Poor Me... he took 4 points of Int damage.


----------



## the Jester

Lord Cedric screams like a girl as the weird, wormy growths that seem to be extending from the floor of the wine cellar tighten around our heroes. “By the power of my pinkie finger, we mutht dethtroy thethe thingth!!” he howls, drawing forth his sword and hewing about him. Sirs Colder and Fwaigo do likewise, cutting the mass of worms and causing them to spew forth a foul ichor. 

Sheriff Jorgen stabs at the mass, but several coils wrap themselves wetly around his arms and legs. Struggling, shouting, Jorgen is jerked to the ground. The sheriff jerks and tugs, but it is all he can do to prevent more of the worm-things (or thing?) from looping around his neck and cutting off his breath. “Help!” he shouts.

The others continue to hack at the net of worms. Sir Percival- the half-orc called Me- gives a great smash with his magical mace, pulverizing a writhing mass of the worms. With a great howl of rage, Me continues to lay about him. He sees Jorgen- his friend- struggling to hold off the mass of worm-stuff and leaps to his side. Roaring, he continues to smash the worms 

“Get back up the stairs!” Sir Fwaigo cries, slashing some more of the worms near Jorgen. He grabs the sheriff by the hand and hauls him to his feet. Gasping, Jorgen staggers over to the stairs. 

“Yeth, up the thtairth, my friendth!” Lord Cedric roars, batting away another glistening greenish cord of worm stuff. Our heroes fall back, and as they retreat up the stairs, the wormy net heaves and settles down, seeming to sense their departure. Shaking his head, Cedric thinks, _We had best mark this place in our minds, lest we run out of other alcohol! We might then have to come back here._

Exiting the building, our heroes go back into the street for the moment. “There are a lot of houses, my lord,” Goer points out to Cedric. “We could check some of them out.”

Otis sighs. “I don’t know what we’re hoping to find here,” he grumbles. “Certainly not Harth!”

“No, but perhapth there will be a clue to hith location,” Lord Cedric replies.

The party proceeds to investigate a few of the houses. The first one yields a trio of corpses, but nothing more; the next is infested with a multitude of spiders, big and small, and after a quick battle, our heroes destroy them.* 

“Maybe we should rest,” suggests Sir Colder afterward. “Is anyone badly hurt?”

Nobody is. Goer declares, “Forget resting, I want some action!” 

“All right, let’s move on to the next house,” Dahlia snaps. “We’re wasting time!” Otis nods in agreement. 

The party moves across the street to another house, but they stop. This home is boarded up from the outside. “Well, that’s interesting,” murmurs Sir Colder. “I wonder what’s in there.”

“And who boarded it up,” adds Dahlia. “It could have been the villagers- or it could have been Harth and his gang.”

“Hey, I hear something,” Goer whispers. “There’s something moving around in there!”

The party hushes, and everyone listens intently. Indeed, they can all hear the muffled sound of movement from within. 

“Hello?” calls Goer.

The sound within the boarded up house ceases. A voice calls out from within, weakly. Our heroes do not understand the language, but it sounds like a cry for help.

“I’m taking a board off the window,” Goer announces, and begins prying at one of the wooden planks barring the window. It is nailed on quite securely, and it takes several minutes of efforts to pry it loose. When he has done so, Sir Fwaigo tries to peer into the room. “Hello?” he calls. 

Something grabs at him. “Hey!!” he shouts, as razor-sharp claws and hooks tear across his skin. The hand that swiped him appears to be metal- a mass of torturous instruments. “Ow!” he cries, jerking back. The thing fails to get a hold on him, but that hand is _vicious._

Me roars and throws himself against the door. There is a loud *boom!* as it shakes on its hinges, but it does not give. Goer, meanwhile, backs off, and Lord Cedric prays over his weapon, imbuing it with magical power. 

Otis steps up and unleashes a blast of fire from the strange rod that he has. It shoots into the window and spatters onto the creature, giving off enough light that the wizard can see that it seems to be robed, but its face is some sort of metal mask. A charnel stench is coming from within the house. 

Dahlia sees it too, and attempts a _heat metal_ on it. Unfortunately, it resists her magic- but then it has worse things to worry about, as Me smashes the door in with a stout blow from his mace. 

Now the party can view more of the interior of the house- and it is appalling. The place has been converted into a torture chamber. Dahlia gasps. The bed has been converted into a fixture onto which victims can be strapped, and there are the remains of several victims in the small house.

Me rages and rushes to meet the thing in battle. 

The monster turns and slashes back with the strange metal hand. Its robes flutter, and Cedric’s eyes widen at what he sees as its robes swirl and move: the hand is actually a gauntlet, and its metal face is actually a mask. Its skin is corpse-grey, and the stench is only partially from the dead victims. _It is undead,_ he realizes, and pulls out his holy symbol.

Meanwhile, Goer attacks it through the window, as there is not enough room in the house for him to fit. He thrusts his now-magical sword at the thing but misses, and then it grabs him with that hooked and bladed gauntlet. Goer screams, tearing himself loose at the cost of several bloody tears and rips. His sword whips upward, slicing into the thing’s arm with a meaty _thunk!_

The creature seems to be focusing on him now, tearing at him in a very painful way, clearly meant to be disabling but not lethal. _It wants to take me to torture!_ he realizes, fear rising in his throat. The hooks and blades on the gauntlet are excruciating, and it seems to feed on his pain, growing more powerful! 

But it is not strong enough. Cedric channels holy power, and for an instant it falters; and while it does so, Me roars and smashes it twice in the chest, utterly slaying it. Goer gags and cries out in pain; it has ripped large chunks of skin away. Immediately Cedric and Dahlia tend him with their healing magic. Goer hisses as the pain recedes. “Thanks,” he groans, then glares at the corpse. “Let’s get out of here,” he groans.

“Just a minute,” Sir Colder says, and he bends down and begins unstrapping the torturous gauntlet from the corpse’s hand.

“Are you _taking that?_” exclaims Goer. “That is so gross.”

“It might be useful,” Sir Colder answers absently. The gauntlet is a mess of bloody dead tissue. Gingerly, he wraps it in a sack and puts it in his backpack.

“Do we continue?” asks Dahlia. She glances at Goer. “You were the one that wanted some action. Are you up for continuing, or should we rest?”

“Let’s go!” Sir Fwaigo replies. “I’m okay, thanks to you and Cedric.”

Lord Cedric claps him on the shoulder and leaves his hand there. “Good, my former thquire! We thall continue.” He rubs Goer’s shoulders for a moment in a very friendly way before withdrawing. “To the nextht houthe!”

“Hey, actually,” Dahlia points out, “that house has its door open.” 

“I wonder if that means anything,” wonders Otis. “We should investigate- all of the rest of the buildings that we have seen have their doors shut. Perhaps Harth and his cronies opened the door while they were here.”

The party troops over to the house, but there is nothing unusual about it at a glance. After a thorough search, however, the party turns up a secret trap door. 

“Well, well,” Lord Cedric crows. “We have thertainly found thomething!” He leans down and digs his fingers into the cracks around the edge of the trap door. With a manly groan he pulls the door open.

*BOOOM!!!!*

_*Next Time:*_ What happened to Cedric? Plus: a tragic misunderstanding as our heroes find the missing villagers at last!


*To be precise: three spider swarms and three medium spiders.


----------



## the Jester

It's short, but it's an update. 

***

Smoke boils up from the trap door. Flames lick up, engulfing Lord Cedric’s face. The stink of burnt hair and flesh wash over our startled heroes.

“AAAGHH!!” Lord Cedric cries, staggering back, blood pouring from his blackened lips. He claps a hand to his mouth and howls in agony- then spits out four of his front teeth into his hand!* “My fathe!” he cries. Frantically, he looks from one of his companions’ horrified face to another. “Argh, the pain! Pleathe, Goer, tell me- what hath happened to my fathe??”

His words are mushy and even harder to understand than normal.** Slowly, Cedric’s eyes fall to the teeth on his hand. Aghast, he gapes at them, the bloody jagged stumps in his mouth all too obvious to the others. Slowly, he runs his tongue over them. 

After a moment, Cedric casts _cure light wounds_ on his mouth to stop the bleeding. But his curative powers are not nearly strong enough to regrow his missing teeth. Then he growls, “Forthooth! Let uth now thee what lieth beneath thith trap door!” With a mighty kick, he knocks it open and drops down into the gloomy passage below. The others follow him. 

They find themselves in a large cave, glistening with moisture. It measures about 25’ across by 30’ long; in the far end of the cave, a wide opening leads out. The whole thing is well-lit by a brightly-glowing rock in the middle of the floor. 

“Look at that!” exclaims Sir Fwaigo. “A glowing rock!”

“It’s certainly not natural; there’s no fungus on it,” Dahlia opines.

“Clearly,” declares Otis Optimus, “it is the product of some of this time’s superior magic.” He shakes his head in wonder. “I wonder how long it will glow for?”

The party heads through the wide opening. This leads into a large area, well-lit by a multitude of glowing rocks similar to the one in the previous chamber. There are also glowing torch stubs and other small items set into the walls or scattered on the ground.  Six large pavilion tents are set up around a huge central cavern- and about a dozen living, startled-looking people, mostly human, are scattered throughout the cave in small groups. 


_*Next Time:*_ A tragic misunderstanding occurs...

*He fumbled his save against the _fire trap._

**And the roleplaying was _fantastic._


----------



## the Jester

Otis Optimus strides to the head of the party. “People!” he cries imperiously. “I am Otis Optimus! We are here to help you! We know the man who tortured one of your own above- he is a villain of the first order named Sir Harth- and we seek to stop him!” As he speaks, Otis makes broad, sweeping gestures.

Gestures that the people hiding here take as... aggressive. Hostile, even.

One of them starts casting a spell. Another pulls a ranseur forth. It begins to crackle, the head of it sparking with electricity. Our heroes stand, dumbfounded, at the sight for a moment.

Then a _fireball_ explodes amongst them. 

A woman near the back is shouting something, sounding both frightened and angry. Clearly, there has been a terrible misunderstanding... a tragic miscommunication.* But whatever the cause, it has led to burns all over our heroes. Hissing in pain, Dahlia casts _protection from fire_ on herself. 

Me roars and starts rushing forward, but the enemy wizard casts another spell, and a wall of blazing fire springs up before the onrushing half-orc! Me cries out in surprise as his flesh sizzles again. 

“A _wall of fire!_” exclaims Otis. “I have heard of such things, but the techniques required are lost in our time...”

Dahlia rushes heedlessly through the wall. Thanks to her spell, she is unharmed- although smoke rises from her when she emerges on the far side. “Wait!” she cries in Elven, as she steps through. “We don’t need to fight! We are friends!”

But her arrival has precipitated a charge from the ranseur-wielding man, who lunges in and knocks Dahlia from her feet. His follow-up strike deals terrific damage to her, and she screams as electricity shocks through her body. Then the wizard casts a spell at her, and for a moment she feels her will slipping away. She gasps, forcing the alien force of the charm from her mind.

Sir Colder cries, “Wait, why are we fighting? Me, stop! Back off!”

Me hesitates; and then, trusting authority, he does as Sir Colder asks, backing away from the roaring wall of flames. Lord Cedric, on the other hand, casts _resist fire_ on himself, the words slurred even more than usual since his recent tooth-shattering accident. Cedric strides forward through the wall, suffering only minor burns- only to find himself immediately tripped by the ranseur-wielder! “Ah!” he cries in dismay, as he lands on his back and suffers a thorough thrust from the spike and the tip.

Otis hurls himself forward. _I must learn her arcane secrets!_ he thinks wildly. _If I can recover some the ancient magicks, and bring them back to our time..._ He throws himself through the flames, crying out in pain as they burn his face, his arms, his body. Staggering, he blinks...

The ranseur wielder is just before him, swinging his pole arm around to attack. 

“Please!” Otis cries desperately. “I mean no harm, we want to help you all escape this time!” He sinks to his knees before the warrior. “I don’t know what I have said or done to offend you, but we mean you no harm! We have not struck a blow! Please, hear us out!”

The ranseur wielder thrusts the spike at the tip of his weapon up to Otis’ chin. He says something; although our heroes don’t understand the words, the meaning is plain: _Don’t move or I will slay you._ Otis seeks the wizard’s eyes with his, imploring her. “I, too, am a wizard,” he calls. “We can exchange knowledge and information. Spells...” 

The wizard casts a spell. He watches her carefully. _I recognize this one,_ he thinks. _It’s _tongues!_ She will be able to speak to us!_

And indeed, a moment later, the wizard steps forward and demands, “Who are you people? What do you want? And what’s your connection to Harth?”

“He ith a villain!” pronounces Lord Cedric. “Our arth-nemethith, our wortht foe! We have purthued him from the very future to thtop him from thuctheeding in hith fiendith planth! Now, who ith your lord?”

“We have no lord, any longer,” the wizard replies. “But we are the ones asking the questions, not you!” The man with the ranseur growls theateningly. Otis keeps his hands up.

“Then ask! We will answer whatever you wish to ask of us!” Sir Fwaigo groans. “We mean you no harm! If we wanted to harm you, I assure you, we could have already done so!”

The wizard’s furious anger slowly abates. She sighs. “Yes, I suppose if you wanted to cause us harm, you would have nothing to gain by waiting- not now that you have found our hiding place.”

Sir Colder smiles. “Well, isn’t that evidence that we aren’t out to get you?” 

Reluctantly, the wizard nods.

“Then, let uth introduthe ourthelveth, and then we can get to the matter of who your rightful lord ith,” Lord Cedric declares. “I am Lord Thedric of Whitewater. I am from your future!”

Our heroes introduce themselves around, and then the wizard introduces herself as Adele, and the ranseur-wielder as Benito. By the time her _tongues_ spell wears off, the villagers and our heroes are smiling and shaking hands, and the villagers are offering their hospitality- at least as much as they have to offer in this retreat. Our heroes accept. They have been running hard without a friend or ally for weeks now. They need a few weeks to recuperate, to train, to restore their strength.** And they need some time to socialize, too, to see other people again for the first time in quite a while.

There are ten villagers other than Benito and Adelle. Ferick is a crotchety old man, but full of wisdom and knowledge. Bates, a 14-year-old, sneaky boy, takes to Cedric immediately, and vice-versa. Kelra is a frightened, easily persuaded woman, who served as the villager’s carpenter. Benito’s little brother Vendoza is there; somehow, our heroes aren’t surprised that Benito’s kin might survive. His girlfriend, Alliandra, is also among the survivors of the village. Mang Trolak, a stupid but strong half-orc woman, who plainly suffers from a massive case of hero worship for both Adelle and Benito, smiles at Sir Percival; their common orcish ancestry instantly gives them a small bond. Adelle’s sister, Dannelle, is there; again, it is plain that her blood connection to the village’s leaders has saved her life. The town’s smith, a dour, stodgy, miserly, conservative dwarf named Norgent, is another of the survivors. Sir Jorgen is pleased to note that the town’s sheriff, Angora, has made it to the relative shelter of the under-village. Moreover, Angora is a woman. Jorgan’s interest is definitely piqued. Finally, the town messenger, Scarifix, is the last survivor.

Training and relaxing- our heroes find the time slipping away. Otis is amazed at the spells that Adelle knows, and she is (no doubt) a novice for her time. Yet, she can create the legendary _wall of fire!_

Weeks pass. Our heroes deal with a few small threats- a strange lobster-like creature that emerges from the underground waterway that the village relies on, and a few things in the town itself looking for clues- but nothing truly significant happens. The villagers, even Benito and Adelle, are very impressed by the party’s prowess. Several of the party members learn the local tongue, Palantian.

Lord Cedric cannot abide the thought that these people have no lord, so he declares Benito lord of the village. Benito seems bemused, but accepts the honor seriously. 

Then Cedric makes a momentous announcement. 

“We will take them with uth,” he ejaculates. “We thall take them home to the future with uth.” 

So it is, that our heroes’ number swells by a dozen before they set out on the trail to the capital city of the Palantian Empire, Litel. Now they are armed with the knowledge that the villagers have; now they have a dozen sources of information about the time that they are walking around in. 

The war that has ruined this land, they learn, was between elves and humans. “The humans wanted the secret of immortality from the elves, but they wouldn’t share it,” declares Ferick. “They were afraid to give us an even chance against them. Well, now we showed them!” He cackles.

Our heroes set off down the road to Litel.

_*Next Time:*_ On the road to Litel!

*In point of fact, Otis fumbled not one, but _two_ Diplomacy checks in a row here... 

**This might seem like an odd decision in a game which has a certain sense of urgency to it; but on a metagame level, I told the players that I wasn’t going to penalize them for taking time to train, since I’m using training rules in this campaign. I just assumed that the bad guys had to spend that much time training themselves, as well.


----------



## the Jester

*What Has Gone Before*

Our heroes are from a small village called Whitewater in the barony of Kamenda, part of a fragmented larger kingdom that has mostly dissolved over the last couple of generations. The world is a low-magic, dangerous land. The elves are all gone- where, no one knows, but none have been seen in decades or longer. Kamenda’s southern neighbor, Tydon, is her traditional rival and enemy. 

The party met in Whitewater, joining forces to help their local community with a variety of dangers, including both bandits and bandit hunters, monster-inhabited ruins and a goblin incursion. While dealing with this incursion, our heroes discovered that the goblins had been displaced from their usual home, Goblin Gorge, by some sort of weird, alien cyst on the ground: a giant, pus-filled bloat on the land, riddled with passages and inhabited by strange, twisted beings with unfathomable motivations. Our heroes, using salt as a weapon against the unnatural forces they faced, managed to destroy the cyst and drive off or destroy the alien entities. 

Not long after, a sudden, unexpected attack on Whitewater by Tydonian soldiers led our heroes to hurry to the capital city of the barony, Kamenda City, to warn the baron. Tydon was on the move, and from an unexpected direction. Worse yet, evidence began to accumulate that one of the baron’s two top advisors was a traitor- either Sir Galadon or Sir Harth. Things got more complicated when a demonic entity allied to the mysterious traitor kidnapped one of the party members, who was- even worse- pregnant with the child of another of the pcs. Though there was a great deal of misdirection and a spider web of intrigue, our heroes finally discovered that Sir Harth was the traitor (narrowly avoiding the execution of Sir Galadon) and captured him. When their army came to attack Kamenda City, the party played a pivotal role in beating off their initial assault. However, Sir Harth- whom the party had imprisoned- managed to escape during this time. The party knew that he was involved in some sort of black magic, demon-related cult, but had no more details than that to go on.

The Tydonian army had been fought off for a time, but it was building for another assault. Desperately investigating the odd direction from which they were coming, our heroes found that the Tydonian force was crossing through a portal from Tydon. They managed to defeat the portal’s guardians, close the portal and retreat to Kamenda City, from whence the remaining Tydonians, cut off from reinforcement or resupply, were easily routed. 

The immediate danger was past, but Sir Harth was still free. Our heroes had found documents indicating that Harth’s cult planned to perform some kind of ritual to open the “gates of fire” on New Year’s Eve at the Ghost Tower atop Battle Rise (once called Inverness). They resolved to be there first, and to ambush Sir Harth. But once Harth arrived with a beholder, things went horribly awry, and in the end even a small Kamendan army could not stop Sir Harth and his beholder ally. Our heroes were captured and forced to watch as Harth and his men sacrificed a pair of elfbloods- a human-elf hybrid, somewhere between 25% and 75% elven, usually closer to the lower end- and opened the gates of fire. They would have been killed, too, but for a figure that silently slew their guards and slit their bonds. This turned out to be- an elf! She warned them that some of her folk would be coming through the gate, but that they had changed while Outside. Before she could explain much more, several of the “elves” emerged. They were the same alien creatures that our heroes had fought at the cyst!

After a quick, furious battle, the party and the elf destroyed these “elves.” Then she told them that Harth had fled into the past, and had to be stopped from bringing unimaginably powerful weapons back into the present and conquering all of Kamenda- or more. She went through the gate, and the party followed after- only to find themselves in a blasted wasteland, nearly empty of life, littered with battlefields full of corpses. It was horrifying. Worse yet, the very environment sucked the life out of our heroes. The world had been torn apart by a magical apocalypse, and it was to this period that Sir Harth had gone. The elf quickly died due to the influence of something called the “elf-slayer of Varzoth”, and our heroes were left to track Sir Harth over this blasted land through an age of madness. 

They eventually reached an abandoned village, but to their surprise, their investigations turned up a few survivors of the devastating war that had destroyed the world around them. After what was nearly a tragic misunderstanding, the party and the survivors joined together. Our heroes took some time to rest and train, and now they have departed on the road to the capital of the destroyed empire that they are in, for it is to that city that they suspect Sir Harth has gone- or is going...


----------



## the Jester

*21*

Our heroes move along the road towards the ruined capitol of the mad land that they are traveling through. Litel, it is called (according to Benito, Adelle and their folk). Now, much of what is going on in this insane time is clarified by those from this time. According to Adelle, the magic draining effect is a part of some kind of massive “spell engine” that sucks the magical power from the surrounding areas in order to power the massive effects that are devastating the land and the people in it. The elf-slayer of Varzoth, according to Adelle, is an epic living spell of incredible potency; in the far distance, the area with the flashes that are still occasionally visible beneath the maroon sky reveals its location. “Tanaroth,” Benito says sadly. “Now I’m sure it’s just a ruin.”

Down the road, beneath the dark sky, the party travels. With the villagers accompanying our heroes now, the band has grown to twenty. _We certainly can’t be that discrete, now,_ Sheriff Jorgen thinks. _There are too many of us, and too many of these new folks are not skilled at hiding or combat. Benito and Adelle are certainly a good addition to the group, though..._

While Jorgen mulls over the expanded group, Sir Colder trots slightly ahead of the group, eyes peeled, alert and watchful. Suddenly he stops in surprise.

Off to the side of the road is a blasted crater. Climbing out from it is a man armored in the style of the year 272, the time from whence our heroes came. He waves at the party.

He is wearing the livery of Sir Harth.

Weapons are drawn from scabbards. “Ho there, mithcreant!” cries Lord Cedric. “Lay down your armth or be thlain!”

To the party’s surprise, the man immediately unbuckles his sword belt. “Thank the gods!” he cries. “Please, I am alone and I mean you no harm! I ask for mercy!”

“It could be a trap,” murmurs Sir Fwaigo. “My lord, I don’t trust him.”

“Come forward!” cries Lord Cedric. “If you lie to uth, you thall be thlain, unleth you come clean now!”

The man approaches, hands held up in plain view. “No, my lord, I do not lie,” he states solemnly. 

“Where is Harth?” demands Otis Optimus.

“Who is this person?” Benito asks suspiciously, in his tongue- Palantian. He clearly does not understand the words of the conversation, but he is ready to strike with his electric ranseur at a moment’s notice. 

Dahlia tells him, “He appears to be one of Harth’s liegemen... hold on...”

“I don’t know where Sir Harth is,” the surrendered knight sighs. “I was with him, yes, but he and the rest of the men left me behind about a month ago.”

“A month!” exclaims Kyle. _Then we’re catching up to them! The tracks we found around the Ghost Tower of Inverness were about two months old, according to Jorgen. We’ve managed to cut their lead in half! But then again, we just have to catch them; they probably have to find their way to whatever they are seeking._

“Why did they leave you? What’s your name? What does Harth want? And what’s your part in all of this?” Sir Fwaigo badgers the man. Glaring, he slaps his face.

“That’th enough of that!” Lord Cedric barks. “He hath thurrendered, we will treat him honorably.” He stares hard at the knight. “Tho long ath he behaveth honorably, and maketh no attempt to ethcape. Now, anther my man’th quethtionth!”

“Escape... to _where?_” the knight says frankly. Then, marshaling his dignity, he turns to look at Goer. “I am Sir Porthos,” he says gravely. “Sir Harth and his other retainers left me behind because I fell ill. I became a burden, and I knew that we could not afford to slow our progress. The environment was hostile, there were terrible war beasts- it was a struggle just to stay alive, as I am sure you have all realized by now. I chose to stay behind. I had to persuade Sir Harth to allow this- otherwise, he would have carried me on his back, if he had to.”

Fortunately for Porthos, he found a way to survive.  A small earth tremor caused a sinkhole to collapse, allowing ingress into a small underground cave with a pool of fresh water.  Porthos managed to recuperate, but then he was alone in a hostile world, with no idea of where his friends are.  Now he is overjoyed to find other folk from his time, even if they are his liege’s sworn foes, and- he tells the party- he is ready to do almost anything to get out of this terrible age. He knows that Harth seeks the capitol, Litel, in order to take the Shadow Road to the Isle of the Elves, where he will attempt to enter the Gates of Glass in the mountain where the artisan elves craft their most powerful magical weapons.

“But now I think that would be a mistake, given what I have seen here,” he goes on. He frowns. “Honestly, I am surprised that I ever thought it was a good idea.”

“What about the monster?” asks Kyle. “You know, the big thing with all the eye balls?”

“The beholder...” Sir Porthos looks confused. “You know, I’d never thought of it as a monster, really- just as another ally.” 

“Perhaps it used its powers on you,” Otis says, “clouded your mind.” He looks at the others. “I am beginning to suspect that it is not Harth that is the architect of this scheme at all, but rather the beholder!”

“An interesting theory,” Dahlia nods. “It might explain a lot.” 

“You! Porthos!” snaps Sir Colder. “Which one of them seemed to be in charge, Sir Harth or the beholder?”

“Well...” Sir Porthos pauses to think. “I would have said Sir Harth, before you asked, but now that I think about it... well... I don’t really know. Sometimes one, then the other. It’s almost as if they were struggling to control the direction their alliance led them.”

Our heroes question Porthos some more, but they have already gotten everything that he knows. The party draws aside to discuss his fate.

“Execute him,” Sir Fwaigo suggests.

“Bring him with us,” argues Kyle. “He surrendered, let’s take him with us. He might end up knowing something else that we didn’t think to ask, or he didn’t think to offer.”

“We can’t trust him,” Goer retorts. Otis nods in vigorous agreement.

“But he did surrender,” Sir Colder sighs. “And we accepted his surrender.”

“Sometimes, prisoners have to be executed,” Otis sniffs. 

“Theriff Jorgen,” Lord Cedric announces, “thinthe you are the theriff, thith fallth on your thoulderth to dethide. I put him into your cuthtody.”

Jorgen nods. “He will come with us. Sir Porthos has a reputation as an honorable man, and he has nowhere else to go. And I would not consign anyone to this place and time, not even Harth.”

So it is decided- and the party swells to twenty-one.

And the party continues down the road to Litel.

_*Next Time:*_ The party reaches Litel at last!


----------



## the Jester

As our heroes move down the thin trail beneath the rusty maroon sky, they cannot help but notice areas of burnt grass and blasted craters to either side.  Here and there, the trail itself has been blasted directly and left a shattered mess. Now and again, a body- either human or orcish- lies rotting to the side. Sir Percival- himself a mix of man and orc- looks sad at this; despite being very aware of the typically savage nature of orc-kind, he still feels a crude solidarity with them. Occasionally, the charred shell of a wagon lies pushed to the side, on the edge of the trail or sometimes off it completely. Soon, as they walk along, they see a large pile of dead livestock, including cattle, goats and sheep.  A lone figure is staring mournfully at the pile- an old, frail-looking human man with but wisps of hair remaining on his head. As the party of twenty-one adventurers and refugees marches up, the man turns to regard them with tired eyes.

With the aid of their new allies, especially Benito and Adelle, the party manages to communicate with this man. He is the first rational human from this age of madness that our heroes have found in the open (the villagers with them were well-hidden underground). His name, it turns out, is Noltock; at first he is suspicious of the group, but after a few minutes talking to them- or at least, those able to speak Palantian- he opens up and becomes more friendly.

Noltock raised cattle and handled animals for his entire life.  Now, he has had to destroy them. When our heroes ask why, he explains that they were exposed to “gamma radiation,” whatever that is. He is very sad; this is the end of his livelihood, and likely he will die a slow death now. “But then again,” he comments gloomily, “won’t everyone? And it’s pretty silly of me to worry about my livelihood, when there’s nobody left to sell milk or meat to! Nor can I eat the meat- it might be contaminated with gamma radiation, and who knows what that might cause?”

“What’s ‘gamma radiation?’” Dahlia wonders, but nobody really answer her.

Noltock is full of doom and gloom. He knows of no other living survivors that are not extremely crazy or dangerous. There are bandits and brigands, he tells the party, but he doesn’t know where they lair. “They run up and down the Litel Road, thought,” he says. He doesn’t even know what really happened to start the war. “Probably those crazy elves,” he guesses. He does know that it all started less than a year ago. He is not well-informed of anything, but he happily shares information about sheep and cows with the party. When they ask him about Sir Harth and his cronies, Noltock claims to no nothing; but when Sir Colder mentions the beholder, he states that he heard a rumor of a beholder in Litel. 

“Well, that’s where we’re going,” Sir Jorgen tells him, and Noltock grows even dourer.

“I wouldn’t go there,” he warns the party. “It was a prime target in... in the war.  There won’t be much left- and what’s left will be full of mutants and radiation.”

“What’s radiation?” Dahlia asks again.

This time, Adelle answers her. “Radiation is... energy that comes from certain things. Sometimes it can be very dangerous. The energy that slowly kills creatures here, and that destroys magic that isn’t shielded by lead, is a type of radiation. Gamma radiation is another.” She frowns. “Gamma radiation can mutate creatures, change them.”

“Change them how?” asks Sheriff Jorgen.

“Sometimes it makes them stronger, harder to kill. Some creatures exposed simply die; in fact, most do. But some become gamma mutants. They often ‘hulk out’ and become much more powerful when angered or frightened.”

The party stares at her, not sure whether to believe her at first. 

Finally, Otis inquires, “What about the Shadow Road? We don’t know much about that yet, either.” The Shadow Road, according to Sir Porthos, is Sir Harth’s destination in Litel.

“The Shadow Road? That is how you travel long distances here,” Adelle replies. “It’s- well, the simple way to explain it is that it’s a road through the Shadow Plane that lets you travel much more quickly than you could on our plane.”

“Do we walk?” Lord Cedric pipes up. “Or can we take our hortheth with uth?”

“No, we’ll be on a train,” Benito responds. “Kind of like a wagon train, but powered by magic.”

“Huh,” Kyle says. “A magical wagon train! Fantastic! But where would he go?”

Otis clears his throat. “More importantly, will this Shadow Road still be functioning after the war?” 

Our heroes have much to ponder. They offer to let Noltock join their group, telling him that they are leaving this time and going to a better world, but Noltock snorts and declines. “No way would I go to Litel!” he declares. “Like I said, there’s bound to be mutants and radiation everywhere. No thank you!” They shrug, wish him luck and continue along their way; it is his choice, after all.

Before too long they are confronted with another atrocity. In the distance, they can see some kind of poles lining the road. As they get closer, it becomes apparent that these are crucifixions. Elves, and a few elfbloods, are strung up. All seem to be dead. As they proceed along, flanked by this grisly display, other types of victims start to be interspersed with the elves: dwarves, halflings, goblins, orcs, humans... everything. It is almost as if an unquenchable thirst for slaughter possessed someone.

Suddenly there is a _cawing_ sound from behind some of the bodies, and a flock of horrid mutant vultures drag themselves into view. Seeing the prospect of fresh meat, they launch themselves forward. Behind them, a huge winged beast made out of bones, almost like some kind of great skeletal bat, rises up. But Benito swiftly shows his prowess, skewering one of the vultures on his crackling shock ranseur almost immediately. The vultures are foul, reeking beasts; they spit foul, disease-filled gobs of pus at the party. The large skeletal thing rushes in and tries to snatch Cedric up, but a concerted effort from our heroes slays the beasts fairly easily and without serious harm. 

The party continues towards the city that they can now see in the distance. The environment changes one last time before our heroes reach it. A thin, clinging fog springs up, tinted slightly yellow and smelling like strong grapefruit. It stings the nasal passages, lips and eyes very slightly, burning just a little. There is little that the band can do, except for bite their lips and move forward. The fog is substantially more dangerous to the peasants than it is to the hardened adventurers; our heroes hope that they can clear it before anyone is seriously hurt by it.

As the party closes to within 2 miles of the ruined city ahead- they can see multiple plumes of smoke rising from it- they slow their pace.

There are riders coming towards them.

“I count eight, my lord,” Sir Fwaigo barks. 

“Those look like bandits to me,” Benito comments. Those who can understand his tongue (Palantian) translate for the others. Everyone draws weapons and stands ready. 

When the riders draw up a short distance away, the two groups study each other. The bandits- assuming that Benito’s assessment is correct- are led by a woman with a longbow out. Next to her is a squat dwarf, a large mace in his hand. Behind them, a half-dozen riders in studded leather fan out. Half of them have bows in hand; the others, longspears.

“Greetings, folks,” the leader says cheerfully. She looks the party over carefully, noting their armor and weapons. Their numbers. Meanwhile, as usual, there is a murmured translation by those who speak the tongue of this era for the benefit of those who do not. 

“Well,” she says after a moment. Her manner is not quite as certain as it was when her band first road up. “This road is very dangerous. We came to offer you protection.”

“For a price, of course,” Benito growls. 

“Of course,” the woman smiles.

“We are not in need of ‘protection,’” scoffs Lord Cedric. “We are quite capable of protecting ourthelveth!”

There is a tense moment; then, the woman nods in agreement. “It appears that you are. I am surprised to see so many people gathered in one group.”

“Oh?” replies Dahlia.

There is a moment of silence; then the woman sighs. “Pass on, friends, and good luck to you, in this unfortunate time we live in.”

The party passes on through the clinging, acrid mist. Finally it clears; and then, for the first time, Litel comes into view, now only about half a mile away.

It stretches before them: a huge, ruined city.  When it was alive, it must have been home to unfathomable numbers- hundreds of thousands, or perhaps even millions, of people. The remains of tall buildings reach for the sky, but their tops have been shattered off, or they have been pushed over, toppled onto their neighbors with careless, destructive abandon. Smoke rises from innumerable places in the ruin, some of it the blackish-grey that one would expect, but some of it other, less natural colors- from an oily olive green to an unwholesome orange-brown. Everywhere, buildings have been pounded to rubble; almost nothing still stands. Entire neighborhoods seem to have been struck by some titanic hammer, and other areas seem to have been melted to glass or blasted to bare rock.  Here and there, our heroes can see distant figures half-obscured by the smoke moving within the ruins.

“Wow,” whispers Sheriff Jorgen in awe.

Our heroes have never seen a city anywhere near this size. The biggest thing in their experience is Kamenda City, with its population of perhaps four thousand. _You could fit a hundred Kamenda Cities in here,_ thinks Sir Colder in awe. _And it’s totally destroyed._

What titanic forces must have been employed to do this much damage to the once-proud city? Dahlia shudders thinking about it, and about how unnatural this much city in one place is. When she comments, a debate erupts, leaving her rolling her eyes.

The approach to this ruined city leads the group to a crushed wall. The stench of corruption fills the air. Corpses of humans, whom our heroes can only assume to be either the city’s defenders, its attackers, or both, are scattered all along the shattered battlements. It looks easy enough to enter over the ruins of the fortifications, and neither to the right nor to the left does it seem as though there is a more palatable entryway.

The party advances. The villagers quail at the smell, but at this point they have little choice but to trust the party to lead them to safety. Everyone begins clambering over the rubble of the wall; but as they crest the broken wall, they spy a pair of strange clouds, shaped almost like malevolent faces, flowing over the ground towards them. They are grey-black, and seem to radiate an almost palpable hatred and malice.

“Soulbiters!” cries Benito. He moves to the side, pulling out his ranseur.

“What??” asks Sir Colder, just as one of the soulbiters flows over him. He screams and leaps aside, barely avoiding being engulfed within the mass of malice! Dahlia unleashes a _flame strike_ at the other one, which is rushing towards Goer, and damages it, him and his mount. Nonetheless, the weird monster survives to exude a pseudopod and flail at Goer. The former squire ducks back for a moment, dodging the blow; simultaneously, the other one strikes at Benito, but it, too misses.

“Don’t let them engulf you!” cries Benito. “They’ll suck your souls!”

“Oh, great,” moans Goer. 

Sir Colder strikes, then tries to move away from the one nearest him; unfortunately for him, it lashes out and smacks him across the head. He almost collapses as a terrible weakness washes over him. With a gasp, he staggers further away, but he can barely stand. “What... happened?” he groans.*

Swords seem less than effective against the monsters, but Otis and Adelle both fire _magic missiles_ at one of them, and Benito cries, “Yes! Use magic!” So saying, he thrusts his magical ranseur at the same one and slays it. 

Dahlia _calls lightning_ at the other one, but the soulbiter flows over Lord Cedric. With a cry, Cedric is pulled from the saddle. “Aargh!!” the Lord of Whitewater shouts.

Sheriff Jorgen cries, “Here, my lord!!” He thrusts his lance forward for Cedric to grab hold of. Me leaps in, strikes and tumbles away; he manages to hurt it with the magical mace that the party found. But then Adelle fires another _magic missile_ and finishes it off.

“Colder, are you all right?” Kyle asks. 

“Yeah, it seems to be passing,” gasps Sir Colder. “But that thing did something terrible to me!”

“They are no good,” Adelle confirms.

“What were they?”

“Soulbiters,” Adelle responds. “Living soulbiters, to be more accurate. They are living spells. I take it, in your time, you no longer have the _soulbiter_ spell?” At Otis’ reluctant nod, she continues, “Well, you’ve just experienced it, Colder.”

“What is a living spell?” Otis cries. “This is fantastic! Lost magical secrets- how does one make one, what...”

“Living spells are just that- spells given animation and a semblance of life. You could have a living fireball, a living blasphemy, a living acidic repulsion or almost any other type of living spell.”

“But why?” Kyle asks.

“They are powerful weapons,” Benito responds. “Think of it: a spell that you can use over and over again at will.”

“Although imperfectly controlled,” Adelle adds.

“All right, we need to keep moving,” Otis announces. “We know- well, we think, anyway- that Harth is heading to the Shadow Road. Where is that?”

“It’s near the center of the city,” Adelle replies. “It’s a huge octagonal building- we’ll be able to see it from some distance away.”

“All right,” declares Lord Cedric- the young lad from the village, Bates, is walking next to his horse- “let uth go! Forward!!” 

_*Next Time:*_ Our heroes move into the ruins of Litel, where the dead walk 

*To make the effect clear here in game terms, when the soulbiter hit him, Sir Colder was hit with the disabled condition for 10 rounds: staggered, plus any standard action deals 1 hp of damage to him.


----------



## the Jester

The stench is horrendous. To either side, everywhere, the city is utterly demolished. A few buildings stand, half torn apart, here and there. Piles of rubble dozens or even hundreds of feet high alternate with deep craters. Bodies, pieces of bodies, bits of blood and brain and bone are everywhere. Never have our heroes seen a place that has been pounded more relentlessly.

Our heroes cover their faces with clothes soaked in whiskey (though Lord Cedric briefly resists the idea of using the precious whiskey in any manner other than imbibing it). The peasants following our heroes are terrified; Sir Porthos, Benito and Adelle are grim.

Soon enough, the ghouls attack. 

It is a small wave of them, only eight; and still they almost drag a few of the villagers off. But our heroes manage to fend them off, slaying them with the aid of a few of the more able peasants, and soon our heroes continue along. 

They talk as they go, trying to distract themselves from the omnipresent stink. It is maddening. Speculation runs in the direction that it was the beholder in charge of Sir Harth. Anything to distract themselves from the reek of corrupt flesh, cloying in the air. The sour-sweet stink of the whiskey helps, but gods! It is awful!

For an hour, they move along through the ruined streets. They round a 20’ high pile of rubble, and the stink of Litel grows suddenly, appallingly worse. A field of bodies, blown apart and ravaged by some terrible force, lies before them. Chunks of rock, brick and mortar are strewn about as well, and across the blistered crater strewn with corpses, our heroes can see the lower part of a building whose upper portion appears to have been blown jaggedly apart, perhaps a tenement or other dwelling place. There are more ghouls scavenging amongst the corpses. 

“We have no need to engage them,” Sir Jorgen says. “Let’s continue towards our goal. There are plenty of dead corpses for them to feast on already.”

The others agree, and the party continues, bypassing the ghoulish scene. Very nervously, the party continues along. Blasted walls, empty windows, entire blocks smashed... the destruction is mind-boggling.

As our heroes cross an intersection, there is a sudden eruption of savage barking from the side. A pack of mangy-looking, hungry and feral dogs is bearing down on the party! Otis immediately blasts them with a _fireball,_ and most of them drop. 

The other two, however, roar and writhe. They begin to change, gaining a horrible amount of mass in just a few seconds and turning greenish.

“Gamma mutants!” roars Benito. 

Jorgen lowers his lance and charges, smashing into one of the hulk dogs. His weapon crashes into it, dealing a terrific wound! But then the dog slams him with a mighty blow of its paw, hitting him with bone-crushing force. Jorgen is knocked from the saddle and crashes to the ground, knocked nearly unconscious in a single blow!

Then Benito slides forward and thrusts with his ranseur, catching the dog just under its swollen, over-muscled green chin. The tip of his weapon slices deep, discharging a blast of electricity, and then Benito carries the blow through in a wide arc that connects with the other hulk dog! It yelps, then growls. Its eyes flick to its fallen mate and it bares its teeth. 

Dahlia, meanwhile, casts _calm animals_ at it. The creature starts to settle down, but then Me moves up and it begins snarling again. Otis sighs. “Enough of this!” he cries, and _magic missiles_ the dog. It yipes again and collapses, but its wounds are healing at a prodigious rate. Before it can regain consciousness, Sir Colder swiftly strides over to it and slits its throat. 

“Whew!” exclaims Sir Jorgen. “That thing hit me _hard!_”

“Gamma mutants are very bad news indeed,” agrees Adelle. 

The party continues on through the devastated city. They edge around large craters; Adelle and Benito both claim that there is a danger of “radiation” in them.

After they cross through a shattered alley, they emerge on a street choked with rubble, much like the others that they have seen so far in this ruined city. However, there is one noteworthy difference: this street is lined with strange poles that arch over the center of the road, about 15’ above the ground, and the ends of these poles are set with strange bulb-shaped things, most of which give off a strong white light. Some of them seem to have failed, but on the whole, it seems like a well-lit avenue.

“Interesting,” notes Otis. “If only we had more time... Adelle, do you know what these are?”

“Of course.” She sounds surprised, once again, at his ignorance. “They’re just street lights. We have them everywhere.”

Otis shakes his head in a mixture of wonderment and annoyance at her manner.

_If only there were a way to take back some of the knowledge of this time!_ he thinks. “Keep your eyes out for a library or a wizard’s tower,” he snaps to Kyle.

“Yes, master,” Kyle replies. “That’s a very good idea.”

The group travels onward for about half an hour, and then- as if Otis were prescient- they catch sight of a tall building, probably about four storeys high, with a web of cracks running up and down the facade.  Smoke trickles out from within it. A sign out front shows a series of books.

“Books!” cries Otis. 

“A library!” Kyle chortles. 

Jorgen points a short distance away. “A fountain! It’s dry, but I’ll see if I can find some water!” He rushes over to the plaza at which he sees the fountains. Meanwhile, Dahlia- who has been in the form of a hawk for hours now- flies over to an upper window and perches on the ledge. There are books, all right, and a slow, smoldering fire. 

“It’s on fire! Ahh, we have to save the books! What if there are magic tomes in there?” Otis is frantic. He rushes forward. The party pushes through. The door leads to a 40’ square foyer, badly damaged, with several corpses sprawled about. Significant cracks are on the floor, and the furnishings- a large counter and desk, several reading tables and many chairs- are severely damaged by fire, water and force. A staircase spirals up to the next floor, and a glance reveals fallen shelves and scattered books above. However, as Otis, Sir Colder and Kyle rush into the foyer, the entire floor collapses! And a few seconds later, while everyone else watches from outside, the rest of the building follows it. Dahlia lifts off from the window sill just in time. Debris rains down, and Otis, Colder and Kyle find themselves falling helplessly through the air. Below them, massive chunks of rubble splash downinto what appears to be fast-flowing brownish sludge. The stink of sewage is atrociously strong, making their stomachs heave. Then they crash into the surface of the sludge, raising a brown spray. Around them in the fast-moving flow, they can see little bits of floating refuse: a leather slipper, a child’s toy... an arm, deprived of its body.

The flow is furiously quick. Otis manages to cast _spider climb,_ and snatches the wall, clinging for dear life. Then, to his horror, he sees a thin, almost transparent strand of _something_ shoot out from a ledge above and hit Kyle!

Suddenly, Kyle is being pulled into the air.

Up above, Jorgen- having given up on the fountain when the house collapsed- quickly ties his rope into a lasso, then whips it in a circle in the air and tries to snag Kyle. Success!! Now Kyle is being drawn in two directions at once! Sheriff Jorgen ties the rope to his saddle horn and backs his horse up, pulling the rope, while the- whatever it is- tries to reel his friend in, presumably for a meal! The hapless Kyle finds himself suspended in the air above the fast-flowing effluvia.

Adelle whips out a scroll and reads it off. A _wall of ice_ springs up, cutting off the outflow, and the surging sewage calms a little. Still, there is a huge amount of brownish sludge pouring into the area. Dahlia quickly lowers the water level, and then Otis tosses another _fireball_ back at the ledge that the creatures trying to reel Kyle in are on. In the light of the flames he can see them: strange things that look like a cross between a spider and a crab, with a long proboscis that shoots the sticky strand. There are several of them, but his _fireball_ roasts all of the little ones. Only the biggest one remains, and not for long. A concentrated assault by the party quickly overwhelms it, and when Me’s sling stone hits it in the eye and finishes it off it is nearly a mercy killing.

The party regroups a few moments later at the top of the pit that was once a library. Otis is glum; there are few books to be found, and he feels that Adelle has wasted a powerful spell on a scroll. “I might never have another chance to learn that spell!” he cries in anguish. 

She brushes his complaints aside. “I acted to save my allies,” she responds. 

The party has found some coins, as well as a magical bracelet of some kind and ten soiled red magical arrows, on the ledge of the strange sewer fishers. After the party stashes these away for the time being, Sir Jorgen urges them to form up and move on. After all, they aren’t gaining on Sir Harth by standing around.

While they move on, they talk. Kyle talks about doing without high magic in the party’s home time. Sir Colder puts the mack on the village sheriff. Otis mocks him, then encourages the peasants. Adelle asks Dahlia for some healing. Kyle asks about moons. Adelle talks about harnessing moons for power, or even as weapons. The very idea of using a moon as a weapon is appalling and amazing all at once. 

Deeper into ruined Litel...

_*Next Time:*_ Our heroes continue their pursuit of Harth and find- a major clue: a rail line!


----------



## Alcar

*Yes*

Let me say, this campaign is probobaly the most difficult, and most fun I've had playing a game in a while. Our party was always looking out for one another, we had to, and even though I played the quiet wizard that beacme an ego-maniac, I knew what time it was.
I think most of the party agrees.


I hope we get back to this setting eventually, with or without new characters


----------



## the Jester

Alcar said:
			
		

> Let me say, this campaign is probobaly the most difficult, and most fun I've had playing a game in a while.... I hope we get back to this setting eventually, with or without new characters




And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the highest praise I have received in quite a while. Eliciting that response is why I dm. 

Thanks, Alcar!! I hope we get back to this setting eventually too!!!


----------



## Tony Vargas

I've been loving this SH from the beginning.  I like the low-magic, small-scale feel early on.  Now it's D&D meets Gamma World!


----------



## the Jester

Hey Tony, glad you're enjoying it. And I'm glad you get the Gamma World vibe- that's kind of part of what I was going for, only with magic. 

Anyway, here's an update.

***

The weird, eyeless flying monster collapses to the ground, defeated. Our heroes check themselves over; no one is badly wounded, though its sonic attack did hurt Benito a little. But with the combined power of our heroes, Sir Porthos, Benito and Adelle- plus the villagers, who are desperate enough to fight some of the time- even a powerful single creature is quickly overwhelmed. “Having these guys along might really help after all,” Goer remarks.

“I think we need to be careful,” Kyle urges. “We don’t want to change time or anything. What if taking these guys to our time prevents them from doing something important back, uh, now?”

Lord Cedric snorts. “Nonthenthe! If we leave them here, they will die.”

“Yes, my lord,” Kyle murmurs, bowing his head. 

Adelle watches closely. She is smart, and though she doesn’t speak Kamendan, she clearly is learning a word or two. Kyle feels a moment of guilt, but he just doesn’t want anything terrible to go wrong.

All around the party, the ruins and piles of pulverized rubble are dismal reminders that they are in a war zone. Even if the war is over, this city shows no signs of recovery; in fact, our heroes have yet to see a single living soul. It is a sobering thought.

“Hey, look!” Sir Jorgen points ahead. Strange dark metal tracks are recessed into the ground, running parallel to each other and about 10’ apart from each other. These weird tracks run mostly straight, but curve to enter a nearby ruined, but very distinctive, large building, with wide eaves and many pillars but a ceiling with many gaps in it.  In the other direction, the tracks run straight into a massive crater about a hundred feet away, where they have been mangled and twisted.

“Tracks!” exclaims Benito. “Now we just have to follow them.”

“Huh?” asks Jorgen.

“Those are the tracks that the shadow train runs on,” Benito explains.

The ruined building still has a partially intact embarkation platform, with a set of tracks running through it. Rather than having any interior walls, the ceiling is held up by a series of massive pillars. On the opposite side of the platform, the party spies another set of tracks (the route running the opposite direction, according to Adelle).  A cursory search turns up a strange map on the wall. Adelle explains that it was a route map- “These are- well, probably were, really- five different transportation routes indicated by color, so the red, orange, yellow, blue and black lines each represent one route. Here, where they all converge near the center of the city, is the main hub. I would bet that that is where Harth went.”

“Then it ith to there that we thall go ath well!” Lord Cedric cries, taking a swig from his bottle of whiskey and mussing the hair of Bates (one of the villagers, a lad of 14 years).

The party continues on. They pass up smoking buildings after their experience with the library. Now and again, they hear movement in the rubble; rats and ghouls seem to be the only survivors of the city- or at least, the only survivors willing to show themselves.

For an hour and more the group walks through the broken capitol. They must step carefully to avoid turning their ankles, or their horses’, and this slows their progress; but they know that they have gained a great deal on Sir Harth and his evil cult. Or is it the beholder and his minions? _Who is really in charge there?_ wonder our heroes. _Is Harth the beholder’s lackey, or is the beholder somehow serving Sir Harth? Does it even matter?_

Sheriff Jorgen thinks, _We must bring Sir Harth to justice._

Suddenly, three figures round the corner ahead and come into view. They are skeletons of metal, gleaming mechanical monsters with long blades coming from the ends of their hands. Immediately, the war machines move towards the party, closing the distance rapidly.

“Oh crap!” cries Sheriff Jorgen, and raises and fires his crossbow. The bolt penetrates the metal creature’s steel skin, sticking into it! Kyle dives for cover, attempting to hide behind the sheriff. Dahlia casts _heat metal_ on all three of them, and they start to smolder. Me pulls his magical mace and rushes to meet the war machines, and Lord Cedric lowers his lance and spurs Thunderpuss forward with a rousing (and drunken) cry.

Battle! The clang of steel on steel as the party and the machines throw themselves into the dance, cutting, crushing, slicing, stabbing. An ear goes flying through the air as one of the war machines slices it from Sir Colder’s head. Otis screams, “Get back!!” as he sees his _magic missiles_ resisted harmlessly by the constructs. 

Even Kyle joins the melee, casting _magic weapon_ on his blade. The war machines are fairly tough and fairly hard to hurt with direct magical assaults. The battle is not an easy one. The war machines are quick, deadly accurate and very hard to destroy. But, one by one, our heroes hack them down. The battle is far from one-sided, for most of our heroes suffer at least a wound or two, and Sir Porthos is knocked cold and nearly slain. At the battle’s conclusion, he is stable but unconscious, with a broken jaw.

“Those things are tough!” exclaims Kyle. He shakes his head. “I don’t know if we can take a large group of them, if we encounter one.”

“We may have to,” Benito tells him grimly. “If there are any large units of them left, they are probably near strategic areas- like the Shadow Road Terminal.”

“Well, what we really need to do is rest,” opines Goer. “We’re wounded, and I bet you guys are getting low on spells.” Several of the spellcasters nod. 

“Let’s look for a secure place to rest while we travel,” Otis says.

***

On through the ruin, through the smell of death, beneath that tainted maroon sky. Over pulverized buildings, along or through craters, between ragged buildings scorched by fire our heroes walk. The scavenging ghouls, and here and there, rats, are the only inhabitants that the party sees. As they move down the road, they come upon a very sturdy-looking building of strange white material, similar to the walls of the nearly-abandoned village that they found previously. Though damaged by fire and impact, the building is intact.

“What is this stuff?” inquires Otis. “We saw it back around your village, as well.”

“It is called _plastic,_” Adelle replies. “It has very interesting and useful properties. And there are many types of it.”

“Hmm,” muses Otis. _Yet another wonder of the ancients that we have lost. There is so much that we can learn from this journey, if only we can make it home! And if only there were a way to record the secrets of this era and bring them home with us..._

The party moves up to the building and enters. It is some kind of armory- but it is not unguarded. Four mechanical hounds, similar to the ones that the party fought in the village, spring forth. To the party’s dismay, Mang Trolak, the half-orc villager, is torn to pieces almost immediately!

“No!” cries Benito. “Mang!” 

Otis and Adelle both blast the gear hounds with _fireballs,_ and Kyle follows this up with a _magic missile_ spell. One of the hounds drops! Then the rest of the party rushes forward into melee as best they can- though Sir Fwaigo ends up blocked off. Cursing, he yells at Lord Cedric to get out of the way, but Cedric is busy hacking one of the hounds into pieces. “Two down!” he cries triumphantly.

Meanwhile, Dahlia casts _heat metal_, followed by _call lightning._ As her first lightning bolt cracks down and blasts one of the remaining gear hounds to bits, the other one collapses, giving off smoke and a weird burning smell.

Mang Trolak is clearly dead. The party gathers the pieces of her body and everyone heads outside. Benito, Adelle and the other villagers weep for her. Then, they set about digging a grave and planting her body into it while the adventurers keep a wary eye out for trouble. The maroon sky overhead is the color of a young scab. As the only priest present, Lord Cedric says a few words and performs a funeral ceremony; then she is buried .

“Should we go back into that building?” asks Dahlia. “There might be more trouble in there; I saw several doors.”

“It’s a distraction,” Otis declares. “We should keep going.”

“We do need to find a place to rest,” Sir Colder points out.

“We should find a place that’s less likely to have trouble inside of it,” says Kyle.

They keep moving. Past a series of buildings that smell of vinegar, past a hugely burning factory that covers nearly a block. “I thought I saw something moving in the flames,” Sir Jorgen muses.

“Surely,” Otis says eloquently, “it is not something that will help us find Harth.”

They continue their journey. Wounds itch and throb. Porthos moans in his unconscious state. Bates, the lad, stays close to Lord Cedric, who leads from the rear. Benito’s electric ranseur is in his hands. The stink of rotting corpses gets even stronger as they head deeper into the destroyed city.

Suddenly a haggard figure clad in rags stumbles out of a nearby alley. 

Everyone’s weapons are drawn in a second, but the old man makes no hostile moves. Instead, crying, he stumbles towards them. “Please,” he cries in Palantian, which some but not all of the party understands. “Have some wine. Have a cup of wine...” He breaks down, sobbing. “I’m sorry!” he cries. 

Somewhat dumbfounded, our heroes hesitate- and suddenly a _fireball_ explodes around them, killing both the man and Angora, the village sheriff. “No!!” howls Sheriff Jorgen. 

A cloaked figure steps out from an alley. Our heroes gasp as it casts back its cowl. A gleaming white skull is revealed, but in its eyes are large gems. One of them smokes and hisses. The other one-

_*Next Time:*_ The other eye!


----------



## Alcar

*Perfect*

Perfect monster for this era of cydra, along with the wolf-in-sheep's-clothing. I appreciated this fight, I should have seen it coming.


BUMP


----------



## the Jester

The poor man who tried to get our heroes to drink some wine has no chance. The _fireball_ that the cloaked figure cast from one of its eyes killed him instantly. After all, it did not matter whether the party accepted the poisoned wine from the man; what mattered was only that he made the offer, that he tried to murder them, that he committed evil. Satisfied, the gleaming skull-faced, gem-eyed monster slew him with its right eye, and now it unleashes a wave of fear from its left.

Our heroes, meanwhile, have already unleashed a devastating volley of _magic missiles_ and weapons at the monster. It looks undead; Cedric moves forward, determined to attempt to turn it and make it flee. To his surprise, he sees Sheriff Jorgen, Me and several of the peasants dash away in a panic. He changes his mind and casts _remove fear_ instead. Meanwhile, the strange gemstone-eyed monster is caught in a grim cross fire of _magic missiles_ between Adelle and Otis and is slammed into by Sir Colder and Benito. The monster staggers back, and a final volley of missiles from Otis destroys it.

“What was that thing?” exclaims Goer. “It was freaky!”

“You’re telling me,” Kyle agrees. “That _fireball_ would have killed me if I hadn’t dived behind you!”*

Shakily, our heroes do some quick healing and then move on quickly. They wish to linger here for as short of a time as possible. Fortunately, the peasants avoided the worst of it; only Angora, their sheriff, died in the blast. Sheriff Jorgen sheds a tear for her; they had grown close over the last few weeks. Now... now she is gone. 

But only a half hour later, another group of war machines appears from a side street, and another desperate battle breaks out. This time there are four of the constructs, rather than the trio that our heroes faced before, and they were enough trouble! Immediately, Otis unleashes a _fireball,_ but the war machines are in a widely-separated skirmish formation, and he can only catch two of them. They close in on him swiftly, hitting the party in the flank, and Dahlia catches two of them with a _heat metal._

Wisely, Kyle retreats to guard the peasants. But then, to his dismay, one of the war machines stabs Otis twice in the head! There is a shower of blood as the wizard is cut down! “Master!! No!!” Kyle screams.

Dahlia casts another _heat metal,_ catching both of the other war machines. The party begins to move in and fight back, and Sir Percival gives a primal scream as he smashes one to pieces in two mighty blows!

Kyle dashes forward to where Otis lays on the ground. _Is he alive?_ the apprentice wizard wonders hopefully. _If he is, I have to save him!_ When he reaches his master’s body, though, he is forced to spring away from a war machine attack, and cannot even tell whether Otis is alive!

Another of the war machines tumbles over to Me and slices his leg with a sweeping blow, bowling him over. He lands on the smoking ruin of the war machine that he just destroyed, and then cries out as the war machine stabs him again. 

Dahlia rushes over to Lord Cedric, who is trying to work his way forward but is impeded by peasants and the need to mount Thunderpuss.** “Cedric, wait!” she cries, and he reins in long enough for her to bless him with the strength of a bull. Thunderpuss rears back and kicks at the air; then, with a mighty roar of both horse and rider, Cedric and Thunderpuss charge forward, smashing into one of the war machines with his lance. The machine shudders back, smashed hard by the blow, and then flips nimbly out of the line of Cedric’s lance and into a fighting stance. 

Sir Colder and Sir Jorgen are fiercely battling the war machine that is advancing on Sir Percival, which leaves only the one menacing the unmoving Otis and Kyle. Biting his lip, the lapidary-cum-adventurer darts in and grabs his master under the armpits. He strains with all his feeble muscles, and manages to start dragging him away.

Unfortunately for him, the war machine takes advantage of his burdened movement to run Kyle through. With a warbling cry, the apprentice joins the master in a state of rather profound immobility.

Meanwhile, the war machine facing Lord Cedric neatly unhorses him. With a surprised cry, Cedric crashes to the ground. His eyes widen as he sees another first break one of Me’s hands, then whirl around and cut Colder’s longspear in two! _These machines are of consummate skill,_ he admits to himself. Aloud, he shouts, “We mutht redouble our effortth, my friendth! We cannot let thethe thingth thtop uth from thtopping Harth!” Then he snarls in dismay as the one that he is facing stabs Thunderpuss and neatly slices through a wide slab of muscle. The horse gives out an agonized whinny as blood fountains everywhere. 

Me roars as he enters a rage and begins spring attacking, and Colder and Jorgen together bring down the one that they are facing. Even the peasants begin to get into the act, firing crossbows and shortbows at the war machines. A moment later Sir Colder manages to drop another! They are almost all gone-

“Look out!!” shouts Adelle. There is the _whump_ of a _fireball_ exploding down the same alley that the war machines came from. “Three more of them!”

Cedric laughs wildly and takes a quick swig off of his wineskin. “Let them come!” he sneers. “We thall overcome them with eathe!”

One of the newcomers tumbles up to Me and neatly disarms him. He roars and picks his weapon back up and begins smashing angrily at it. Over and over again he hits it; it crashes and stumbles back, until finally he crushes into a ruin of broken metal and smoking wires.

Meanwhile, Kyle’s raven familiar*** digs around in his gear, looking for potions. When it finally finds one, it pulls it free of his belt with its beak, carefully uncorks it and promptly spill it all over Kyle. But as the liquid seeps into his wound, tissues begin to knit. The flowing blood slows, then stops, as veins and arteries reconnect where they have been severed. Kyle’s eyelids flutter and he gasps as consciousness returns to him.

Dahlia begins healing the wounded as they fight, first Sir Colder, then Otis. Otis groggily pulls himself up. “Are you all right?” Dahlia asks the wizard. 

“What? What’s happening?” Otis yells, looking somewhat confused. “Hello? HELLO?” He grimaces wildly. “Ahh, I’m deaf!!” His eyes widen as he sees the war machines, and he rises to his feet unsteadily and backpedals away a dozen feet. “KEEP YOUR DISTANCE!” he shouts. “THEY ARE VERY DANGEROUS!”

“We know,” groans Kyle. Dahlia heals Percival- Me- and then moves on to the apprentice wizard. “Thanks,” Kyle sighs, reveling in her touch as she uses her powers to knit his wounds. She doesn’t respond to his flirtations; not right now. 

Me and one of the war machines keep struggling together, trading blows and cuts. Finally, the half-orc’s superior endurance and powerful rage wins the day, and Me drops yet another of the war machines. Sir Porthos and Sir Jorgen move together to charge into another, Jorgen using a lance while mounted and Porthos simply charging on foot with his sword. 

Adelle curses one again at how spell resistant the things are and, out of magical resources, pulls out her sling. She whirls it around and fires, pegging one of them in the head with a bullet! The thing is already severely damaged, smoking and giving off sparks and leaking weird, oily fluids. The bullet smashes it flat, and the war machine struggles feebly to rise for a moment before going still. 

The final machine whirls around madly, springing for Sir Jorgen and only narrowly missing him. But the angry Sir Percival rushes in and begins hacking, ignoring the pain of his broken hand completely, and in a few short seconds he crushes the last remaining war machine.

“Good gods!” moans Kyle. “That was a close one.” 

“Clothe?” Lord Cedric scoffs. “We are triumphant, of courthe, ath I knew we would be. We thall overcome all oppothithion and defeat all of our enemies. With contempthuous eathe!”

“As you say, my Lord,” Goer sighs. 

“Should we rest, or move on?” inquires Dahlia. “My magical resources are pretty well used up...”

“Perhapth we thould find a thuitable plathe to hole up,” nods Lord Cedric. “We could have a few drinkth.” He tousles Bates’ hair. 

“Yes, let’s all keep our eyes peeled,” the sheriff agrees. The party walks along for some time through the blasted city, following the track of the Shadow Train. The sky remains that same dark maroon color the entire time. 

“I wonder how that goes away?” remarks Sir Colder. He points at the sky. “What would get rid of it?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Adelle responds. She looks thoughtful for a few moments, then says, “The sky is a side effect of the spell engine destroying all magic not protected. It’s very powerful magic, epic magic in fact; it would require epic magic to destroy it. Either that, or you’d have to starve it.”

“You mean, if it sucked up _all the magic in the land_-“

“Unprotected magic. Exposed magic.”

Kyle is shocked by the thought. “Maybe that’s what happened! Maybe-“

“Almost certainly.” Otis' brow is furrowed in thought.

“Something else you should think about,” Benito says, “is your tickets. Do you have enough money to buy tickets for everyone to wherever we’re going?”

Puzzled, Goer says, “Buy... what? Tickets? What?” 

“Surely you didn’t think that you could ride the Shadow Train for free.” Benito sounds surprised at the very thought.

”How much are thethe ticketth?” asks Lord Cedric. 

“Oh, it depends,” Benito answers him. “Where are we going?”

“To the Isle of the Elves,” Sir Porthos answers. Everyone looks at him. “That is where Harth’s goal is.”

“But for now, we need to rest and recover our resources,” Dahlia reminds them. “Remember to keep your eyes open for somewhere that we can rest.”

“So we’re looking for something like... that?” Sir Colder points dramatically.   

Ahead of the party is a very colorful building, painted yellow, red, green and blue. Out front, a sign shows an image of the masks of comedy and tragedy. The place looks largely intact.

“Why not?” shrugs Sir Colder. 

The party moves to investigate. 

_*Next Time:*_ The Disparager!


*Kyle evaded. Hurray for rogue levels! Especially when your full hp total is 17 at 8th level...

**He actually failed his quick mount check. But you know, dramatic license and all.

***Similar, in many ways, to V’s raven familiar in Order of the Stick. :|


----------



## the Jester

The building, though at first glance abandoned, is clearly some kind of theater. There is a large stage, with props scattered about here and there. Rows of seats face the stage. The curtains are closed. Ropes and rigging dangle from the darkness above. The smell of corruption is as strong inside the building as it is outside.

Suddenly- dramatically- the curtains rise, and mocking laughter rings out through the theater. 

“They look as tasty as the dead- and as stupid and slow!”

The voice rings out in the local tongue, but its tone is plain even to those of our heroes who cannot understand it. It comes from the shadows above. _Somewhere in the rigging,_ thinks Dahlia. 

Four figures, shambling, grey-skinned ghouls, emerge onto the stage, wheezing laughter. They are costumed brightly in a morbid parody of the theater they are in.

“Ghouls!” she shouts. “Watch out!” She casts _barkskin_ on herself. The ghouls start to creep forward, and then the stench hits Dahlia and she wants to gag.

Sir Colder springs forward, stabbing violently at the closest undead with his longspear. He hits it in the chest, and it staggers back- and laughs. The stink assails him, as well; it makes his gorge rise. _What foulness is this?_ he groans to himself. Behind him, Lord Cedric and Sir Fwaigo move in together, and suddenly the crash of battle is in full swing as our heroes and the hideously odiferous ghouls collide in a shower of violence. Our heroes have grown mighty, and- at least for now- none of them succumb to the paralysis threatened by every small wound the ghouls cause. And the stink! It is ghastly!

Cedric grins as he reaches the ghouls. “By the power of Clymorian!” he cries. “Turn away, foul creatureth!” With that, he channels positive energy, and the nearest pair of the undead cower back away from him. One of them turns to flee, and he cuts it down with his mighty sword, and a glad cry escapes his lips.

The voice cries down from above. “Witch-woman!” it sneers, “You with the tangled hair!” Dahlia stiffens. “You look as though your association with nature is as shallow as your veneer of civilization. I am surprised that you can cast a spell!” She gasps, somehow wounded by his barbed remarks. She bites her lip and gazes resentfully into the shadows.

_Where is he?_ she wonders. She peers... is that a shape? Yes! In the rigging...

But he is too quick. Suddenly _silence_ drops around her. She grimaces and takes a few steps away, until she can hear the battle again. “You want to see me cast a spell?” she yells, and hits him with a _flame strike_. The ropes he is hanging in burn up in a flash, and the figure- another ghoul, dressed in more fancy costume, drops from the rigging.  But, to Dahlia’s surprise, he twists his body and hits the wall, then catches himself and clings to it.

Simultaneously, with the ropes that tied it back burnt away, a heavy bean bag swings out across the stage. Sir Colder dives down and it passes over him, narrowly missing his head. Lord Cedric, Sir Fwaigo and Sir Percival (Me) continue to duel the undead. Cedric slays one with a mighty blow of his blade; Me crushes another with his flail. Finally, he finishes the last one as well.

Cedric growls and hops off of the stage, striking a ready stance. “Thpread out tho that the varlet may not eathily catth uth all in a thpell!” he commands.

Meanwhile, the disparager- the last undead facing our heroes- titters and leaps into more of the rigging. Sir Colder shakes his head in disbelief. 

“Fools! Welcome to the show!” the figure above them cries. “I am Xerthos, player of many parts, and I will feast on you all!”

“We have already thlain your lackeyth,” Lord Cedric points out, “and we thall thlay you nektht.”

With that, Dahlia casts another _flame strike_ on Xerthos. The flames engulf the ghoul and the ropes holding him. This time, rather than twisting towards the wall, Xerthos gives a rabid scream and dives directly at Dahlia.

The stench hits her an instant before the bite. She vomits uncontrollably, staggering back; and if it weren’t for Me, she would probably be dead. But Sir Percival steps in, striking at the foul-smelling ghoul with his magical flail. He roars a challenge while Dahlia staggers away, gagging. The stench is horrific near Xerthos, making even Me fight a bout of strong nausea. But, though it is difficult in the extreme to effectively attack the ghoul in melee because of the strong odor, our heroes do manage to deal a significant amount of damage, and then Kyle finally kills Xerthos with a _magic missile._

“That guy was a jerk!” exclaims Dahlia. 

“Yeah, he kept spouting off mean stuff,” Sir Colder nods.*

Though the playhouse stinks of death and has a number of bodies in it, our heroes decide that it is as good of a place to rest as any. They clean a dressing room up enough that it doesn’t reek of carrion and proceed to get a few precious hours of sleep, banishing fatigue, at least for the moment.

***

“What we need,” Otis muses as they move along, “is a bank.”

“A bank, master?” Kyle is intrigued.

“Yes. Benito and Adelle have told us that we will need a great deal of money to take this ‘Shadow Train’. This city is probably not going to have a much better place to look for money than a bank.”

“That’s a very good point!” Kyle agrees. 

All around them, rubble, debris, the dead. Destruction, ruin, craters, broken buildings, battered roads. Here and there a few scavengers. The maroon sky.

Colder shudders. _What a terrible, terrible place,_ he thinks. _What a terrible time. I hope we can really escape it. I would hate to be stranded here for the rest of my life..._

The heroes find themselves paralleling a stinking canal full of fetid, foul water. This canal runs alongside the metal tracks that they is following. They continue along. After fifteen minutes or so, as they clamber along a large jumbled pile of rocks, several of them spot a figure hiding. They approach, and force a man out into the open. He is slender- scrawny, even- with shaggy brown hair. He has no shirt nor shoes. The only accoutrement he seems to have is a pair of tattered purple pants. 

“Who are you?” demands Sir Fwaigo.

“My name is Banner,” the man replies sadly. “Please do not make me angry. You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.”

“We can handle ourselves just fine, thank you,” snorts Goer. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m... surviving. I’m a survivor of the war.” As he says this, he seems very sad. 

“What’s up with you?” the perceptive Dahlia demands. “You seem... guilty.”

He looks at her. His eyes are green and as deep as the sea. For a long moment, he says nothing. Then, finally, he says, “This is all my fault.”

“What is?”

“This.” He gestures around at the ruin around them. “The death. The war. All of it.”

“How so?” asks Sir Porthos. 

“I invented the gamma bomb,” Banner replies.

_*Next Time:*_ Our heroes recruit- the Hulk!!


*Xerthos was a disparager- a prestige class, pretty much for bards, that gives them to ability to inflict penalties on their enemies by calling them names and such. Oh, and for the record, these were actually ghasts, not ghouls per se. Xerthos was a ghast bard 4/disparager 5.


----------



## Alcar

*Typo*



			
				the Jester said:
			
		

> “Almost certainly.” Alcar’s brow is furrowed in thought.
> 
> 
> Wrong story hour, gotcha hahahahaha.


----------



## the Jester

Alcar said:
			
		

> the Jester said:
> 
> 
> 
> 
> “Almost certainly.” Alcar’s brow is furrowed in thought.
> 
> 
> Wrong story hour, gotcha hahahahaha.
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> Oops!
> 
> Nice catch, thanks!
Click to expand...


----------



## the Jester

*The Incredible Hulk!*

“Maybe the elves were right about us,” Banner muses sadly. “We can’t be trusted. We reached too high. We sought out forbidden knowledge, sure in our hubris that we could handle the burden of knowing too much. But knowledge without wisdom...” He heaves a sigh. “Knowledge without wisdom led us _here._” He gestures at the ruined city, stinking of death, stretching all around him. Everywhere there is devastation. Broken chunks of street and building form a massive pile of debris. The skeletons of the many city’s former houses and businesses stand on all sides, but as many do not stand, not any longer. The stench of decaying, rotten flesh fills the air everywhere, along with the stink of greasy fires elsewhere in the city. There are stranger aromas, too. The combination is the smell of defeat, of despair, of the collapse of a great society. The smell of the end.

Sheriff Jorgen shudders. “We have to find Sir Harth,” he mutters to himself. “We can’t let him do this to our time too!”

Wordlessly, Lord Cedric pulls out a bottle of looted whiskey and offers it to Banner. For a moment, the man seems to be considering it; then his face falls. “No,” he whispers. “I don’t dare. If I lose control...” He trails off, his face contorted in agony. 

Cedric shrugs. “Thuit yourthelf,” he replies, taking a long pull from the bottle and passing it to Kyle. He tousles Bates’ hair. “Well, Banner, we are from another time, and we are in purthuit of a foul villain who theekth to take powerful weaponth from your war-ravaged time to ourth, whith ith a more peatheful, friendly time. Do you think it ith likely that your ‘gamma bombth’ are what he ith after?”

Banner’s expression twists in horror. “Science,” he whispers, “it could be. You have to stop him! If he-“

“We came back here to stop him,” Kyle interjects. “We’re quite aware of what the consequences could be if he succeeds. We can see.”

“And smell,” adds Dahlia. 

“Can you help us?” asks the Sheriff.

“Him?” bursts out Adelle. “Help us? Didn’t you hear him? This is _Banner!_” Her face is growing red with fury. “He invented the gamma bomb! We don’t want his help!”

“She’s right,” Banner whispers morosely. “I-I’m trouble. I’m dangerous. You can’t trust me.” He stares down at his bare feet.

“Nonthenthe,” Lord Cedric answers magnanimously. “We will not leave anyone here in thith foul time. If you have been an evil man, you will be tried and punithed appropriately, but we will _not_ leave a man behind that witheth to come forward with us.” He looks Banner in the eye. “If you can help uth, it will thpeak well of you.”

“I... you... all right. But... you must be careful. I am dangerous. I have been... exposed. Changed. By gamma radiation.”

“Oh, we’ve already fought some gamma mutant dogs,” Sir Fwaigo dismisses his concern. “We’ll be all right. But what do you mean? Can’t you control yourself when you change?”

“No,” he answers gravely. “I can’t. I can’t even remember what it’s like, to be... the Hulk.”

“The Hulk?” asks Sir Colder.

“That’s what they call his gamma form,” Benito snarls. “Cedric, are you sure about this? I don’t think that it’s wise-”

“I am thertain,” Lord Cedric lisps. Grumbling, Benito, Adelle and the villagers subside.

Joined by Banner, our heroes continue looking for a place to rest. 

***

Eventually a ravaged house presents itself. It has no corpses inside of it, and though there are a few vermin within, they scatter as the party appears. Clearly, the scavengers in this ruined city have plenty of easier meat to eat than a large, well-armed group of adventurers (and peasants).

The party moves on under that flat maroon sky. It is maddening, oppressive; how long will it be until our heroes see sun or stars again, or even the blue of sky? Sir Fwaigo grits his teeth. This place angers and frightens him. To think that it was _his ancestors,_ ultimately, that did this to themselves! And worse, to think of Sir Harth bringing the capacity to do this back to Kamenda- it is almost too much to bear.

“Hey, look,” calls Kyle, pointing up the road about a hundred yards. They hurry up to the place his is indicated. Ahead of them alongside the road is the remains of a cook fire and a recent camp. Multiple flat stones show greasy stains, and a pile of guts is on the ground. The remains of some kind of carcass lie a few feet away, but it has been stripped of its meat. Could this be a sign of Harth?

Sheriff Jorgen and Dahlia examines the scene. “This was a horse,” Dahlia announces. “It was slaughtered here. Those are its guts. You can see the blood splash from where they cut its throat.”

“Yeah, and they ate a meal and smoked up its meat,” adds the sheriff. “Whoever they were, they were low on provisions; they came in with one more horse than they left with.”

“Harth,” breathes Lord Cedric. “We almotht have him. Come! We mutht continue!”

The party continues following the metal track in the ground. The fetid canal remains off to their left side. As they move alongside it, something starts to move within the slimy water- something transparent, almost made of water itself. It separates and then there are two of them. They flow out and move swiftly towards their prey, intending to capture a prisoner for their masters.

“Look out!” cries Sir Colder as the things flow down towards the party. He can barely see them, but that just worries him more. Adelle fires a volley of _magic missiles_ but can’t really tell whether they have any effect. 

“Banner, stay back!” Benito barks. Then the first of the weird things slams into him- and grabs him! Benito gives a shout of dismay as he is dragged into a crushing, wet, cold embrace, and then worse- it engulfs him completely! He struggles within its form, but cannot free himself!

“What the hell are these things?” shouts Sir Fwaigo. “I can’t even see them!” 

The other one rushes up onto Sir Percival- Me- and grapples him as well, trying to crush him into submission. Me gives out a great roar and goes into a blinding rage, struggling mightily to free himself! The creature crushes him mightily, but slowly he manages to force it to open its grasp and release him!

Dahlia, meanwhile, retreats far enough to be out of immediate danger and then outlines one of the creatures with _faerie fire._ It is revealed to be an undulant mass of four large tentacles joined to a central mound of thick, syrupy liquid. “Gross!” she exclaims. 

Sir Colder retreats backwards. “Wizards to the fore!” he shouts. “Our weapons are useless here!” 

“Shaboaths!” Ferick (the crotchety old man of the villagers) exclaims. “Beware, boys, they serve aboleths!”

The party redoubles their efforts, landing several blows on the creatures, but not having much effect. Benito is completely submerged within the body of the shaboath that has engulfed him, and though he struggles mightily, he cannot escape. Banner cries out, “No! Let him go!”- and rushes forward, trying to pull him free.

“Banner, NO!” shouts Adelle. “Get back! You know what will happen if they hurt you!”

“I can’t just let him die!” Banner shouts.

The shaboath swipes at him with a tentacle, knocking him back and bloodying his face. “Aargh!” Banner shouts, and collapses to his knees, shaking his head. He wipes his nose and shouts again. He seems to be swelling up, becoming larger. His skin darkens, turning green. The ragged remains of the purple pants that he is wearing tear further, until they resemble tattered shorts on his massively-enlarged frame. “RAGGGHH!!!” the Hulk roars. With a fierce glare, it turns back to the shaboath that hit Banner. “HULK SMASH!!!” 

While it is distracted, observing the gamma transformation of Banner, Benito manages to burst free. He is gasping for air and bruised all over; clearly, the creature squeezed him fairly severely.

Our heroes watch in awe as the Hulk rushes in on the shaboath. The shaboath’s tentacles reach out and wrap around the Hulk, but the green goliath peels them off of him. Lord Cedric gives out a cry and rides in to flank the shaboath, striking with his flail. 

The other Shaboath, meanwhile, engulfs Me completely. The pissblood doesn’t even have time to shout for help. Benito thrusts his ranseur into it over and over again, and Dahlia has _called lightning_ to strike it. The combination proves to be too much, and finally the first shaboath falls!

Meanwhile, the Hulk is smashing the other one to bits. With a final push from Dahlia’s electric strike, it collapses into a pool of thick liquid too. 

Leaving our heroes- and the Hulk.

The Hulk glares at the party. “HULK SMASH!!” he thunders. He takes a threatening step forward. 

Our heroes back off. “Whoa, there, big guy, we just want to help,” Sir Colder says in his most soothing voice.

“Indeed!” cries Lord Cedric. “Would you like thome wine?”

“Not wine,” Dahlia says quickly. She pulls some biscuits out of her belt pouch. “Here, Hulk. Do you want a biscuit?” She offers it to him with a smile. The Hulk takes it, then sniffs it, then swallows it in a single gulp. He seems to be calming down, even shrinking a little bit. Soon he is Banner again.

“Wow,” says Goer, with feeling.

_*Next Time:*_ The Bank Job!


----------



## the Jester

*CURRENT PARTY ROSTER*

Sir Fwaigo "Goer" Smith- fighter 8
Sir Colder- fighter 5/rogue 3
Lady Dahlia Laagos- elfblood druid 8
Sir Percival "Me"- half-orc barbarian 4/scout 4
Kyle Goldenbow- elfblood rogue 4/wizard 4
Sir Jorgen Boatwright, Sheriff of Whitewater- fighter 4/rogue 4
Sir Cedric Whitewater, Lord of Whitewater- knight 7
Otis Optimus- wizard 8


----------



## the Jester

Ahead of our heroes in the devastated city, a large building looms. It seems mostly intact, though it shows char marks and other signs of attack. The large doors are open, and even in the poor light provided by the sunless, maroon sky, our heroes perceive a sign on the awning out front that shows a stack of coins.

“A bank!” exclaims Benito.

“Maybe we can fund our tickets on the shadow train here,” Kyle suggests slyly.

“That sounds like a fine idea,” Otis smiles. 

But when they enter the bank, the party finds that they are not the only ones who have had such an idea.

The interior is 100’ square, with a large lobby that measures 100’x80’. Oddly enough, three small wheeled hand carts are in the lobby. On the extreme left of the back side of the room is an open door that leads behind the counter, and in the space behind the counter is a stairway heading downward. “The vault should be down below,” Adelle opines. The party heads towards the door leading behind the counter. 

Two stone statues rise up.

“Hey wait!” exclaims Goer in surprise. Sir Colder just grimaces and thrusts his spear forward, over his friend’s shoulder, but it barely scratches the statue. Still, a concerted attack by our heroes swiftly overwhelms the statues, leaving them shattered on the ground.

A figure starts to emerge from the stairwell. It starts upon spotting our heroes and quickly retreats back down the stairs.

“Orc!” Me cries happily. 

Our heroes race down the stairs, but instead of a simple orc, they find themselves in a battle with a formidable orcish fighter, a sneaky halfling rogue and another four of the stone guardians! The battle is fierce, intense, harrowing; but our heroes seem blessed by good luck, and their enemies seem cursed by a malaise of bad luck. Add these together with a healthy dose of good strategy, and soon our heroes have taken the bank, slain most of the enemy and destroyed the statuary. The orc, rendered unconscious, is still alive.

“Kyle,” Otis says gravely, “let me see your spellbook.”

Reluctantly, the apprentice hands his tome over to his master. Otis scratches out Kyle’s grade- presently a D- and writes a C in its place. Kyle beams proudly. Then his practical side takes over, and he suggests a thorough search and inventory of the vault. It proves to measure about 50’ wide by 30’ deep and is lined with shelf after shelf of built-in, elaborately-sculpted boxes. Adelle explains that these are boxes that people would rent and keep valuable items hidden within. At one end, a thick door has been drilled through by the orc and halfling, but another, inner door still remains. It does not look like the robbers had had any luck with it whatsoever. It seems to be built from some kind of weird greenish, metallic-looking material that feels almost like cloth. Some fruitless moments trying to open us turn our heroes to more easily available loot.

Of the most interest are the bags and bags of cash easily available. There is far more wealth than the heroes have ever seen before; there are literally thousands of gold pieces. 

Benito and Adelle, on the other hand, think that it’s a pretty petty amount of cash.

Nonetheless, everyone is aware that having plenty of money might help ensure a successful train ride. Therefore, they gather up the loot and load themselves, the peasants and the mounts with all that they can find. A lengthy, strenuous effort finally pries open one of the secure, built-in boxes in the outer vault, only to find- papers. 

“Utheleth,” Lord Cedric says in disgust. 

The party revives the orc, whose name turns out to be Grulthug. At first he is defiant; but upon learning that his partner, the halfling, is dead, he nearly breaks down in tears. The party questions him, but he is just what he seems: an opportunist, taking advantage of the moment of chaos that he has found himself in. He and the halfling were burglars; in recent weeks, they had gained control of the stone guardians by means of a special ring, which- with the guardians now smashed to rubble- is now useless. 

_Unless I can learn from it,_ Otis thinks hungrily. Visions of himself, at the head of a massive band of mobile statues, dance through his head. 

However, our heroes get the real payoff from the orc when they inquire about Sir Harth. They describe him and his band, and immediately, Grulthug replies, “Oh, I saw a beholder not long ago. Within the last week or twelve days. We didn’t dare approach, of course.”

“Where?” demands Goer. “Where did you see them?”

“Further towards the center of the city.”

“They’re still ahead of us,” Dahlia laments.

“We’re catching up,” Sheriff Jorgen answers grimly. “It won’t be long.”

In the end, the party not only lets Grulthug live, they even return some of his gear to him. “Good luck,” Me rumbles to him with a smile as the party hurries along. Before long, a small branch of the canal just ahead of them runs into what appears to be a very large bath house. The scum-choked water must have once been clear and fresh, but now the bath house is filled with a disgusting mess of algae, mold and corpses and body parts, some of them floating in the water.

“I bet there are ghouls in there,” Dahlia grimaces.

“Forget them.” Sir Fwaigo shakes his head. “We need to stay focused on Harth.”

“Yeah, I want to get _home,_” Kyle complains. “This era is horrible!”

The party moves past the bath house, ignoring the ghouls feasting within. They move along for about another half hour, passing down shattered avenues replete with the remains of rich storefronts. The metal tracks in the ground that they are following continue inexorably forward. 

And suddenly, with a shout, a figure that several of our heroes recognize as one Sir Helios (one of Sir Harth’s men) rides forth, a longspear couched like a lance, and leads a handful of obviously haggard- and mutated- men-at-arms from Harth’s entourage in a surprise charge on our heroes.

_*Next Time:*_ Sir Helios comes with a big green surprise!


----------



## the Jester

_This is the test,_ thinks Lord Cedric grimly, as he heaves his bastard sword from its scabbard. _Here is where we find out where Sir Porthos’ loyalties really lie!_

Indeed, for the ambush that our heroes have walked into was set by Porthos’ former master, Sir Harth- Harth, the traitor. Harth, archenemy of all of our heroes. Harth, the very reason that the party has come here, to this devastated time, where the sky is a featureless cloud of maroon and all sanity seems to have vanished. 

Sir Porthos seems caught by surprise. His mouth hangs open in stupefaction. _So long as he does not betray us,_ Cedric thinks, _I shall assume his good faith remains._

Then the Lord of Whitewater is distracted as Otis calls out strange, mystical syllables; and suddenly a _fireball_ explodes all around the knight and the onrushing enemies closest to him! They scream and cry in agony as flames lick over them. Sir Helios’ horse whinnies in fear, but dancing out of the way of the blast, behind a large chunk of rubble, then continues to push forward. The mutant men-at-arms howl in agony even as they advance through the flames. 

“A nice start!” Sir Colder declares, setting his spear and thrusting into the closest mutant with a feral grin.

Then there is a loud roar, and everyone jerks their attention to Sir Helios.

Though his mount evaded the blast, he did not. Now, wounded, he roars, shaking his head- and starts to grow. He topples from the saddle as his stirrups burst, and he drags himself up to his feet, still roaring. Somehow, he no longer looks as though he will fit on the back of his mount. His armor’s straps stretch and snap; rivets pop. In several places, the metal plates seem to pinch themselves solidly into his flesh, making his anger- and his form- grow. His blond hair shades to a deep swamp green; his skin grows murky, first brown, then grey, and then a jade color. 

Sir Helios faces our heroes, a huge, green goliath full of rage.

Adelle cries out a curse, stepping quickly back. “Don’t let him get too close to you, he’s a gamma mutant!” she cries. “Like Banner!” She casts a _fireball_ of her own, and the blast catches Helios, his mount and one of the mutants. The blast throws the mutant down in a sizzling pile of roasted flesh, but both Sir Helios and his horse manage to withstand the blast. 

Two of the mutants, their skin covered in strange, seeping blisters, limp forward eagerly towards Otis and Sir Fwaigo. Though they themselves are filthy and unkempt, it is quite clear that they have taken fine care of their bastard swords: the blades shine in the light of the flames from the _fireballs_.

Kyle backs away nervously, casting _mage armor_ on himself. Then he casts another spell, more complex: _invisibility_. Suddenly he is gone! The mutants are a little startled, but they are also a little distracted, as the leading edges of the two parties crash into one another. Lord Cedric cries out, “Thir Helioth, thurrender! Harth hath betrayed you all! Throw down your armth and we will thow merthy and help you find your way back home!” The front line fighters of the party- Me, Goer, Jorgen, Colder, Cedric, Benito- stand as a wall, thrusting, cutting, blocking and dodging the blows of the mutants. Inevitably, some get through, and several of our heroes takes wounds. Sir Helios is near the front rank of the enemy troop, though the incredible transformation that he has undergone seems to have slowed his advance for a moment. Now Me steps forward, swinging his magic mace at the great form of the irradiated knight, and lands a telling blow. 

But Sir Helios just roars and punches Me with a mighty, mighty blow. Me is knocked sprawling, and barely drags himself up to avoid another blow! Spinning, he swings his mace again, but Sir Helios jerks his arm out of the way. 

Biting his lip, Otis hurls another _fireball_ at the battle. This time, he comes inches away from hitting Sir Percival- Me- with it. But the wizard does not care. _If a simple dog mutated by this ‘gamma’ sorcery was so dangerous,_ he thinks grimly, _how much more deadly will a trained knight be??_

The flames wash over Sir Helios, his mount and a mutant. This time, to Otis’ delight, the horse drops to the ground, its skin blackened and cracked! Otis cackles, but his face falls when he sees the brute rage written all over Helios’ giant green face. He starts to move away, stopping long enough to cast a maximized _magic missile_ at the hulking agent of Harth. _He’s still going!_ Otis thinks in disbelief. _That, on top of three _fireballs... He shouts, “We have to take out the knight, now!!”

“Surrender, Helios, my friend!” Sir Porthos cries at last. “Please! Do not make us slay you!”

Sir Helios just throws back his head and roars loudly, an earth-shaking roar that can probably be heard a mile away. It makes everyone’s ears ring for a moment.

Lord Cedric, meanwhile, manages to draw back to a well-defended position and begins magically healing Sir Percival. The blow that Helios dealt him was remarkable. If Me were smart enough to feel the full effects of the blow, it might even have killed him!

Several of the mutant men-at-arms, laughing wickedly, begin to close in on the peasantry. Though most of them cringe back and start to retreat, Bates- the lad of 13 summers with whom Lord Cedric has been getting awfully chummy- pulls out a dagger and stands his ground bravely. “Leave my people alone!” he cries. 

Dannelle, Adelle’s sister, steps up with a club. “Yes, leave us alone,” she says bravely. She shakes the club in her hand. “Or else we’ll beat you!”

The mutants laugh and attack, but both Bates and Dannelle stand their ground and fight! 

Meanwhile, the other mutants have found themselves no match for the fury of Jorgen, Goer and Colder. The three of them together easily slay the mutants facing them, then turn to race to the aid of the peasants.

Watching all of this, Banner clenches his fists tightly. He retreats, but slowly, gradually letting the peasants move away from him... just in case. 

_Just in case,_ he thinks sickly. _Just in case. Please let them stop him before anyone... before anyone dies._ His head swims. His pulse begins to pound. Fear, anxiety, anger all build within him. _No!_ he tells himself. _I have to stay calm. I have to! It’s too dangerous!_ He continues to move slowly away, breathing deeply, trying to relax himself.

But it is almost more than he can take when Sir Helios charges forward at Benito, ignoring the thrust that the warrior lands in his torso on the way. Helios’ fist- the size of an anvil- cleaves through the air and smashes into Benito’s face. 

His head veritably explodes. 

Benito falls to the ground, clearly- undeniably- dead.

“BENITO!!! NOOOOO!!!!” cries Adelle. With an incoherent shout of rage and grief, she fires another volley of _magic missiles_ into Helios, and the jade juggernaut gives another roar of pain. He turns to face her, shaking his fists and giving a great, wordless scream at her. “Come on, then!!” she screams back, tears flowing down her face. “COME ON!!!”

“Adelle, no!” shouts Otis. 

“Do not worry, Otith!” Lord Cedric cries. “For even thith beatht ith no matth for the power of Clymorian!” And with that, he begins to intone a prayer to his god. Sir Helios is advancing on Adelle when Cedric gestures at him, and he simply freezes in place. 

“Quickly!” cries Cedric. “I am not thertain how long my powerth will hold him!”

“In a moment, my lord!” cries Goer, running the last mutant through. “There, that’s better!” 

Everyone converges on Sir Helios. Sir Porthos cries, “Please, surrender!”

“He’s too dangerous!” shouts Sir Colder, charging up and stabbing Helios viciously. “If we don’t kill him, he’s going to kill us- even if he doesn’t want to! Look at that!!” He gestures at the large, unmoving green form. “It’s so strong that we _have_ to kill it, or it will certainly come out and kill us at some point!”

_What does that say about me?_ Banner wonders coldly. _The Hulk is even stronger than this thing._ He shudders. His stomach is full of butterflies.

Sir Percival and Sir Jorgen both charge in, striking with all their might. But Sir Helios is healing very, very quickly. As hard as they hit him, they cannot finish him off! Frantic sword and spear and mace blows do no better. Suddenly Kyle appears, as he launches an arrow into the held enemy’s kidney. 

Then, of all people, young Bates springs forward. Instead of blind thrusts and cuts such as everyone else has tried, he quickly scales the bulky green form, and simply draws his dagger across its neck. Blood begins to pour out. At first it is green. Then Bates gives a cry of surprise as his footing shifts, and he falls off of the shrinking form of Sir Helios, who is returning to his normal form- with his throat most assuredly cut. 

“Well done, lad!” cries Goer, clapping him on the shoulder. “You’ll make a fine squire some day!”

Bates beams at him. Covered in blood, scared for his life- but alive. And more: he is triumphant. _He made the kill._ Even if he should never again do anything worth speaking of in his life, he deserves a song for that one!

Adelle, on the other hand, is inconsolable. She and the other villagers mourn for Benito, and everyone pitches in to build him a cairn. Clearly, he was someone who meant a lot to them. Before they lay him out, they spend a long time debating whether to take his gear, but in the end, they decide that they really have no choice. It could be the difference between life and death, and as Kyle points out, if they all die, then Benito died in vain. The group piles stones high atop his corpse, many of them weeping as they do. Otis is impatient to move on, but Dahlia shushes him until the burial is done. _The scavengers will just dig him out soon enough,_ he thinks, but wisely, the wizard says nothing. 

After it is over, they move on, looking out for a place to rest. They are bone-weary, but the city is so pulverized that they cannot find a suitable place that does not reek of death. “This place sucks,” Sir Fwaigo says, for perhaps the hundredth time. “Do you think we have enough money to buy passage for everyone on the train?” He looks at Adelle.

She shrugs. “I don’t know exactly.”

“Is there any reason why we can’t just overpower the train?”

She stares at him as if he were insane. “Yes,” she answers.

After a moment, Goer asks, slightly annoyed, “Why?”

“First of all, do you know how to drive the Shadow Train?” She shakes her head. “Do you know how to get where we want to go?”

Goer’s face falls. “Good point,” he is forced to admit.

“Wait!” Dahlia exclaims. “Listen!” Everyone falls silent for a moment. 

“What the hell?” Sir Colder sputters. “Do you hear that? Is it- it is!” He looks at his friends. “There is a party going on.”

“What?” Sheriff Jorgen is astonished. “A party? Here? Now?”

“I hear it too,” Dahlia nods. 

“I think it’s coming from over here,” Kyle declares, and leads the others to a nearby building that has not been blasted to smithereens. With some effort, they manage to find a crack that they can look through, and to their surprise, they see dozens of people inside through the windows, having a great deal of drink and merriment. Platters of food are interspersed throughout the room, with pitchers of various drinks out in abundance. 

There is a sign on the building’s front. In Palantian, it reads, “The Party that Never Ends”.

“Who could they be?” wonders Dahlia. 

”Who cares?” Goer shrugs. “They aren’t Harth, and they aren’t the Shadow Train. That means that they’re a distraction.”

“What if we can rest in there?” Colder counters. “We need to get some sleep, and heal some.”

“Do you think it’s more likely that we’ll be able to rest in there, or that we’ll find some kind of trouble?” Goer returns.

After another few moments of debate, the group moves on, ignoring the party house. Goer is probably right. It is probably more trouble than it is worth. They walk along for another ten minutes. Then Colder exclaims and points to the side, where a huge building, probably 400’ square, looms. A large empty lot dotted with craters is next to it, and multiple large, colorful signs adorn the place, showing both colorful images of people holding a large variety of food and the characters of the Palantian alphabet.

“That thing is bigger than most castles,” Sir Porthos says. He sounds impressed. 

“What is it?” wonders Sir Colder.

“It’s a greater market,” Bates explains. “It’s where you would go to get food.”

“What do the signs say?” asks Kyle. 

“The City’s Farm- that’s the name of the place. That’s the big one, there.” He points. “And to the right, it says, ‘Where All Your Food Needs Are Met’. On the left it says ‘Farm Fresh Produce Every Day!’”

“So it’s a big market? All for food? Do you think there’s anything left in there?” Sir Colder inquires.

“Well, I assume that survivors would have gone to the greater markets, but they’re pretty big. There’s probably something, at least in jars and cans.”

“What do you think, my lord?” Colder asks Lord Cedric. “I could go scout it out and take a look around.”

Cedric nods. “Yeth, we might have need of thupplieth. Food, or liquor. Thtrong drink! Yeth, keep your eyeth out for thtrong drink!” 

“As you say, my lord,” Colder bows his head. Then he moves into the front of the great market.

Everyone waits for a few minutes. The building is huge. “Colder could be in there for quite a while,” Kyle murmurs. “I wonder if they have anything... interesting... in there.”

Otis shoots him a dark look. 

”I was just wonderin’!” he says defensively.

Still, no Colder. 

Suddenly Otis’ weasel familiar* starts freaking out, making strange noises and clinging tightly to Otis. “Colder is in trouble,” the wizard announces. 

“Of course he’s in trouble,” groans Goer.

_*Next Time:*_ Colder’s in trouble! Will he make it to the Shadow Train? Because, _somebody_ will!

*Similar to the raven familiar in Order of the Stick, apparently.


----------



## Alcar

*Dah*

It was fun playing a deaf wizard... for a few.

Don't you forget, I did most of my communication thanks to lip reading.

STOP IT.. DON'T


----------



## Alcar

*Stuff*

Did Sir Helios' pants turn purple when he "hulked out"?


----------



## the Jester

Nervously, Sir Colder moves through the damaged doors at one side of the market. The place is huge- he cannot get over its sheer size! Cautiously, he moves forward- and into an area composed of long display shelves and racks of clothing. Though it appears partially looted, large areas are still in order and essentially undamaged.

Immediately, Sir Colder begins to salivate. _New shoes,_ he thinks. _I could really use some new shoes... oh, how I love good shoes!_* He realizes how distracted he is getting, and bites his cheek to bring himself back to alertness. _Be careful, you fool,_ he chastises himself. _Who knows what dangers may be lurking in here? I must stay on my guard._ He moves laterally, staying close to the entrance- and freezes.

He has found the liquor. Shelf after shelf of it, liquor, beer, wine and spirits, stretching literally hundreds of feet... Colder moans softly to himself. _If Cedric sees this, he’ll never leave,_ he thinks wryly. He grabs a couple of bottles.

He turns back and returns to the clothing section. It stretches for over a hundred feet in length and is at least 70’ wide. Colder cannot get over the sheer scale of this store! He moves through the clothes and deeper into the building. 

The next section is full of opaque bottles, brushes and combs, small bands of strange material, jars of varying shades of colors and even weirder stuff. _Cosmetics?_ he wonders. _Or medicines? Poisons? Something stranger?_ He shakes his head and continues- then halts abruptly.

Suddenly he has entered a realm of chaotic destruction. Shelves and foodstuffs are crushed and shattered everywhere. The organization of the majority of this weird, huge market is in total disarray. He can see an immense amount of confused, rotting material, stretching for 400’ to the other side of the market and about half that to the back wall. It is mostly dark, though high windows allow some light to enter. 

There is a noise.

It’s a slithering, shifting sound, like something built low to the ground moving through an array of confused debris. And it is a large sound- whatever it is, it is very big. 

And then it rears up, and Sir Colder sees it: a bloated, purple-red centipede of unknown length- he can see 40’, and that probably isn’t half of it- with fluorescent orange legs with strange, whip-like tendrils depending from them.

Sir Colder screams and runs, and the worm of the market drops down on all however-many legs and begins to skitter forward after Colder, kicking up a cloud of broken shelves, mannequins, rotting chunks of meat and other various debris that must have once been goods sold here as it comes. And then it spits out a stream of foul, greenish-yellow acid at Colder, washing over him and nearly killing him! He gives out another cry, this one thin and wheedling, and pumps his legs furiously, heading back into the clothes. _Shoes,_ he thins wanly, passing them by.

_Wham!_

Sir Colder screams as the worm bites him from behind. It tears at his shoulder, arm and buttock, but he manages to tear free and keep running. He can feel his body growing numb as a very unpleasant heat stains the pain of the wound. _Poison!_ he realizes. He is beginning to stagger as he slips to the side, forcing the worm to turn its huge bulk to follow him- but it is surprisingly quick, and takes another bite at him. He screams as it smashes him forward with the force of its blow, and suddenly someone is yanking him by the arm. He staggers, off-balance for a moment, then realizes that it is Goer that has grabbed him and screams, “RUN!!” 

The worm rounds the bend, but the party is already rushing out the door. Goer goes last; he slams the doors shut, and the party moves to a safe distance. 

Nothing happens. 

“Doesn’t look like it wanted to leave its lair,” gasps Sir Colder.

“What the hell was that?” demands Sir Fwaigo.

“Some kind of worm... centipede... thing.” Sir Colder sucks in a deep breath and calms his gasping at last. He shudders. “It poisoned me, too. I feel... sluggish. Clumsy.” He slurs his words a little.

Quickly, Dahlia steps forward. She examines the wound, cuts Colder’s leg and applies some kind of poultice. To Colder’s surprise, the heat in the wound dies down, and though his current numbness and a general ill-feeling remain, he gets no worse. Then she and Lord Cedric apply what healing they can to their friend and ally.

“Do you know anything about this thing?” Goer demands of Banner, who indicates that he does not. “What about you?” Cedric’s former squire points at Sir Porthos, who shakes his head in the negative. Goer scowls angrily. 

“It isn’t Harth, it’s a distraction.” Otis yawns. “Sir Fwaigo was correct about that earlier.”

They continue to look for a place to rest. But there is nothing intact, nothing safe-looking. However, they can see the large hexagonal building- the station for the Shadow Train- now: it is getting very close. Since they have nowhere to rest, they keep walking. Soon it is only a block away. Lord Cedric’s pulse quickens. At last he and his men are on the verge of catching that rapscallion Harth! _At best, we will catch him here,_ Cedric thinks haughtily. _At the very least, there will be clues to his movements. We almost have him!_

The group closes the distance rapidly. The blackened and cracked pave stones in the ruined street beneath their tired feet seem, for once, to be relatively easy travel. The distance closes quickly. Within about 30’ of the building, the ground is undamaged. Unbelievably, this area has not been touched by the ravages of this terrible war. The building itself is a huge thing, three stories high, with dozens of sets of the metal tracks running into it from all sides. Some of them are even built up onto weird elevated bridges that seem to fade into nothingness.

“So much for resting,” notes Kyle.

“Harth might be in there. We should be careful.” Sheriff Jorgen draws his blade. The rest of the party follows suit, readying weapons and what spells they have left. It has been a long, hard day; they are all weary and (except for Kyle) wounded. Yet none of them even considers turning back now.

They move into the lobby of the building. It is cool and shady. The central part is actually a confluence of tracks. One strange array of long, dusk-colored metal cars, each twice the length of a halfling war wagon, rests on one of the tracks. Several large, dark pillars support the partial ceiling overhead. Near one of these pillars is a small booth, with a grey-skinned, indistinct but classy-looking gentleman within it.

The party approaches the booth. The indistinct figure within regards them seriously. “Most services are suspended,” he tells them.

Lord Cedric and Otis exchange a concerned glance. Cedric puts his hand on Bates’ shoulder. “Have any thadow trainth left here rethently?”

The figure- damned if he can get his eyes to really pick out the details- eyes Cedric. “Yes, two days ago.”

“Headed where?” Kyle demands.

“The Isle of the Elves.”

Triumphantly, Lord Cedric whirls to his friends. “You thee?” he cries. “Two dayth! We can catth him!” He turns back to the shadowy figure. “Are you the conductor?”

“No. I am the ticketman.” The figure smiles. “I can give you tickets to see the conductor. You must negotiate with him for the final fee.”

“How much will he charge us to go to the Isle of the Elves?” Kyle asks.

The ticketman shrugs. “Ask him. The tickets to see the conductor are only 5 gold each.”

Everyone shells out a few coins, and soon the large party is moving past the ticket booth and onto a boarding platform where another figure awaits. The Conductor is a uniformed figure cloaked in shadow. He wears some inexact form of hat, as well as a uniform coated in soot. A strange, smoky smell rises off of him. Our heroes cannot see his face at all.

“Good afternoon,” Lord Cedric says cautiously.

The figure nods graciously. “And to you. You are just in time. The last train will be leaving in about an hour and a half.”

“What do you mean, ‘the last train’?” asks Jorgen.

“Just that. The last train. Service to this area has been suspended. Mine is the last train to leave.” He smiles. “At your service.”

“Where are you going?” Dahlia continues the questioning.

“The Shadow Road leads to all places. The real question is, where are _you_ going?”

“The Isle of the Elveth,” Lord Cedric says immediately. 

“Ahh, a fine destination,” the Conductor purrs. “Second class seats will cost you each one thousand gold pieces.”

Our heroes look around at the size of the party.

It is _huge_. 

There are eight of them from their own time, plus Porthos; then there is Adelle, and just under a dozen other peasants. 

”Do we have that much?” wonders Dahlia.

“Can we offer some gems or items in trade?” queries Kyle. 

“I will accept coins or gems only,” the Conductor replies.

The party draws back to consider. “_Do_ we have that much money?” Dahlia repeats. Everyone begins to count. The loot from the bank job goes a good way... people start throwing in everything that they have in their pouches. 

”You know, we could just pay for us, Porthos and Adelle,” suggests Goer. 

“Leave some of the others behind?” Sir Colder seems shocked. 

Banner is outraged. “No!” he cries. “You’ve already made commitments... you’ve taken these people from whatever homes they had, and thrust them here... you can’t abandon them now! You CAN’T!” He gives a great cry of anguish, and suddenly the tattered rags on him start to stretch as he turns green and expands into the Hulk.

“Banner, wait!” Kyle cries, holding out his hands placatingly. “You don’t have to do this! Calm-”

“BANNER PUNY,” rumbles the Hulk. “HULK STRONG!”

And, as if to prove it, he reaches out and grabs Kyle by the wrist.

_*Next Time:*_ Ol’ 17-hp Kyle vs... the Hulk!! 

*Yes, Colder had something of a... thing... for shoes.


----------



## the Jester

*Kyle vs. the Hulk!*

Everyone freezes. 

The Hulk has seized Kyle by the wrist. He holds him carelessly, not tightly. Kyle’s eyes are wide and frightened, but he knows that panic will kill him.

“Hulk,” Kyle croaks out. “I’m your friend.”

The Hulk squeezes his hand gently. Kyle groans as he feels the bones in his wrist grind together. The Hulk says nothing.

Goer reaches for his sword, glaring at the Hulk, but Kyle shakes his head. “No, Sir Fwaigo! We’re friends here, we have to be,” _or I’m dead,_ he finishes mentally. As if to punctuate his words, the Hulk gives his arm another squeeze. Kyle squeals. Reluctantly, the former squire lets his hand drop away from the hilt of his blade. Kyle turns back to the Hulk with tears in his eyes.

The green goliath stares angrily at Kyle. “HULK NOT STAY BEHIND,” he growls at the apprentice wizard. He squeezes his hand a little again for emphasis. The pain in Kyle’s forearm is shocking. He gives a high-pitched, girlish scream and grits his teeth.

“Hulk,” Kyle says desperately, “we’re not going to leave you behind. _Pay his way,_” he pleads with the others.

Lord Cedric cries, “Yeth! We may need the ekthpertithe of... hith alternate thelf!”

“YOU TALK FUNNY,” the Hulk rumbles. His grip on Kyle’s arm loosens.

_Please please please,_ Kyle thinks.

Goer steps up to the Conductor. From his purse he starts to extract coins. “This is for the Hulk,” he says loudly. “For his ticket.” 

“Very well,” the Conductor answers. 

“There, you see?” Kyle moans. “You’re coming with us. Everything is okay. But, Hulk, my friend, would you mind just letting go of my arm?” 

“HULK BOARD SHADOW TRAIN,” the Hulk declares, and starts dragging Kyle up the steps to the entrance.

The Conductor clears his throat. “He does not have a ticket. He may not board.” He points at Kyle. 

The Hulk releases him and moves inside the train. Kyle, gasping, drops to the ground. He is half dead!* His arm is a bruised mess, already turning purple. He hurts to the bone. 

_But I’m alive!_ he thinks joyfully. He gets to his feet carefully, clutching his arm. “Well, let’s go,” he starts.

Adelle interrupts. “If anyone else tries to board that train, I’m _fireballing_ all of you.”

That gets our heroes’ attention. 

“You aren’t leaving any of us behind,” she continues. “I don’t care what we have to do- none of us are staying behind.”

“Don’t worry, that was all talk,” Sheriff Jorgen assures her. “We just bought a ticket for Banner- of course we’re taking everyone with us! I bet we even have enough money! And if not, we’ll just go find some loot somewhere!” He turns to the Conductor. “When are you leaving?”

“Imminently,” the Conductor responds. “And after I leave, service to this area will be suspended.”

“Uh... well, let’s get to counting, guys,” the sheriff says.

The party begins to shell out all their money. Soon they have amassed a considerable fund. Much of it is the money from the bank where the halfling and the orc were attempting to break into the inner vault. Thousands upon thousands of gold pieces and even a few hundred platinum are in the party’s combined horde. They begin to tally it up. The peasants and Adelle throw in what they have as well, though the amount is pretty meager. (Most of their real wealth had been stored in a bank before the war; now it simply no longer exists.)

They have _just enough money_ to get everyone onto the Shadow Train. 

“Excellent,” Otis states. “You see, Adelle? There was no need to get threatening.”

“You threatened to leave my people behind. I am quite sincere in my response.” She gives him a cold stare. “You brought us this far. I will not allow you to abandon us now.”

“And we thall not,” Lord Cedric lisps. He turns to Kyle. “Thir Kyle- wait! You are not a knight!” 

“Uh- no, my lord, I’m not.”

“Bah!” Cedric jerks his sword clean of the scabbard. “Kneel!” he commands, and Kyle hurries to obey. “I dub thee- Thir Kyle, hedge knight!” the Lord of Whitewater shouts, tapping Kyle on the shoulders and head with the tip of his sword.

“Now,” he says regally, “Let uth board.”

They all ascend into the Shadow Train. 

***

The interior of the Shadow Train is comfortable, but clearly it is designed to pack a large number of people into it. The car is about 40’ long and 25’ wide; it has many booths and seats, which our heroes are informed are free for them to employ. However, the Conductor warns them not to proceed too far forward.

“Why not?” asks Dahlia.

“You may go as far forward as the dining car. Beyond that is first class- and you have not paid for that.”

“Just out of curiosity,” the hermit inquires, “how much does a first-class ticket cost?”

“Seven thousand, eight hundred gold pieces- to our current destination.”

“Ah,” Dahlia clears her throat, “never mind then.”

Abruptly, Lord Cedric asks the Conductor, “When did the latht train leave before thith one?”

“Four days ago.”

“And did it, too, go towardth the Isle of the Elveth?”

The Conductor nods. 

“And it wath boarded by a knight and a beholder?”

Again, the Conductor nods.

“Four dayth ago, you thay?”

Once more, the other responds with a nonverbal affirmative.

Cedric grins fiercely. Four days. They have cut Harth’s lead to four days.

The party settles in while the Conductor makes his way forward. After he leaves, everyone breathes a sigh of relief. They have made it to the next stage of their journey. 

The Hulk looks sourly at them. Everyone consciously avoids looking his way. He grumbles to himself.

_Think about what he could do to this train if he was angered,_ Dahlia thinks. A chill runs down her back. The Hulk could easily end the party’s pursuit of Sir Harth; he is a force of destruction like no other that Dahlia has ever seen. 

They relax for a few moments, and then the Conductor’s voice comes from the ceiling: _“This is the Conductor. The Shadow Train will depart in one minute. Please sit down.”_

“HULK DOESN’T TRUST FUNNY VOICE,” the Hulk booms out. He remains standing.

“Hulk, that’s the Conductor,” Kyle says soothingly. “We have to do as he says. He runs the train.”

The Hulk snorts. “HULK DOESN’T TRUST YOU- OR PUNY CONDUCTOR.”

“Let me give you a mathage, my large friend,” Lord Cedric offers. 

“HULK SAYS GO AWAY,” grows the Hulk.

“Help uth to kill Thir Harth,” implores Cedric. “Thow uth how thtrong you are.”

“LEAVE HULK ALONE!”

Then, suddenly, everyone who is still standing... sits down. They don’t mean to; they simply _do it._ Safety first. Even the Hulk- perhaps no surprise, given how muscle-bound and dull-witted he is in this form- finds himself sitting on a medium-sized bench in the center of the room. 

One of the peasants cries out in a glad voice. Out the windows- sealed over with some kind of clear material that is plainly not glass- the station is starting to slide by. They are beginning to move- then there is a violent jerk as the Shadow Train starts to accelerate. After a few moments, its speed levels off; outside, through the windows, all that our heroes can see is darkness broken by occasional grey hills or fields. 

The party sets out to explore the train as best they may. They are in the second to last car of the train. The last one is sealed, and they cannot find a way to enter it. It belches a filthy, icy smoke out of its smokestack. Our heroes wisely decide not to try to force their way in to the final car. Instead, they start moving forward. A few peasants follow them, but most are laying out to try to rest and recover from the various wounds that they have suffered. The Hulk follows them after a moment.

They are in the last second class car of what proves to be a line of six identical cars. There is nobody in any of them. The next car forward, however, proves to be a dining car. It has many tables and chairs, all bolted to the floor. And seated at one of the tables with tankards of ale are a pair of dwarves.

The two dwarves stare, then _really_ stare as the Hulk arrives. They stand up and are visibly shaken.

“Who are you?” asks Dahlia. 

“Hello, vere. I am Dandark Hammerhall, and this is my coosin Kangard. Who are ye?” The dwarf’s tone is very polite. 

“I’m Dahlia. Say, you haven’t seen another human on the train, have you?”

“No humans but ye.”

“I’m not human,” she points out.

“Not you, _ye._” The dwarf- Dandark- gestures at the party as a whole.

“Ah.”

“Still,” Kyle puts in, “we’re looking for a human, maybe with a beholder.”

“A human with a behoolder!” exclaims Dandark. “No, we’ve been on the train for a while now-waiting.”

“We figured we could ride things out here, but we never figured it would get this bad,” the other dwarf puts in.

With a little coaxing, the dwarves tell their tale. “We were dwarven ambassadors, from Hammerhall, trying to stop this mad war from breaking out. I fear to see what might have happened to our home; we were too close to Amaruseltiliath, on Tirkon. “Ve Isle of the Elves,” the humans call it, boot vat’s just ignorance- we’re vere, too, and we aren’t looking for trooble with them! I only hope vat vey haven’t doon anything stupid- my folk have weapoons vat were never meant to be used.”

“Ve talks broke down over the longevooty potions, oof course. Everyone knew ve elves had their secret, but vey wouldn’t share it with ve humans. We tried, we really tried- but we couldn’t make either side see sense.”

“We hoong in negotiating oontil ve last minoot, boot oobout oo week oogo we had to get out. So we came here. We figured we’d be safe on the Shadow Train oontil it departed- and it looks like it has worked out so far. We’re oonder way.”

“Wow, so you guys were in the middle of it,” Jorgen says.

“Ve last, final hope.” Kangard looks mournful.

The door from first class opens, and two figures walk out and stop, staring at the Hulk. Two grey-skinned men emerge, their features shadowy and hard to distinguish, wearing dull grey full plate armor. Bastard swords hang at their sides, and they wear tabards with dull-colored crests: a shadow falling across a city for the first one, and a clouded sun sinking behind the hills for the second.

The Hulk growls at the grey-skinned figures.

“Good evening,” one of the shadowy figures says. “An odd creature to be here.” He nods at the Hulk. “Is it with you?” His tone is polite, but hard.

“Yes,” says Dahlia. “Right, Hulk? We’re friends, right?”

The Hulk grumbles.

“We have other things to attend to,” the shadowy figure sniffs, and the two of them return to first class. 

_Go away, Hulk,_ thinks Kyle, _before someone makes you mad and you break the Shadow Train. Banner, where are you?? Come back and get the Hulk back under control!_

_*Next Time:*_ The Knights of Shadow attempt to kill the Hulk! 

*The Hulk squeezed him for 1, 2 and 6 hp. Kyle has 17 at full.


----------



## the Jester

*The Hulk Must Die!*

The food on the Shadow Train, while bland, is plentiful. The villagers that our heroes are attempting to take to their own time- in the future of this terrible age of madness- eat hungrily; it has been quite some time since they were able to eat their fill, with no fear of famine hiding just around the next corner. The party digs in, too; for them, trail rations and the occasional _goodberry_ have sustained them for a long time. The only thing missing is alcohol. Lord Cedric frowns a thunderhead. He is barely inebriated at all, and at this rate, by the end of dinner he will be- horror of horrors- _sober._

Sir Kyle- he still can’t get used to the title- gives Adelle’s horse-faced sister, Danelle, a plate of food with a smile. Startled, she accepts, and smiles shyly back at him. She may not be an elf, or a sexy dragon (both of which Kyle finds irresistible, in theory, anyhow), but she is female, and Kyle- like the rest of our heroes- is lonely. Very lonely. Lonely enough that even a girl with a face like a horse is starting to look good- especially since Dahlia has yet to give in to his charms. Kyle- no, _Sir_ Kyle, dammit- sighs heavily as he glances her way. Will she ever? He glances out the window of the dining car. Everything is grey- a dark grey background, with blotches of different shades of grey passing by as the train moves at breakneck speed. _If things don’t go our way, there won’t be time for her to surrender to me,_ he thinks forlornly.

The Hulk has finally calmed down as the food arrives. There seems to be enough of everything even for his behemoth appetite. Slowly, he grows calmer and calmer, until a strange transformation occurs. Slowly, the Hulk begins to shrink; his thick muscles turn scrawny and weak, and their hue changes from jade to olive to tannish-brown. Soon he is once again Banner. 

_Thank the gods!_ Kyle suddenly becomes aware of just how tense he has been since the Hulk grabbed him. One blow of those mighty fists would kill him, no doubt. And he has no weapon capable of bringing down that beast. But now, Banner is back! _If only we can keep him here, and keep the Hulk away!_

Banner seems very tired. He droops in his seat, his tattered purple pants barely clinging to his legs. He lays his head on the table before him and closes his eyes with a sigh. “So tired,” he whispers to himself. Soon he is breathing regularly, evenly, in a deep slumber. 

The party draws close and begins a murmured discussion. “Banner seems like a great guy, but that Hulk thing has got to go,” Kyle says seriously. “He almost killed me just grabbing me by the arm! But the loss of Banner- ahh, it’s... lamentable.”

Otis answers, “We cannot dispose of him yet. First of all, if we wake his alter ego on the Shadow Train, who knows what will happen? I doubt whether our journey will continue afterward; I suspect that a rampaging Hulk would tear this whole thing apart. 

“Secondly, we may need his help against Harth and the beholder. Not just because they themselves are quite powerful- but because of the weapons that they may have acquired. We know that they have the Soul Gem, from the Ghost Tower of Inverness; but they may have gathered up many other powerful items for all we know. I doubt whether Harth will be satisfied with just one.”

“Then again, he might just want to get home himself,” Sheriff Jorgen muses.

“We’re putting an awful lot of faith in the idea that he has a way home,” Dahlia remarks. “We don’t really know that.”

“Pah!” scoffs Lord Cedric. “Thurely he would not have embarked on thith mad thcheme if he did not have a plant to return to our time.”

“Besides,” Otis adds, “what better chance of returning home do we have?”

“Hey, I think we’re stopping!” Sir Colder exclaims suddenly. “Are we there already? The Isle of the Elves?”

“I don’t think so,” Adelle says shortly. 

The party looks out the window. Vague, shadowy figures about the size and shape of a man are barely visible in the gloom, near the head of the train. Nervously, our heroes put on armor and weapons. Kyle, Otis and Adelle all cast _mage armor_. 

“I can hear voices up there,” Kyle whispers. “Sounds like talking, not fighting- at least so far.” Everyone stays hushed, and they can hear them too, distorted by a light fog and the shadows themselves. Conversation, somewhat passionate, and voices that are raised a little- but not too much. 

The door from first class opens, and the Knights of Shadows, Sir Ferthickla and Sir Travest, enter the dining car. They look at Sir Kyle, who speaks the local language, and gesture at Lord Cedric. “Translate for us,” Sir Travest requests. Sir Kyle nods.

Through Sir Kyle, the two Shadow Knights explain what is happening to Lord Cedric. Apparently, some shadow folk obstructed the track somehow and forced the Shadow Train to stop in order to extort more money than usual from them for their passage. _Probably,_ Otis thinks, _because this is the last train from the ruined human nation._

Now, according to Sir Travest, the train is nearly ready to get underway again. Then his eyes slide to the sleeping Banner. Once again, the two Knights of Shadow depart to first class.

“Wouldn’t it be awesome,” Goer murmurs, “if we could get the Hulk to fight Harth’s beholder?”

Everyone pretty much agrees, and they relax as it becomes plain that no fight is about to break out. The topic of the Hulk vs. the beholder is intriguing enough that they discuss it for several minutes before Cedric becomes grumpy from lack of drink.

“Bah!” he snorts. “Thurely they have alcohol in firtht clath!” With that, he pushes through the door to the first class car (ahead of the dining car). Kyle quickly casts _invisibility_ on him as he moves forward. Quickly, Cedric moves through the first class car, which has multiple cabins in it. It is nothing like the crowded array of benches that second class is! “Truly,” mutters Cedric to himself, “we need to upgrade our ticketth.”

Boldly, he pushes into one of the cabins. 

Whoops- there are the two Knights of Shadow. They stop their conversation as their door swings open. Tiptoeing, Lord Cedric backs away. They don’t see him, but might they hear him? He isn’t sure. Thirsty, cranky and annoyed, Cedric withdraws back to second class. He becomes visible again a moment later. “Nothing,” he says mournfully. “Nobody hath a thingle bottle remaining? Oh, woe.”

The door from first class opens and the two Knights of Shadow emerge. They glance at the sleeping Banner. Sir Travest turns to Kyle- one of the few members of the party able to speak the local tongue- and, without preamble, he whispers, “We must kill him now, while he is vulnerable,” His eyes bore into Sir Kyle. “Surely you can all see that he must die. He is too dangerous! If he were to become the Hulk while on the Shadow Train, the results would be... devastating, at least for you. At least we would be on our own plane, if not in our own citadel.”

Kyle snorts. “Good luck,” he says sarcastically. He eyes Banner’s unconscious form. “I have a feeling you’ll regret the attempt, though.”

Nobody else speaks up. Kyle has not yet translated, and of those that understand, Dahlia is too stricken by how much the Shadow Knights’ words mirror her own thoughts and Otis is more convinced that they are right than not. 

Sir Travest walks over to Banner, draws his dagger and slits the sleeping man’s throat.* 

Immediately blood begins to pour out. Banner’s eyes fly open for just an instant, and then the light goes out of them a split-second later. The Hulk doesn’t have time to come out. Banner dies. 

Lord Cedric’s jaw drops. He had no idea that the Shadow Knights planned to do this! Immediately, he rips his sword free of its scabbard and points it at the Shadow Knight. “YOU THERE!” he roars. “I AM PLATHING YOU UNDER ARRETHT!”

This, Kyle translates. 

The dwarves scramble out the door and flee back deeper into second class with exclamations of dismay. Sir Travest sneers. “You have no authority here,” he declares, “and _we do._ We are Knights of Shadow; you are out of your demesnes here, and in ours. You have no authority to arrest anyone.” The two Knights draw their blades menacingly as well. 

Our heroes collectively draw their weapons. Kyle cries, “No, everyone! The last thing we need is a fight on the Shadow Train!”

“Banner wath innothent of wrongdoing,” Lord Cedric states. “What crime had he been convicted of?” Quickly, Kyle translates. 

Sir Ferthickla’s mouth twists in a grimace. “None,” he admits. 

“Then I demand weregild!” Cedric shouts. “A payment of, of- a thouthand gold!”

“And a free upgrade to first class,” Sir Fwaigo puts in quickly. 

“Yeth!” cries Lord Cedric. “At leatht for thothe of uth that are are not peathantth.”

Sir Ferthickla exchanges a look with Sir Travest. They seem to pass some kind of unspoken communication back and forth. After a moment, they look back at Lord Cedric. “A fair price,” Travest admits. “Very well.”

The tension drains from the scene, though most of our heroes are angry at the shadow knights. They are unapologetic, and Lord Cedric finds them insufferable and infuriating. They retreat to their cabin soon enough, and the rest of first class is given over to the party. The majority kicks Bates back to second class, to keep Cedric out of trouble as much as anything else. And, most important of all (to Cedric), the alcohol flows- and even if it is weak and bland, it is _alcohol,_ by Clymorian!

The darkness goes by outside. The party sees strange, unlit cities, weird empty landscapes that are all shades of grey, occasional dark clumps of vegetation- all flicker by outside the window as the Shadow Train moves along steadily, much more quickly than a horse’s gallop.

At one point a drift of about half a dozen swift-flying ray-like creatures hovers outside the train for a short while, but the Shadow Train moves with such speed that it is almost impossible for creatures to keep up with it. They drift away behind the train, their intentions never to be known. 

For about a week our heroes rest and recuperate. Their occasional brushes with the Knights of Shadow are unfriendly but not hostile- at least, until a belligerent Cedric challenges Sir Travest to a duel.

“_You_ want to duel _me?”_ smirks Travest. 

“Yeth! It need not be to the death- jutht until one of uth yieldth!”

Travest considers for a few seconds. Then he replies, “Very well... on the roof of the train.”

“The roof! Indeed!” Lord Cedric blusters. 

They ascend the exterior of one of the swift-moving cars via a ladder set into the side of it. Once atop the train, the two combatants take a moment to find their balance. The cold wind whips past Lord Cedric’s ruddy face as he studies his opponent- whom he can barely see! Immediately, he casts _light_ upon the blade of his bastard sword. This helps him but little: the Shadow Knight seems to have some kind of aura of dimness surrounding him. 

“Fool!” cries Sir Travest. And he unleashes his _smite light-bearer_ power.** He swings his bastard sword and deals a mighty blow to Lord Cedric’s right thigh, breaking it! 

Cedric cries out and drops to the roof of the car, unable to stand. “I yield, I yield!” he cries, and then, “Liquor!!” 

***

A few more days, and they approach the Isle of the Elves- the city called Amaruseltiliath. Or something like that; our heroes tend to mangle elven words pretty badly, with the exception of Kyle and Dahlia. As the voice of the Conductor announces their imminent arrival, the party makes sure that they have all their gear and peasants, and Cedric tries to take what booze he can. “All right,” Kyle urges everyone, “all the humans in the back, the rest of us- especially those with elven blood- up front, and try to look presentable, everyone! We don’t know what kind of reception we’ll get from the elves, but we have to do our best to impress them so that they will help us find Harth!”

“Isn’t it likely that they have already met him?” Sir Colder says suddenly.

Alert eyes turn to him. 

“I mean,” he continues, “didn’t he already come through here? Along with his beholder? How would the elves react?”

The Shadow Train is slowing noticeably as it nears its destination. Our heroes ponder Colder’s words uneasily. “Well, let’s hope it helps convince them to help us,” Sheriff Jorgen says uncertainly.

The Shadow Train is slowing, slowing... outside the windows, grey blobs flashing by change to the silhouettes of buildings, and then the train enters a large building with light and color. 

“Let’s just hope,” Otis says, shaking out his fingers to nimble them up in case he needs to cast a spell, “that Harth’s arrival did not convince them to immediately attack us when we arrive.”

The Shadow Train glides to a halt. 

The doors open.

Outside, a veritable army of grim, angry elves awaits our heroes, weapons at the ready, poised to strike.

_*Next Time:*_ Our heroes “interact” with the elves! 

*Coup de grace. Ouch.

**This was awesome. I had figured that the Knights of Shadow were the most likely combat encounter on the train, so I had bothered to stat them up. I tried to give them cool, flavorful powers- this smite ability was one of them, but I didn’t know how utterly perfect the chance to use it would turn out to be. And, for the record, he got a critical hit and dealt 40 points of damage in a single blow to Cedric! Daaaamn!!

Here’s the write up of the ability, just for the record:

*Smite Light-Bearer (Su):* 2/day a knight of shadow can smite a creature bearing a functioning light source or emitting light. He gains a +2 bonus to attack rolls and deals an extra 10 points of damage. Moreover, unless the victim makes a Ref save, DC 17, the light is extinguished. (Permanent magical light sources flicker back on after 1 hour.)


----------



## the Jester

For the record, we are now about 4.125 games from the end of this campaign.


----------



## the Jester

“One wrong move and you’re dead!” the lead elf shouts immediately. “Put down your weapons, NOW!!”

There are _many_ elves out there. At least one hundred. Arrayed with staves, wands, bows, blades and other things. 

Immediately, Lord Cedric begins unbuckling his sword belt. Me follows suit instantly; the others, after only a few seconds of contemplation. Kyle realizes that the elf spoke in Kamendan. He glances over at the peasants; they clearly understood it, too. _It must be some kind of translation magic,_ he realizes. _So many secrets have been lost by our time... _

Otis, deaf, doesn’t realize what the elves want at first, but with the aid of the party, he is also relieved of his weaponry. The elves appear angry. 

“We’re here as friends,” Sheriff Jorgen says. “We’re trying to catch a criminal named Harth. We believe he came through here-“

“Indeed he did!” the elf barks.

Our heroes are put into a large cell. “We don’t have time for this!” Goer protests. “We’ve got to stop Harth! You have to believe us!” 

The elf sneers at him. “We don’t ‘have to’ do anything, _human._ And we aren’t about to let more of your kind into our secret areas after your recent strike forces.”

“You mean Harth! We are trying to _stop_ him!”

“Not just Harth. We aren’t fools.” 

Dahlia says, “Surely you can use your great powers to compel the truth from us, or to ferret out any lies we try to tell. Separate us and question us and compare our stories! Look at our equipment, and at how different it is from anything else of this time!”

The elf’s head cocks. “This _time?_” he responds sarcastically.

“Just ask your leaders to hear us out!”

“Oh, we will hear your story,” the elf nods. “We’ll hear everything you have to say.” 

The way he says it makes it sound very unpleasant.

***

Left in their cell for hours, our heroes find themselves warring between depression- for the obvious reason that they are being delayed now, when they are so close- and elation, because not only are they very, very close to Harth, _the sky is normal here._ There is a sun in the early dawn time (now); there were stars and blackness earlier. After so much time under the maroon vastness overlaying the human island, our heroes are nearly ecstatic to see a healthy sky again- even from the confines of a cell.

Finally, a troop of elven guards walk in and escorts our heroes to what is unmistakably a courthouse. There, the party is interrogated by elves, examined minutely with magic, and then turned back to their cells.

For several more excruciating hours they wait; then, they are escorted from their cells to a comfortable sitting room, where a number of elves await them, including the one that had initially spoken with them. 

“Forgive us,” he says. “You must understand, the unreasoning humans of this time have caused us much trouble, as has your man Harth. We are justified in being cautious about you humans.”

“Of courthe,” Lord Cedric nods.

“Now then... this man and his beholder ally came in on the last Shadow Train several days ago. We weren’t expecting a single human to cause trouble, but with his ally, he certainly did. They stole a vehicle and forced the location of one of our great weapons foundries from one of our people. He is on his way there.”

“How quickly could he get there?” asks Goer.

The elf hesitates. “Well... if he went at full speed without stopping and did not encounter any obstacles, he could be there as soon as... now, really.”

“We have to hurry,” Sir Colder insists. “We’re losing precious time.”

“We can get you there quickly, maybe ahead of him if he has had any slow downs,” the elf replies. “We can teleport you close to the mountain. Not all the way- there are strange fields surrounding it which prevent it- but close enough-”

“You have the power of teleportation?” Otis interrupts, amazed.

“There’s no time for that,” Jorgen says. “We have to get moving as quickly as possible.” He looks at the elf. “I realize these are secrets, but anything that you could tell us that might illuminate what Harth’s goals are in this place- what weapons he hopes to find, or if there might be a way home for us- or even where this place is- you said a mountain-”

“It is called Firestorm Peak,” the elf responds gravely. “What he might seek there, I cannot say.”

“Right, state secrets,” Jorgen sighs. “Very well. Can you guide us, or at least give us papers to aid us in convincing others not to hinder us?” 

The elf nods. “Yes. If you can stop this Harth and his allies, we will aid you so far as we can.”

***

The teleportation effect twists the guts of our heroes, but they are suddenly somewhere else. By now it is full dark again, and the stars twinkle overhead. Firestorm Peak looms in the distance, about two miles away. Above it, hanging in the sky like a jewel, they can see a comet in the night sky. It hangs low in the sky, and looks as though it will be out of view in another day or two. From the mountain’s peak, a blazing shaft of multicolored flame shoots up into the sky, providing shadowy illumination for miles around.

Sir Kyle cries, “There is a trail up the mountain, I can see it!” 

“Your eyeth are admirably tharp, Thir Kyle,” Lord Cedric beams at him. 

The party proceeds towards the trail and then begins following it up the mountain. For some reason, they all begin to feel a bit irritable.* Maybe it’s just because they are getting tired, but they all start to be a little snappish and petty. 

As they advance up the trail, they come upon an elven encampment. Clearly a defensive military camp, it holds about a score of elves, but nobody is manning any of the lookout towers or guarding the camp’s gate. Dahlia notes several elves in the camp, sitting about motionless. The party hails them; there is no response. 

Despite their misgivings, they move in for a closer look. When they do, they find that the elves are all completely catatonic, and they are all missing their eyes. 

“What... they’re still alive. This is horrible,” Dahlia groans. 

Me lets out a low, mournful hoot. 

The party passes on. Perhaps the elves will awaken, or someone will come upon them. But they have no time to deal with it; they must reach Harth. Despite their exhaustion- they have not slept in over a day now- they press on. Kyle, Otis and Adelle all think it is possible that the comet is linked to Harth’s plans somehow, since comets can often be used as the triggers for great magical rituals or powers. They reach and pass over a bridge across a ravine, and then encounter a group of foul, unnatural bird-things. Fortunately, the party sees them from far enough away that they don’t even have time to reach our heroes before they are destroyed by missile fire and magic. One of them escapes, but our heroes repeat their mantra: _If it isn’t Harth, it’s a distraction._

They keep moving, tired though they are. Cranky, too. Snapping at each other, Goer starting to make belligerent threats...

Up, up the trail, passing along a series of switchback, through a small dwarven miner’s camp (_it’s not Harth, it’s a distraction_), up, up the mountain... almost there! Another long descent, another ascent, a bridge across a chasm- and they will be there! Are they ahead of Harth? Who knows? But they can’t be far behind, at worst! 

Up above, the comet is fading in the sky. Dahlia, Adelle and Otis look at it in concern. “It really won’t last much longer at all,” Adelle opines. “We’d best press on.”

Kyle sighs a tired, resigned sigh. 

They are almost there.

The continue up the slope, unaware of the malevolent eyes watching them from a short distance away, just off of the trail.

_*Next Time:*_ I can’t believe one of these would *behir!*

*This is an effect of being too near Firestorm Peak, _corruption of the mood_. I encouraged the players to role-play this by giving bonus xp for roleplaying irritability.


----------



## the Jester

*On the Slopes of Firestorm Peak*

The mountain grows ever more jagged as the party ascends its slopes. Scree and gravel scramble out from underfoot as the party continues along the little-used trail that they are climbing. Their breath becomes shorter; Kyle, especially, is gasping and wheezing as he ascends. From somewhere on the mountain far above them, the multicolored blast of flame that jets into the comet hanging in the sky above beckons them. 

For a moment, Otis pauses to gulp in a breath of the chilly night air. His ears are working again, thank the gods- and the elves. After they at last reluctantly saw that the party, like them, was opposed to the villainous Sir Harth, they healed him. He takes a deep breath...

_Movement!_

Something _huge_ is slithering towards them. He can hear the skitter of stones brushed aside by an immense form. The sides of the trail are lined with rises of stones, some four feet high; beyond the markers, many larger boulders are strewn up and down the mountain’s side. Some of them are quite large, and it behind one of these that the slithering thing has hidden itself- but clearly, it is stalking the party. It is gigantic, at least 40 feet long.

“Beware!” shouts Otis. 

Then the wizard casts a _fireball_ into the darkness where the form is lurking, and the blast of heat and light illuminates a horror beyond his understanding.

Serpentine, with multiple pairs of serpent-like legs, the monster is dark indigo in color. It looks like some sort of bizarre reptile, yet it has too many legs, and it is far, far too big to be any sort of reptile that any of our heroes have ever seen.

With a cry, Lord Cedric spurs Thunderpuss into a charge. She easily leaps over the rocky marker beside the road, and he leans forward, lance braced, as they speed towards the beast. He slams into it, but the tip of his lance shivers and almost shatters harmlessly. Then the monster lunges forward, and its long mouth plucks Cedric from the saddle! He cries out in surprise. It seems that the monster is trying to swallow the lisping lord!

“There’s another one!” shouts Sir Colder, and his bow sings as he launches an arrow into the second sinuous monster. Sir Jorgen immediately charges at it, skewering it with his spear. It roars in surprised pain. 

Simultaneously, a volley of Adelle’s _magic missiles_ peppers the horrifying thing that is grappling with Cedric, and for a moment it seems ready to release him; but instead, it only transfers him to its coils, where its many short legs begin tearing at him. He cries out and struggles to free himself, but still to no avail! The monster is extraordinarily strong! 

But Otis, Adelle and Kyle keep feeding the beast a steady diet of _magic missiles,_ while Sir Colder, Sir Percival (the half-orc known as Me, because he is too stupid to say his own name) and Sheriff Jorgen engage the second monster in melee. Suddenly it shows an unexpected- and terrifying- ability.

It breathes out a great stroke of lightning, blasting Me, Adelle and one of the peasants. “Nooo!” Adelle cries, as she sees one of the last of her people die. 

The great beast (dragon?) seems almost to snicker.

“RAAAHHHGG!!” Lord Cedric exerts himself mightily. Straining to his utmost, he manages to force the monster holding him to loosen its coils just the smallest amount; and he manages to slip free. He shakes his head to clear his vision as he whips out his bastard sword.

_Boom!_ A _flame strike_ explodes down at Dahlia’s urging, scorching the great monster that is meleeing with Colder. It bites him savagely and rips at him with its claws. Blood flies, and Colder screams in pain. The second monster laughs horribly, then plucks one of the peasants- Bates- from the road.

“Bateth!” cries Lord Cedric. “Oh no! I will rethcue you!”

The monster rips the lad to pieces.

“NOOOOOOO!!!!” wails Cedric. The monster laughs again, chewing on part of Bates’ body noisily. 

Then Jorgen’s spear takes it in the side, sinking deep into the horrible creature. It gives a loud, startled burp full of blood, then turns its hate-filled eyes on the sheriff.

_Uh-oh,_ thinks Jorgen.

_Crunch!_

Suddenly Me is there, tumbling in, and he gives a great swing with his magic mace just as the blue thing is lunging in to attack. The mace hits it right between the eyes. Bone shatters, and Me is thrown back ward by the force of the monster’s charge. 

It collapses to the ground. Me stumbles with it. Abruptly he realizes, in his dim way, that this is because his arm is in the monster’s brain up to his elbow. 

The other monster gives a wail of despair. Before it can make another move, Otis blasts it with the flames of the magical rod that he discovered- and it, too, finally collapses!

“No,” moans Lord Cedric. “That monthter killed Bateth! Ahh, the poor lad. I remember when I uthed to dandy him on my knee...”

“Yes, yes,” interrupts Otis brusquely. “But we must continue our pursuit of Harth. If we do not, his death will have been for nothing.” Adelle shoots him an angry look, but he ignores it. “Quickly,” he urges. “From what the elves told us, Harth has stolen some kind of vehicle. They teleported us as far as they could, but he might still be ahead of us. We must catch up to him and stop him- and learn how he planned to get home!” He glances up. “And another thing: if that comet is linked to Harth’s plan, we have another reason for urgency. It can’t be long until it fades from view.”

Adelle opens her mouth to snap at him for his insensitivity- even a _few moments_ to grieve- but Kyle speaks up first. “He’s right. He may be an , but he’s right.” Otis shoots Kyle an inscrutable look, but now it’s the apprentice’s turn to ignore it. “You have to put off your grief, my lord- and my lady,” he nods to Adelle. “If we don’t catch Harth, we’re stuck here.”

Lord Cedric sniffles. “Drink,” he demands.

Less than a minute later, the party moves on, beneath the strangely-hued light blasting from Firestorm Peak at the comet above them. 

They have gone on for only about ten minutes when they hear a strange noise not far away and above, strangely similar to the piping of an organ. They continue cautiously over a small shoulder- and a pack of four strange, eyeless creatures with gaping, tubular mouths.

Otis doesn’t ask questions, he just tosses a _fireball_ into their midst. 

The combat that breaks out is terrifically loud. The monsters prove capable of projecting their calls into deadly sonic attacks of terrific intensity. Cones of bone-shattering, flesh-pulverizing sound rip across the entire group- including all of the peasants.

Adelle cries out in horror again and again as peasant after peasant falls. She casts a _fireball_ on the monsters, and the party presses their attack as best they can, especially once Otis _hastes_ the party. But Sir Porthos staggers and falls to the sonic assault, and it takes the party’s utmost efforts to overcome the monstrous trumpeters. 

Of all of the peasants, only Danelle, Adelle’s horse-faced sister, survives. 

“I know,” Adelle growls at Otis’ impatient look. Tears stream down her face. “No time. I know.” 

“But we are pretty wounded,” Dahlia points out. She and Cedric are administering what healing magic they have to the party’s worst-wounded, but still living, souls. To everyone’s surprise, Sir Porthos is still clinging to the ragged edge of life, and Lord Cedric’s ministrations soon bring him around. 

But- other than Danelle- the other peasants are gone.

“We don’t have time to wait,” Kyle groans. “I would love to rest as much as any of you, but we don’t have the luxury of time. If we can beat Harth to the gates of this mountain, maybe we can stop him from entering. If we fail- if he beats us in- who knows whether we can stop him at all. Who knows what elven weapons he might steal, or-”

“You’re right, Kyle,” Sir Colder says. “But if we _do_ find him now, are we in any shape to fight him?”

Lord Cedric snorts disdainfully. “We have beaten him before. We thall do tho again!”

“But his beholder ally beat _us_ before,” Colder reminds him.

“I can fight,” Sheriff Jorgen states unequivocally. “And I agree with Kyle. We need to move.”

And they do, pushing on through the night, which is now getting closer to dawn. Otis glances at the comet again, and frowns. _It’s fading fast,_ he thinks. _We must hurry! Nothing must slow us down! This may even be its last night in the sky!_ He glances at the first hint of light from the east and bites his lip apprehensively. 

On and up the trail they go. It crests another shoulder as it zigs and zags, and our heroes see, at last, the place from which the firestorm for which the peak is named emanates from.

About 400 yards ahead of them, the party sees a wide chasm. A thin bridge of stone crosses it. On the far side, there is a plateau not far beneath the peak. It runs 100’ to the mountain’s face, and a set of huge gates, made for all appearances of glass, stand open there, leading into the mountain. A blazing wreath of multicolored fire seems to come out of nowhere from the air directly above the gates, rushing into the sky and up towards the mysterious comet. 

_The Glass Gates,_ Otis thinks suddenly. _The Gates of Fire._

He glances up into the sky, and his blood runs cold. “The comet!” he cries. “It is almost out of the sky! We must hurry!”

And then, before the party even has time to move, they see a pair of small figures ascend from within the chasm. 

One of them, even at this distance, is clearly humanoid. And the other seems to be, basically, spherical- perhaps with just a hint of some sort of bristling things atop it.

“It’s Harth,” Sheriff Jorgen spits. “It has to be!”

“Quickly!” cries Lord Cedric. He vaults into Thunderpuss’ saddle and begins moving as quickly as he can towards the bridge. But he must follow the path, which winds and zigs and zags, switching back and forth along the mountain face. He gives a cry of despair as he sees Harth and the beholder (he believes that is who he sees, anyway) float across the chasm and out of it- and walk through the glass gates.

Which, he suddenly realizes, are slightly narrower than they were when they first came into view. A glance into the sky confirms his worst fears, and Otis’ warnings: the comet _is_ fading. It is barely visible now. It is not the effect of the coming dawn, either.

_If I must chase you down by myself, Harth, I shall,_ vows Lord Cedric, pushing Thunderpuss for all she is worth. 

The others race after him as quickly as they can. But they are far behind him when Cedric thunders across the bridge. By the time the first of them has reached the bridge, Cedric is riding hard through the glass gates. They are closing visibly now. Everyone else redoubles their pace. Otis casts a frantic glance overhead. “Hurry!” he gasps. 

Kyle is falling behind.

Across the bridge they go. To the other side. And quick, now, across the field! Before the gates close!

Kyle gets across the bridge at last. He is gasping for breath. His lungs burn. He sees Me, Colder, Jorgen reach the gates. Almost there. He runs as fast as he can. The gates are moving fast enough that he can see their motion, as they slowly swing towards a shut position. Dahlia turns and calls out, “Kyle, hurry up!” Her eyes are wide. 

Through the gates! The aperture is only about 12’ wide now; when fully open, they offer a passage around 40’ across. 

“Made it,” gasps Kyle.

The gates close behind our heroes.

“Let’s hope so,” murmurs Jorgen.

_*Next Time:*_ Inside Firestorm Peak!


----------



## the Jester

*Inside Firestorm Peak*

At last!

Sir Harth is only moments ahead of our heroes. Victory, at last, is almost within their grasp- if only they can find him and stop him in time, before he brings whatever terrible weapon or weapons that he has obtained back to their home year of 271 A.F.

_This whole thing is madness,_ reflects Otis Optimus. _Somehow Harth managed to figure out a way to travel back in time, to the end of a glorious age of magic, in order to gain weapons to conquer our home time with. We survived his intended sacrificing of us and followed him back in time, but we arrived about two months behind his cronies and him. We’ve been pursuing him ever since, first over the ruins of the lands that will become, in our time, Kamenda and the surrounding territories... and now onto the Isle of the Elves and to this place, Firestorm Peak._ He looks around. Everything is dark. But only for a moment. A simple _light_ spell, as well as a torch and a lantern, serve to banish the blackness enough for the party to make out the fact that the cave they have entered is interrupted by a wall that goes only about two thirds of the way to the ceiling. The wall is made of heavy wooden planks, with spikes and barbs sprouting from its surface. Standing atop the wall are two creatures that, but for their height, appear to be dour-looking, grey-skinned dwarves wearing strange, translucent plate armor. However, they are nearly 10’ tall! They shout what sound like threats and start training weapons on the party.

“Wait!” cries Dahlia, loading her crossbow. “We’re not here to fight!” 

It is clear that the dwarves are not heeding her; so Sir Percival (a.k.a. “Me”) springs up the wall and cuts one of the dwarves down in a single blow, while Otis _spider climbs_ up and deals with the other one. 

“We don’t want to be fighting these dwarves!” Sheriff Jorgen calls to the rest of the party, annoyed. “They’re probably just defending their homes.”

“Or they might be under the influence of that beholder,” suggests Kyle. “In which case we don’t have a choice but to fight them.”

The party examines the strange armor. It seems to be made of some kind of metal that feels as hard as tempered iron, yet is as translucent as cloudy glass. 

_If it’s not Harth, it’s a distraction,_ they remind themselves. 

The party keeps moving forward, with the wizards in the fore. (This unusual arrangement has been largely adopted by the party, and quite successfully, in this age of madness.) They soon find themselves skirmishing with the dwarves, who are mostly the size of normal dwarves, but who seem able to render themselves invisible. Evidence of the beholder is plain: there are areas with statues of dwarves, bodies, or sections of walls disintegrated away to allow passage. The party hurriedly follows these whenever they find them. 

“We are very clothe,” Lord Cedric growls. His cheeks are rosy from wine. “I can thenthe it.”

Sir Colder’s hands clench. _Sir Harth, you played me for a fool once. You put me in jail and where ready to execute me to fuel your treasonous deceptions. 

I hope you are ready for your just desserts._

“I hear troops moving,” Adelle warns suddenly.  

Continuing to advance, continuing to skirmish, the party moves further in, coming out on a wide balcony above a huge, dimly-lit plaza. Within the plaza is a marketplace, full of colorful tents and stalls. However, normal commerce seems to have been disrupted: a swath of destruction cuts through the vendors and their wares, and there are a few fights going on down below, but they appear to be between groups of dwarves. It is a confused mess.

“Where is he?” growls Sir Fwaigo to himself. “Where’s Harth?” He stares at the crowds below, his teeth grinding, but he doesn’t see the villain anywhere. 

Then more dwarves are coming at them from the balcony. 

Again, the party fights off an initial attack while they drop down into the marketplace. There, they finally manage to find someone that they can speak (in Elven) to and make understand that they are here to stop Sir Harth, not to attack the mountain. Desperately, Cedric pulls out the pass the elves gave them and shows it to the dwarves. “Those people fighting- those dwarves- some of them are under the influence of his ally, the beholder,” explains Jorgen. 

The burly, sullen dwarf examining the papers squints at him. “We know that,” he retorts in choppy Elven. He glares at the party, then hands the papers back and says curtly, “Come with me. I will take you to the Thane.”

“We don’t have time for this!” cries Otis. “We must pursue, he is right there, he was _just here!_”

“I don’t trust you, and I am inclined to execute you as spies,” growls the dwarf.

Otis subsides to muttering. The dwarven captain that takes charge of them is plainly not the only one who would like to execute them; apparently, humans have little popularity here. 

The seconds tick away as the dwarves surround our heroes and relieve them of their weapons. Seconds turn to minutes as the dwarves quell the remaining fighting between their own kind, set guards on the exit that the beholder and Sir Harth took and secure their marketplace. During this time, nobody speaks to the party; the dwarven guards just glare at them.

Then the group is escorted to an impressive-looking dwarf. Clearly a leader of some kind, he has put more than a few pounds into his belly. He wears a suit of full plate armor of the same translucent metal that is in abundant evidence within the mountain. A great axe hangs from his back. Just behind him, a pair of elves in breastplates with cloudy glass shields stand as guards, advisors or both. They are so alike as to appear to be brother and sister.

“I am Stoxis, Thane of the duergar here,” the dwarven leader rumbles in Elven. His voice is very deep, like a barrel full of gravel. He squints at our heroes, studying them intently. “Let me see your papers.”

Lord Cedric hands them over. Thanks to Adelle, he speaks in _tongues_. “The elveth of thith island have granted uth the right to enter here, in purthuit of-”

“I will judge what rights you have!” the Thane interrupts harshly. Cedric bites back an angry retort. The dwarf- no, _duergar_- continues reading the elf-given pass, his lips moving silently. Once he is done, he hands the papers to the elves behind him, who study them carefully. They three of them consult in hushed voices for a few minutes. 

_Time is ticking away,_ Dahlia thinks angrily. _We need to get to Harth, or we’ll never get home! Well, even if that happens, at least we are here, with the elves- my own people, at last!_ Though her face remains expressionless, inside, she feels a great warm exultation. Her entire life, she has always been something of an outcast due to the share of elven blood in her veins. Perhaps here, she can learn more about her heritage- her culture- her blood. And she feels a hot anger, bitter annoyance pushed far past a rational level. Perhaps she can... but Sir Harth must be stopped. Killed, once and for all. And if she can, despite the elves here and her own desire to learn from them, she will return home. _This era is full of insanity, and war,_ she sighs to herself. _And, in addition, we know what is going to happen to these elves. The elf that rescued us from Harth on New Years’ Eve told us enough- they will leave our world, and when they return, it will be as those strange, ribbon-dagger wielding..._ things_... that created that cyst back in Goblin Gorge. I can’t be here to see that! What if they turned me into one of them?_

Finally, interrupting the hermit druid’s thoughts, Thane Stoxis turns to the party and speaks again. “Tell me everything,” he demands. “Your ‘Sir Harth’ has come through here and caused us problems already. Tell me _everything._” His voice is calm, but there is a distinct undertone of menace in it.

“There is no time for this,” Otis protests, but nobody heeds him.

Our heroes lay out their tale as quickly as they can, telling Stoxis of Sir Harth’s treachery, his ambitions to rule their time, his beholder ally and their suspicion that exactly who is in charge between them is not as clear as it seems, the cult he led and their New Year’s Eve ritual leading to the activation of the Gates of Glass and Fire, the party’s pursuit to this time and through the blasted wasteland of Palantia (which, in their time, will be known as Pellinsia), and finally, their journey across the Isle of the Elves- Tirkon- to Firestorm Peak.

When they are done, the elves and Stoxis confer again. The party is in mental agony. _We were so close,_ thinks Lord Cedric despairingly. _Now he has a lead on us again- a lead of at least fifteen minutes._

Finally, Stoxis turns to them. “Well,” he rumbles. “You must pardon my peoples’ caution. We have been attacked by _your kind_ several times in the last few weeks. Serious incursions, attempting to get at the forges and sources of many of our weapons. (By ‘our’, of course, I mean the island of Tirkon, not specifically my people, or our allies, the elves.)”

Kyle grumbles, “I’m not really one of ‘their people,’ you know.”  He points at his ears, with their tell-tale tapered points. “I have, uh, a lot of elven blood in me.”

“Those of mixed blood,” one of the elves speaks up, “are at least as suspect as full humans.”

“Thanks,” mutters Kyle.

“Either way, your story rings true, and we have done what we can to check it out. And this human knight with a beholder did indeed come through here, only minutes before you.”

“Please, we must stop him before it’s too late!” Sir Colder bursts out.

“Me!” Sir Percival agrees, and belches.

Thane Stoxis nods. “Yes, we want him stopped as well.”

“Do you have any idea what he’s after?” Dahlia asks. “Or how he could plan to get back home, to our time?”

The elves exchange a glance. “The Vast Gate,” one of them says tightly. The other nods.

“Is that a weapon?” asks Colder. “Or a way home?”

“Perhaps both,” the male elf replies. “It is the source of many powerful forms of energy. The flux surrounding it is... impressive.”

“And impossible to completely dampen,” Thane Stoxis adds darkly. His frown deepens. “And yet, it seems likely... that is the direction in which your Sir Harth fled. And his beholder had managed to control the minds of several of our people, too; they can _guide_ him deeper in... at least, to the Twisted Caverns.”

“The Twisted Caverns?” gulps Kyle. “What are those?”

“You’ll see,” Stoxis chuckles.

“You thay that thith Vatht Gate can be uthed to return to our time?” Lord Cedric prompts the male elf. 

He shrugs. “Perhaps. It reaches across vast gulfs of space and time, and even to... _beyond._ Yet it is incomprehensible, unmasterable, inchoate. It _might be_ possible for you to use it to return home; I am not an expert in it.”

“Who is?” asks Dahlia.

“The last assault by _your people_ slew our most capable technicians,” Stoxis growls. His brows bunch together. “Be warned! Like them, if you cross us, you will die a lingering, painful death!”

“We don’t plan on crossing you!” snaps Goer, trying to maintain a grip on his temper. “We just want to stop Sir Harth and go home!”

The Thane nods humorlessly. “Aye, stop him.” He turns to the crowd of duergar that are surrounding the parlay, and singles out two of them that speak Elvish. “These two will be your guides into the Twisted Caverns in pursuit of Harth.” He grins. “And to ensure that you do not attempt any treachery, I will accompany you myself.”

“We will go, too,” the female elf speaks up. “We can’t allow a human to reach the Vast Gate.”

“Except when we are going home,” Goer interrupts. 

“Of course,” nods Stoxis. To the elves, he says, “Very well. You may go with us. I want this madman, and especially his beholder, _stopped._”

_Is his lead now twenty minutes?_ wonders Cedric. _Thirty? We must have no more delays!_

***

The party, joined by the two elves and the three duergar, proceed quickly from the marketplace, following the trail of the beholder and Sir Harth. There are several bodies, as well as several areas where duergar who were controlled by the beholder have already been subdued by their fellows. The party’s guides lead them through several natural and rough-hewn caverns. Finally, the passage they are following breaches a much larger, perpendicular hallway, lit in many places by phosphorescent fungi. The hall is plainly artificial; but here and there, the surface of the stone shows strange pitting, small holes and other odd deformities. 

The duergar halt. One of them jerks his thumb to the right. “The Vast Gate is that way,” he mutters. “About a mile or so.”

“I thought you were going to guide us,” Sir Colder snaps. Something about this place has his temper on edge. 

“This is as far as I will go,” the dwarf responds.

“Me too,” the other one (who has a patch over one eye) agrees. “These are the Twisted Caverns.” He shudders. “We ain’t going in there any further.”

Thane Stoxis nods. “I do not blame you,” he admits, “but _I_ will go further.”

“What about you two?” Goer turns to the elves accusingly. “Are you going to rabbit out of here like these cowards?”

“We ain’t cowards,” the one-eyed duergar snorts. “_You_ are fools.” With that, the two grey dwarves turn and begin making their way back towards their settlement. 

“We will accompany you,” the elven sister states. Her brother nods. “Our kind are... more accustomed to the energies of the Vast Gate than the dwarves.”

_I’ll just bet you are,_ Dahlia thinks. The image of the strange, sick-smelling creatures that the elves will become flashes before her mind’s eye and she shudders.

The group continues advancing down the long, wide hall. Here and there, dark forms cling to the ceiling- bats, or something more sinister? The smell of the place is strange, like nothing that they have ever encountered before. Not even the sickly smell of the cyst in Goblin Gorge had any sense of this strange, almost hypnotic, musky aroma. They move carefully, for the ground is uneven in places, and some strange rot seems to grip the stone ever more deeply as they advance. 

Ahead- a light! They quicken their pace. 

Yes!

Slowly, the form of Sir Harth becomes discernible. The party is careful to avoid giving away their position, but they move as quickly as they can manage. 

_Yes!_ They are catching up to Harth at last! For the second time since they arrived in this terrible era, their enemy is in sight!

They close quickly. But Harth is still about a hundred feet ahead when he and his monstrous ally move into a larger, open cave. 

“HARTH!!!” roars Lord Cedric, hurrying forward. 

Ahead of them, Sir Harth stiffens and turns around.

“You!” he shouts, obviously surprised. “How did you find me here?” Then he cackles, the laugh of a madman. “It doesn’t matter! It is time to kill you, once and for all!” 

But before he can do anything else, a sudden loud gibbering arises from all around him in the huge cavern, and scores of small, furry, gibbering figures begin pouring towards him and the beholder from all around. And our heroes rush to the attack, knowing that if they do not take him alive, Sir Harth may take the secret of their escape home with him!

_*Next Time:*_ This is it!! At last, our heroes FIGHT SIR HARTH AND THE BEHOLDER!!!!


----------



## the Jester

For the record, at this point the party consists of:

Sir Kyle- male elfblood* wizard 5/rogue 4
Sir Fwaigo "Goer"- male human fighter 8
Otis Optimus- male human wizard 9
Sir Percival "Me"- male pissblood** scout 5/barbarian 4
Sir Jorgen, Sheriff of Whitewater- male human fighter 4/rogue 4
Dahlia- female elfblood* druid 9
Sir Colder- male elfblood* fighter 6/rogue 3
Sir Cedric, Lord of Whitewater- male human knight*** 4/cleric 4

*Elfbloods are the Year 271 Campaign's half-elves, but most are simply humans with between 1/4 and 3/4 elven blood (very few over 1/2) rather than the result of human + elf. 

**Pissblood = half-orc.

***Homebrewed knight class that I made for the setting previous to the release of the PH2.


----------



## Seance

OK there Jester, time to land the killing blow and finish this story-hour

BUMP!!


----------



## the Jester

Gibberlings boil out of the cave before Sir Harth, the traitor. He cries out in surprise as they swarm all around him. With a snarl, Harth whirls around, his blade slashing left and right, thrusting forward and then sweeping up in a parry before skewering another of the little creatures trying to drag him down.

“HARTH!!!” Lord Cedric bellows again. “WE THALL BRING YOU TO JUTHTITHE!!!”

Even as the Lord of Whitewater begins rushing forward to the fray, with the other warriors of the group following on his heels, Otis hurls a blazing _fireball_ forward, ahead of the group. It explodes in a brilliant orange-white flower, and the massive gibbering is suddenly mixed with the screams of cooking gibberlings.

“Concentrate on the beholder!” Adelle urges the party, firing a _magic missile_ at it. Lord Cedric shouts wild agreement, while the elves accompanying our heroes begin to pepper the weird sphere of many eyes with arrows. Unfortunately, the shafts bounce off the beholder’s tough-looking hide without effect. 

The monster begins rising up in the air, and one of the small eyes upon its crown fires a strange yellow ray at Sir Harth. Harth laughs fiendishly as the beholder’s ray lifts him into the air, out of reach of the gibberlings. “Now we’ll finish this at last!” he sneers at the party, sheathing his blade and drawing out his bow. He nocks an arrow and fires it at Sir Colder. “Here, messenger,” he calls disdainfully, “take _this_ to Sir Galadon!”* With that, Harth lets fly, and the arrow sinks deeply into Sir Colder’s abdomen. 

“Aargh!” Colder cries, then gasps as the poison takes hold. He feels his fingers go numb- his feet feel as though they are falling asleep, but painfully. 

The beholder glares down at our heroes from above, firing eye rays into the group with a leering grin. Colder suffers several blasts that open wounds on him, but manages to avoid becoming petrified. Another eye zaps Thane Stoxis of the duergar, and he groans and raises a hand to his head, looking bewildered for a moment. Still other eye rays tear into the gibberlings further back in the chamber. 

And the horde of short, hairy, gibbering, bestial humanoids pours into our heroes. Adelle and Otis find themselves momentarily impotent as the beholder’s central eye catches them in its antimagical glare. The elves, too, have a similar problem. They realize that it is too late to back out of this fight, and whip their blades free of their scabbards. 

Then Thane Stoxis attacks- but he attacks _Sir Colder,_ charging into him and hacking into his chest and left arm with brutal force! Sir Colder gives a cry of pain and flies into the wall, then crumples onto the ground, unconscious and bleeding. Fortunately, he is out of the mass of gibberlings!

“Thir Colder!” cries Lord Cedric. With a loud battle cry, he charges Thunderpuss at the thane, crashing into him with terrific force. 

The beholder drops Sir Harth back to the floor, where he immediately charges Lord Cedric. The two begin dueling, with Thane Stoxis flanking Cedric. The two of them press him- and Thunderpuss- hard. The Lord of Whitewater parries the dwarven axe, then whirls to defend against Sir Harth’s bastard sword. He can only block so many blows; both of them are puissant warriors. A massive axe blow catches Cedric across one leg, while Harth thrusts into his side. Cedric feels steel grate against, and crack, several of his ribs. He withdraws for the moment, hoping that his allies can hold off the enemy long enough for him to heal himself. 

But the rest of the party have their hands full, between the deadly eye rays, the antimagic cone, the duergar thane, Sir Harth and dozens of gibberlings! Kyle keeps up a steady stream of arrows at the beholder, but he keeps missing. The spellcasters find themselves forced to resort to slings. The beholder laughs, though it has taken a few minor wounds. “Keep it up!” Kyle exhorts the others. “We _have_ to kill that thing, fast!!”

The beholder laughs again. An eye beam stabs at Sheriff Jorgen, and he gasps and collapses, rendered asleep. Dahlia moves up next to him, firing another sling shot at the beholder as soon as she reaches him. Her badger drops down and growls at Jorgen, then bites his sleeve and begins to shake him. Jorgen’s eyes flutter and open. 

The gibberlings are everywhere. The beholder has killed or petrified several of them, as has Harth; but our heroes have been focusing on their true enemies. 

Suddenly _something else_ enters the fray. 

On the fringes of things, along the flanks of the seething mass of gibberlings, a flight of eyeless eels suddenly appears, wriggling grotesquely through the air. It closes with the churning mass of furry little monsters, and the eels all swarm onto one of them, tearing into it like a vicious school of piranha. The gibberling squeals, but the eels have latched on; it cannot escape. The eels seem to pull back, dragging the gibberling up into the air by their teeth. It screams a reedy scream, and then the eels pull back more, but almost as if they were crossing some weird threshold, their rear portions seem to _vanish..._ and when they drag the gibberling through that threshold, it, too, vanishes. Its scream cuts off as soon as its head vanishes. 

There are plenty more, though... swarming all over everything, falling in droves to the warriors, but preventing them from _finishing this._

There is a loud _*crack!*_ and the smell of ozone, and almost a dozen gibberlings fly apart as one of the elves accompanying our heroes, finally out of the beholder’s antimagic cone, unleashes a _lightning bolt._ It blasts into the beholder, too, rocking it. It glares downward angrily. The other elf, meanwhile, fires off a _scorching ray_ that blasts into the beholder, burning a huge seeping wound into its flesh. It gnashes its teeth and glares at the elf, but it is plainly shaken by the two spells’ combined effects. 

Goer and Me finally manage to cut through the horde of gibberlings and get into the midst of things, swinging at Sir Harth and the duergar thane, punishing them heavily. Meanwhile, at a safe distance, Lord Cedric gulps down a healing potion. He sighs as his wounds close up. If there were time, he would _love_ to take a drink right now. But there is no time. He must rejoin his manly brothers in arms immediately. 

“Remember, we mutht keep him alive to find a way home!” Cedric cries. 

Jorgen, meanwhile, throws a lasso at Sir Harth- and lands it expertly around his arms! With a jerk, the sheriff draws it tight. Sir Harth gives a cry of surprise, trying to turn his sword at the rope, but Goer is there to parry his blow, just in time! 

Then Thane Stoxis has all of Goer’s attention. He captures it expertly, via his axe. Thankfully, the gibberlings getting pretty thin. 

While the beholder’s antimagical eye is focused on the two elves (who moved away from the rest of the party), Otis fires a _magic missile_ at it. He grins fiercely as his magical volley peppers it with wounds. It glares at him from several of its eyestalks, but its central eye remains focused on the elves.

Meanwhile, the eyeless eels reappear. Against, merciless and swift, they swim through the air to one of the gibberlings and attack, then somehow draw it _away,_ vanishing in the process. 

The beholder stabs Harth with that yellow ray again, and begins to lift him above the fray again. 

“No you don’t!” Sheriff Jorgen braces himself and draws the rope taut, looping the rope around his saddle horn as if he were trying to drag the beholder down by its _telekinesis_. Kyle darts up and fires an arrow at Harth from only about 10’ away, almost taunting him with his nearness. 

Harth struggles ineffectively, caught suspended in the air between the beholder and the saddle. The sheriff’s horse whinnies, but it stays on the ground. The beholder gnashes its teeth angrily.

Then the evil knight slashes the rope, and frees himself. With an exultant grin, he swirls the motion of his body into a deadly thrust at Sir Fwaigo. He gasps, staggering back, but manages to retain his footing. Another blow would be the end of him, especially if it were to be to a critical organ or area of his body.** 

The male elf leaps forward, sword drawn. With a lightning-quick stab, he unleashes a massive _arcane strike_ on the beholder. It gives a bellow of pain- and collapses.

“No!” cries Sir Harth, an instant before he drops to the ground. 

Thane Stoxis stops fighting and falls back, shaking his head. “What?” he groans. 

Jorgen runs the last of the gibberlings through.

The party converges on Harth, punching, striking with the flats of their blades, kicking. 

They have him at last. 

Now- _can they get home?_

_*Next Time:*_ Well, _can they??_

*Sir Galadon- more properly, _Lord_ Galadon- is one of Sir Colder’s lords (with Lord Cedric the other). Long-time readers may recall him as Harth’s opposite number on the baron’s council from Kamenda City.

**In my game we use something called Wyrd, which are akin to fate points. In this battle, everyone burned a wyrd- because Sir Harth’s next attack was a crit. This mass wyrd-burning turned it into a complete and total miss instead.


----------



## the Jester

“All right, you son of a bitch, HOW DO WE GET HOME?” Sir Fwaigo roars. Me, growling, looms right behind him. 

Sir Harth, who has a fairly generous bloody nose, a black right eye and a split lip, sneers. “Why should I tell you anything?”

Lord Cedric grabs him roughly by the tunic and shakes him. “You are our captive, Harth! Make no mithtake, you live or die at my pleathure! You will aid uth in getting home- or you will never return to our time, either. Do you with to be trapped here for all time? Are you truly _that_ mad?”

“In return for aiding you, you must assure me that you-”

“No athurantheth, Harth!” Cedric snarls, spittle flying in Harth’s face. “You _will_ aid uth in bringing you to juthtithe- or elthe we will therve juthtithe more informally here, in thith time. Thurely you would rather thee a trial than a length of cold thteel!”

Harth hesitates.

“Me hate traitor,” rumbles Me. 

“I can subject you to forms of torture you can’t even imagine,” Otis remarks.

“Yeah!” agrees Kyle. 

“HOW, Harth?” demands Sheriff Jorgen. “How were you going to get back? You must have had a plan! You’re not that stupid. Or are you?”

“Of course not!” Harth rises to the bait, then realizes what he has said. Smiling, he nods. “That’s one to you, sheriff. All right. I have a plan, yes. But you cannot possibly execute it without my help.”

“Oh really?” Otis asks dryly.

Sir Harth laughs. “Not unless you can- and dare to- contact entities from Beyond.” The way he says _Beyond_ is somehow disturbing, as if it holds secrets not meant for humanoid intelligence. 

“Beyond what?” Goer asks.

“Beyond... _everything,_ you fool.”

Goer bridles, and Lord Cedric snaps, “I am tired of hith intholenthe. One of you, cuff him.” Immediately, Me, Dahlia and Kyle all step up and begin to throw more punches at him. In another few seconds, Harth is lying curled on the floor. The party only kicks him a few times while he’s down before Cedric calls them off. 

Sir Colder and Me haul him to his feet. He groans in pain, blood pouring from a cut near his (now black) left eye. Me gives him a rough shake. 

“Now, why don’t you be a little more forthcoming this time?” Jorgen suggests. “What was your plan?”

Harth coughs and spits, then says, “To go through the Vast Gate. To go... _Beyond._ And to contact an intelligence there to help me.”

“But how could-” Dahlia is cut off before she can even frame the question.

“Don’t you see it? When we are... _outside,_ for lack of a better word, we shall be in a place that defies all the rules of our physical universe, a place utterly alien. Space does not apply there, at least, not as we know it... and neither does _time._ With help, it should be child’s play to emerge back at our time.”

“And you had a specific entity in mind, I assume.” Otis stares hard at Sir Harth.

“Not at all,” Sir Harth replies. “I am simply looking for any entity that is capable of helping.”

“How?” demands Lord Cedric. “How will you find it?”

“I know certain secrets of black magic,” Sir Harth answers obliquely.

***

After they finish interrogating Sir Harth- whom they have relieved of useful gear of all kinds- the party and the two elves with them draw off a short distance to discuss what to do.

“If this is his plan, it’s probably our best bet,” Colder notes. “Unless someone has something better in mind? Didn’t think so.”

“I think that this ‘outside’ place is the same thing that turned- I guess _turns_- the elves into those _things_ we fought at Goblin Gorge,” Dahlia says. “What will it do to us?”

It’s an unsettling question. But, as Goer points out, they don’t have much choice.

“How do we get to the Vast Gate? This place is swarming with those furred monsters,” Kyle comments. 

When asked how he planned to reach it, Sir Harth only shrugs and answers, “I was going to look until I found it. Or whatever I had to do. But I do not know exactly where to go to find it.”

“What about you?” Jorgen turns to the two elves.

The female shakes her head. “I am sorry, but we do not. We never attended directly on the Vast Gate itself.”

“Maybe I can do something to find it,” Dahlia offers. She casts _commune with nature_. A look of profound disgust comes over her face, and a few moments later, when she comes out of her trance, she exclaims, “This place is disgusting!” She spits, as if to clear a foul taste from her mouth. “Ugh!!”

“Could you discern anything useful?” Otis inquires. 

“Yes. Right. We need to stick to the right; it is the safest path, all the way. I could _sense_ the Vast Gate- it’s like a tumor, a cancer festering in nature.” She shudders.

“Think about what we know,” Otis reminds her. “Think of those things that we fought in Goblin Gorge- the things that were once elves. We shouldn’t be surprised if this place is foul.”

“Can you lead uth where we mutht go?” Lord Cedric asks Dahlia. 

“I-I think so.”

Gravely, the Lord of Whitewater nods to her. Taking a deep breath, the druidess begins to lead the rest of the party- and their new prisoner- further down the hallway. Everyone is keyed up and alert; before long, several of our heroes report hearing gibbering noises from further on. But Otis casts a _silent image_ of the milk maid from back home to distract everyone and remind them of what they are doing. 

Ambush!

As they move down the wide hall, they are suddenly assaulted! A group of a half-dozen of the furry little gibberlings rushes out, babbling incoherently. The party easily defends themselves, slaying their attackers in but a few short moments. 

They take the first right turn that they can, moving carefully through a series of malformed caves. Strange growths dot the walls and floor here and there. Across the floor, small trickles of moisture run- though whether they are water is not entirely clear. Some of it looks strangely blue. 

Everyone is on edge. The place itself makes them irritable, as if it were constantly muttering dark imprecations at them. The party continues through several more adjoining chambers, then down and up a twisting tunnel shaped like a U. In the distance, they can hear more occasional gibbers. 

Finally, they reach a strange area where the natural (although deformed) caves give way to something more artificial. A broken section of wall breaks into a large, rectangular room obviously carved by intelligent hands. A dull blue sludge covers the floor of most of the area, apparently secreted by the dozens of white, wet and doughy-looking dog-sized lumps on the ceiling. These lumps slowly move back and forth amongst weird bulbs of satiny black goop that are fixed to the ceiling by a cluster of strange, fibrous roots. The white lumps have orifices on their backs, which seem to be dripping the blue sludge. An open doorway leads out on the other side of the room.

“Yuck,” exclaims Dahlia. 

Cautiously, the group proceeds across. There is some joking about making Sir Harth touch the stuff, but nobody wants to linger in this strange chamber.

They stay to the right, moving into the carved areas. They cannot be far from their destination now. 

But what will happen once they reach it?

_*Next Time:*_ Our heroes run into trollish trouble!


----------



## the Jester

*A Little Troll Trouble*

“We should bring the elves back to our time with us,” Otis urges Lord Cedric in a low voice. “As a breeding pair. Just think of their knowledge! Just think of what we could _do_ if we knew half of what they know!”

“Propothe it to them,” Cedric nods. 

Otis turns and translates his offer into Elvish. The two elves exchange a glance and agree to consider it. Otis frowns; he knows the sound of a polite dismissal when he hears it. 

***

Trolls!

They are strange and deformed, stunted and miscolored. The first has a weak-looking, shriveled third arm coming out of his side. The second has twisted, warped legs. The third seems to have an extra set of gasping lungs on the outside of its chest; and the third has a complete second troll, shriveled to a mere foot in size, dangling from the back of its neck.

Otis and Dahlia waste no time, unleashing a _fireball_ and a _flame strike_ immediately. The trolls are swiftly overcome after that, but once the fight is over, Dahlia studies the bodies intently.

“That was easier than I would have expected. They were... almost frail. Something about this place,” she mutters.

The female elf nods. “Magical healing can sometimes warp you, if you are close to the Vast Gate. Things that were born too close to it might be warped it in the womb, as well.”

Dahlia shudders.

***

The party continues along, but before long a large cavern opens from the rough tunnel. A dim light emanates from several of the natural pillars and numerous stalactites. Dozens of grossley misshapen trolls are in the room, rolling around on the ground together, seemingly- wrestling? Mating? Our heroes cannot tell. Most of the trolls have vestigial appendages and organs sprouting from their bodies, which flop around grotesquely during their gyrating exertions. 

Presiding over the entire affair is a huge creature of enormous girth, with two heads and a thick, serpentine tail. The great two headed she-troll squats on a pile of jumbled bones, gazing wantonly at the scene before her. Her gaze crawls from the orgy of troll mutants before her to the approaching party.

They halt immediately at the sight of so many trolls. Otis asks Adelle to cast _tongues_ on him, and then he steps forward into view. Before the hideous troll queen has a chance to open her mouth, Otis steps forward and calls out- in Elven- “We mean you no harm! We are just passing through! We are just trying to reach our home!”

The trolls erupt in a collection of surprised grunts as they break apart and begin pulling themselves to their feet. The obese troll matriarch heaves herself to her feet and gawks at Otis with both heads. The other adventurers step up behind her, accompanied by the elves.

The troll matriarch chuckles. “We are strong,” she burbles. “Why should we let you pass?”

“We are _stronger_ than you. We have already slain four of your sentries. How else do you think we reached you?”

The matriarch sends a pair of mutant trolls to check out Otis’ story. “I hope you can do this, master,” Kyle whispers. 

“Me,” Sir Percival hoots mournfully.

Otis’ story checks out, and our heroes are a menacing band. The matriarch’s heads start to argue with each other, and she even briefly comes to blows with herself before the party is allowed to pass.

But they are, in the end, allowed to pass. 

***

The party moves into a weird chamber that smells of vinegar. An archway leads out into a worked room to the left, but right is a scabrous tunnel coated with greenish-brown resin, whorled and ridged. The footing is uneven, and the vinegar-like smell is very strong. 

“Stay right,” Dahlia insists, despite the unpleasant appearance of the passage. 

The party heads into the unnerving tunnel. They pick their way forward carefully, coming into a long, irregularly-shaped cavern whose walls, floor and ceiling are lined with more of the resin. 

Then something _hideous_ comes into view from around a stone protrusion.

Skittering on six crab-like legs, the bloated, yellow-orange creature has an oily body covered in short, writhing tentacles. It has an enormous, tooth-filled mouth framed by more, longer tentacles. Four large, bulging, yellow and red eyes are set into the monster’s upper portions, above the mouth. Behind its eyes are a cluster of strange, bulging sacs of some kind.

“Dispatch it quickly!” cries the male elf. “It’s a brain collector!!”

_*Next Time:*_ The brain collector! The Vast Gate! And the swarm of eyeless eels!!


----------



## the Jester

*Going Home*

The bizarre thing rushes forward, skittering on strangely crab-like legs towards our heroes. Its oily skin, slick with yellow-brown stuff, gives off a weird, unearthly aroma.

“Kill it!” Sir Colder screams, and he fires his crossbow, but misses. Kyle nods enthusiastic agreement, blasting the monster with a volley of _magic missiles._ They spatter against the monster, leaving smoking holes in its... carapace? But the monster ignores the attack and skitters up to Adelle, snapping at her with its immense maw. Its teeth close on her arm, and it begins to retreat, dragging her with it.

“No you don’t,” snarls Otis, and fires a volley of maximized _magic missiles_ into the monster. Sir Jorgen, meanwhile, charges forward, stabbing the thing with his lance- but to his chagrin, he finds that his blow sends a course of fire from the monster into him. Suddenly it is surrounded in a corona of flames! Adelle screams in pain, struggling ineffectually to free herself. 

“Thtop it!” Lord Cedric urges his companions. “We mutht free Adelle!” He quickly ties a knot in his rope and then hurls it around the wizard, attempting to rescue her from the brain collector- but the rope catches fire and burns free immediately!

Sir Fwaigo bellows a war cry and springs forward, swinging his sword at the beast. He hits, but flames shoot down the weapon and blast him. He cries out in pain, but the brain collector drops Adelle. _Worth it,_ Goer thinks as he staggers back, reeling from the pain. He sees both Kyle and Otis fire more volleys of _magic missiles_ at the monster; the beast drops back a pace. 

“Flee, monster!” cries Sir Colder, darting forward and helping Adelle to her feet. 

”While it’s hesitating,” the elven male accompanying our heroes mutters, “flee!” He and his sister begin to back away.

“What? No way! We need to get past this thing,” argues Sir Colder. He begins moving forward, towards the brain collector. The brain collector surveys our heroes for a moment; it looks barely wounded. Yet- it hesitates. Clearly not out of fear. Perhaps... disappointment? 

The monster vanishes, fading into thin air with a quiet “whoomph”.

_Maybe our brains aren’t worth collecting,_ Kyle thinks ironically.

***

As the party continues on, always keeping a wary eye on Sir Harth, Otis Optimus takes his apprentice aside again. “Kyle, let me see your spellbook.” With a sigh, Kyle hands it over. Otis opens it to the grading page and scratches out the D+ written there. In its place, he puts a C+. Gravely, he tells Kyle, “You are now a wizard in your own right. You are no longer an apprentice.”

“Thank you, mas- thank you.” Kyle grins hugely. _I was going to tell you the same thing anyway,_ he think, but there is no need to say it now. They understand one another, at least well enough.

***

Sir Harth doesn’t say a word the entire time, except when one of our heroes speaks to him. He casts dark looks at Sir Porthos, but Porthos’ loyalties seem solidly with Lord Cedric. Still, Goer, Jorgen, Otis and Kyle maintain a discrete watch over Porthos; it was not so long ago that he followed their archenemy, and when victory is so close, there is no point in letting it slip away by neglecting the most elementary precautions. 

The party finds themselves working their way through a previously blocked passage, and thence through a series of large, domed chambers, several of them now coated in the weird whorled resin. Every now and then, the group passes by the partial corpse of a duergar. 

“Keep going towards the worked stone,” Dahlia exhorts her companions. 

“Where are we going, anyway?” asks Goer.

“To the heart of the unnatural... stuff,” Dahlia replies. “I presume... the Vast Gate.”

Sir Harth twitches and mutters.

The party passes through an intersection covered by strange, chest-high purple grass that undulates and moves as if waves of wind were washing through it. _All these strange things,_ thinks Otis in wonder. _This Isle of the Elves- Tirkon- it has escaped most of the damage to our lands from the great conflict. In our time, they must have so much knowledge accumulated- so much never lost- that I could glean, if only I could reach them... If we make it home, I must seek them out. I _must!

The party enters a large vestibule. Several partially devoured corpses of duergar are scattered messily throughout the place. Harth stiffens. “Yes!” he declares. “This is it! We are very close!” He gazes at the ceiling, which bears strange patterns of decoration. 

“What’s your plan, Harth?” Kyle demands.

He cackles. “I have already told you. I will bargain our way home- if I can! But I cannot do it until we pass through the Vast Gate. My black magic should allow me to bargain for passage.”

“Black magic,” sneers Dahlia.

“Me hate traitor,” Me growls. 

“Lithen well, Harth,” Lord Cedric snaps. “If you try to play uth falthe in thith, you will not thurvive. I thwear by my mother, if you attempt to betray uth, I will have your head from your thoulderth!”

Harth subsides, but his manner has changed now that the Vast Gate is so close. He no longer looks as though he _feels_ defeated. 

Suddenly, out of nowhere, the swarm of eyeless eels appears in mid-air. It swims forward and the eels begin biting at the male elf, seizing him with savage strength! He screams in pain as they fasten upon his flesh. 

Danelle, the last surviving peasant from the village, bravely draws her quarterstaff and swings it at the eels. It bounces harmlessly from them. Kyle- _Sir Kyle,_ lest we forget, since he was dubbed by Lord Cedric- fires an arrow in to the swarm, while Sir Colder likewise unleashes his crossbow. 

The female elf rushes to her brother’s aid, hacking at the eels. They keep biting relentlessly at him, and blood sprays everywhere as they rip at his flesh. He struggles to break free, but the eels are too strong!

Then Sir Percival- Me- is there, roaring, his magical mace crashing into the swarm of eels again and again, the muscles on his arms and shoulders sticking out like steel cords, until the eels all spasm and, all together at the same exact instant, go dead. Yet- they remain, floating in the air. It is eerie; there is a hint of _something else_ at the back end of the eel swarm, and now that they aren’t moving, our heroes can see that they simply... fade into nothingness at the back end. 

“What the hell are those things?” Goer asks. 

The elven man groans. He drags himself to his feet. Dahlia hurries over and applies a little healing to him. “Thank you,” he says heavily. 

The party takes a few minutes to organize themselves. One of the doors, the one that is opposite the way our heroes entered the chamber, is different from the others. It is made of thick steel, bound with nephilium, the strange, clear metal that these duergar seem to work so much. Harth seems almost poised on the balls of his feet; he is full of obvious excitement. _He’s mad,_ thinks Dahlia.

They open the door, and before them is the Vast Gate.  

The party is staring into a huge, four-valved chamber lined with more nephilium. At the central focus of the chamber is a huge sphere, incandescent with radiance. The light pulses in time to a heartbeat, strobing in a strange, disorienting fashion. Strange shapes seem to move within the walls. The huge crystal hangs in the air, about a foot above the ground. Three great columns of crystal bracket the sphere, spaced equidistantly, rising from floor to ceiling. Several tables, a podium and more bodies are also in the room. 

“Well,” says Goer, “here we are.”

“Me,” Me agrees mournfully.

“What about it, Harth?” demands Jorgen. “What do we have to do?”

Harth chuckles. “We have to go _through_ the Gate.”

The party draws off to the side to discuss their options. Going through the Vast Gate is an intimidating proposition. Yet- if it is their only way home, what do they have to lose? 

“We’ll watch, but we’re staying here,” the female elf announces.

All the while, Sir Harth’s eyes never leave the Vast Gate. He licks his lips and sighs. 

“We’re going,” Lord Cedric says. The party ties themselves together, and then binds Harth tightly to them. 

And they step into a realm of utter madness.

It blasts at their sanity. Screaming fright made real, made the air you breathe, made delightful... huge, cyclopean beasts too large even to notice them... the conceit of language blasted away, away to nthg... screaming madness, terror, disorientation and helplessness... weep, man, for you are as nothing to the things that dream here... and like a bubble, layer after layer pops as they pass through from one zone of insanity to the next...

And yet, somehow, through the madness, they keep hold of Harth. And Harth? He is mad enough already. And he has practiced long and hard for this opportunity. For years, he built his cult and cultivated his knowledge of the dark arts, until finally the night came- that night when the stars were right, and Harth cast himself back through time.

_I am ready,_ Sir Harth tells himself. _And if I can, I will persuade some power to destroy these fools!_

Harth uses all the knowledge of black magic that he has accumulated over a decade of research and experimentation, sending his own mad mind out to contact something _beyond_ sanity- or comprehension.

_Show me the way,_ begs Harth. _From here, for you, it should be trivial to find an exit into a different moment. Shoe me!_

The madness goes on, like a good meal or an interrogation. Yet, in the midst of it, our heroes hold strong to themselves. They cleave together, trying desperately to hold onto their own mind. 

Sir Harth howls in triumph, and there is a sense of _motion_ and them. He turns his gloating eyes on the party. “I have done it,” he cries, and then things seem to pull and distort around them. There is a sense of movement, of action. Layers of filmy _stuff_ break over our heroes like membranes that they are passing through, over and over again, speeding up until...

*KRACKOOOM!!!!*

Disoriented- it is raining, hard- it is dark- the sky, the stars are out-

“Where’s Harth!” cries Dahlia. The villain is nowhere to be seen!

The group gathers their wits, which are quite scattered by the trip Outside. They are back outside the ruins of the Ghost Keep! Quickly, the party begins searching around for any signs of their nemesis’ passage- and almost immediately, Sheriff Jorgen cries, “Here!” He begins leading the way, while Me jogs swiftly to the crest of the nearest hill to look for any sign of movement in the night. “ME!” he shouts, pointing into the darkness, and begins running forward. The others charge into the black after him. 

Sir Harth cannot outdistance them, especially not Me. The scout rushes forward, tackles him, and gives him a solid thumping. “Me HATE traitor!” screams Me.

The others gather around. “The game’s over, Harth,” Sheriff Jorgen says. “You’re under arrest- and you’re going to face justice.”

***

And thus it is that we come to the end of our story. It was a fun ride, going from virtually no-magic to really high-magic and back again, and I think it’s safe to say that the good guys won and everyone lived happily ever after- well, everyone but Cur Sed Seed, anyhow.

Lord Cedric of Whitewater remained a petty ruler throughout his life, but his holdings expanded to include fiefs in many lands, even some in Tydon. He was instrumental in arranging the eventual marriage of Baron Rusk to the Earl of Tydon’s youngest daughter. He hired a crack team of dwarven spirit-brewers, and had a fine brood of many children by his wife, even if some of them didn’t look much like him. Sadly, the cure to the wasting sickness was never found, and it eventually took both Cedric’s mother and several of his longtime servants. 

Lady Cara of Whitewater gave birth to many fine children for Cedric. She proved to be very capable of handling affairs of state, and while Cedric concerned himself with drinking and dandying young lads on his lap, Cara took care of business and enjoyed the perquisites of her position. Her mother was very proud of her, and eventually moved to Kamenda City to live in the “city home” that Cedric and Cara set up. 

Sheriff Jorgen Boatwright of Whitewater eventually went on to become High Chief Justice of all of Kamenda. When the Uprising of 285 happened, it was Jorgen’s skillful handling that kept it from getting out of control, and prevented the overthrow of Baron Rusk. Jorgen eventually fell in love with a beautiful commoner and flouted all convention by wedding her despite her inferior status, setting in motion shock waves of social change that would eventually lead to a great increase in the ability of the social classes to both mix and to advance (or decline). 

Sir Percival, who was too stupid to say his own name (he could only manage two syllable words, so he always just called himself “Me”), went on to be the example around which the Order of the Knights Percival were founded. Dedicated to fast action, the Knights Percival rapidly attained a reputation as formidable foes and staunch allies. Me fought in several wars, always acquitting himself with valor, but it was in the Tydon War of 290 that he achieved his greatest coup, when he single-handedly defeated the Tydonian champion Gruel the Mighty, for which he was awarded Kamenda’s highest honor, the Medal of the Golden Dragon.

Lady Dahlia Laagos lived out her days at Castle Laagos, which she duly renovated as was required of her in order to gain title to it from Sir Martin Whitewater. She had no human staff and few visitors, which was as she preferred it, and she never advanced socially or spent time in court (which was likewise in accordance with her wishes). Amongst the animals and fey, however, Dahlia became quite well-known, and Castle Laagos grew to be home to a diverse array of animals and beasts, as well as magical animals and fey things, such as al-mi’raj and brownies. Badgers, cats, bears and wolves; moles and birds and frogs and fish, all spoke well of Lady Dahlia, and after she died, her castle was quickly claimed by them for their own use. The fey hid it under a weave of fog and glamer, and they and the animals haunted it, mourning its lost owner. Castle Laagos became a thing of legend sought by adventurers.

Sir Kyle Goldenbow became first a hanger-on at court in Kamenda City, then the baron’s personal jeweler. This put him in a perfect position to, eventually, become the richest man in Kamenda, through a combination of favors, a few ‘lost’ gems and legitimate salary. Of course, manipulating his way into the position of Guildmaster of the Thieves’ Guild of Kamenda City didn’t hurt either! Kyle lived out a very wealthy double life. He became so wealthy, in fact, that he was able to mitigate the economic crash that preceded the Uprising of 285 solely by means of his personal wealth. This prevented a wholesale collapse of the Kamendan economy and made Kyle an unknown, unsung hero- for her chose to keep his part in things hidden.

Sir Colder returned to Sir Galadon’s service, but as a knight rather than a messenger. He rose rapidly in esteem in Galadon’s eyes, until Galadon enfeoffed him with a parcel of land. Now Lord Colder, he set about improving the land for his people, only to find that there was a dragon that plagued the area. He strapped on his armor and shield and took up his spear and met the dragon in battle. They strove against one another in a tremendous battle, with Lord Colder clinging to it bodily as it flew high in the sky, until finally Lord Colder smote the dragon as it tried to flee the confrontation, and it died. Colder was nearly killed himself in the long fall, but he lived. He bathed in the dragon’s blood, and it burned and scarred him tremendously. He fled the sight of his men-at-arms approaching, and ran off into the hills. Though Lord Colder never returned, there are tales of a grotesque immortal hero of the hills in that area, who (it is said) does not age and has the heart of a dragon, yet will never give his name or join with a group of people.

Sir Fwaigo “Goer” Smith remained Lord Cedric’s loyal friend and aid for their entire lives. As Cedric’s lands and influence grew, he enfeoffed Fwaigo with an area just outside of Whitewater, and Cedric’s squire of old became Lord Fwaigo. Later, as he grew older, Lord Fwaigo became known as the Smith-Lord, for his habit of working the forge personally even as a lord. He worked for over a year on Cedric’s legendary bastard sword, _Dandylion_, which he gave to his friend on his 45th birthday. It is said that the weapon has strange inexplicable properties- perhaps even some kind of echo of its creator within it.

And Otis Optimus? Immediately after the party reached the castle in Kamenda City, Otis left. He is known to have traveled to the coast, far away from Kamenda, in lands whose names we do not know, and there to have chartered a boat to take him further still across the sea. 

He was never heard from again- at least, not by his old friends.


----------



## Baron Opal

All right! A fine story, Jester.

What is the outcome of your fine experiment? Any analysis after the denoument?


----------



## Alcar

*The Tale of Otis Optimus Pt. 1*

A court full of merryment and celebration is the scene in which the Heroes of Kamenda are in; wine and whiskey are aplenty, and songs are about to be sung.

"Fools, idiots, all of you", shouts Otis.

"Whath is the matther Otith? We are home, come rejoice" says Lord Cedric.

"What are we celebrating for? Great...we are home, big deal".

"Otis...for once in your life, shut up and have a drink" says Sir Fwaigo.

"Are you mundane hasbeins really so ignorant? Otis shouts, "Harth was headed somewhere, I intend to find out where".

a moment of silence..

"That's right, you think this is over? Whose to stop some other ambitious noble with black magic ancestors from doing the same thing... furthermore, what's to stop me from doing it?

The party gives Otis a strange look

Baron Rusk replies: " Otis Optimus, you were an aid all of Kamenda, perhaps all of Pelincia, you should be happy and forget what's bothering you for the mean time".

Otis' eyes widen as looks at the meek baron, Otis turns his back and begins to walk for the door.

"Where are you goin? ask Kyle

Otis puffs up, "I'm going to Goblin Gorge, then after I kill Glorgin I'm going to make those green-skinned midgets make me vessel to get to Tirkon".

"Yeah well...good luck with that you crazy wizard", says Sir Fwaigo.

And so, Otis leaves the castle, and as he considers buying a horse on his way out of town, decides to buy new shoes instead beacuse he doesn't have the best luck with horses. He reaches the gate and says to guards: " Next time you see me..run". The guards look puzzled as the arrogant wizard walks past them.

A few days travel across the plains, along with a small boat ride down the river eventually lead the young wizard to the city of Whitewater; where the wizard makes his way to the tower of his old master, the lady Zastas.

NEXT TIME: A Kiss, a slap, and a spellbook and, if orcs are piss bloods, what does that make goblins?  stay tuned.....


----------



## hippiejediz

Alcar said:
			
		

> if orcs are piss bloods, what does that make goblins?




MEEEEE!


----------



## Seance

Great updates Jester and Alcar! 


    This setting was one of my favorite ever played. I was hesitant about the whole "low magic" element at first, but the roll playing more than made up for it. The whole shift away from alignment and development of traits was an interesting twist for character development.


----------



## the Jester

Alcar might not be finishing this any time soon, but hopefully he'll get back to it eventually.


----------

