# Der Kluge's Wilderlands Campaign



## reddist (Jul 12, 2006)

This is one PC's reflections on a series of adventures in Der Kluge's Wilderlands campaign.

If you PLAY in this campaign, you are going to get insights into Stone that you might not want.  Stop reading now if you don't want spoilers into my PC's drives and ambitions.

In the spoiler block is the PC background I provided Die Kluge.  Following posts are journal entries.  If you want to see Stone's story unfold session by session, avoid the spoiler block.  If you want to know it all up front, read the block and use that knowledge to filter his internal monologues through his journal.

Up to you.

[sblock]
Felix “Stone” Stohnrym, human Scout

Felix is the son of Merry Stohnrym, a chambermaid in the manor of Lord Judas Starchilde.  He was raised by Merry and her older brother Jackson, the hunter and beastmaster for Lord Starchilde.

Felix is actually the bastard child of Judas and Merry, though the only three people that know this are Merry, Jackson and Judas.  Judas has five other legitimate sons and three daughters, all raised as noble scions, with all the benefits and spoils associated with being children of a wealthy and powerful nobleman.  Merry was allowed to keep Felix on the condition that she never acknowledged his heredity and birthrights.

Jackson came to be employed by Lord Starchilde after falling in disgrace from his leadership of a militia in a distant land, where he acted as a leader of Rangers and Scouts, teams that roved ahead of the ground troops, scouting out enemy fortifications and encampments.  The nature of his fall is only known to him.  When he was hired on as Lord Starchilde’s hunt master, he brought his younger sister with him.  Judas employed Merry in the house, and soon became obsessed with her.  He seduced her and took advantage of her regularly.  As Merry was smitten with Judas, Jackson never made much noise about it, though he did discourage the affair.  When Merry became pregnant, Judas disavowed all knowledge of the relationship, though he allowed Felix to be raised by Jackson and Merry as another servant to the Starchilde household.  Felix was allowed to sit in on tutoring sessions and lessons with the other Starchilde children, though when he skipped out to learn hunting and scouting from Jackson no one complained.

The Starchilde family carries a prophecy of a great destiny.  This prophecy physically manifests as a star-shaped birthmark on the Starchilde males. Judas carries this mark, as do his sons, including Felix.  Merry of course knows of this Starchilde birthmark, though she has told Felix it is nothing important and he has come to ignore it, having never seen it on Judas or any of the other Starchilde children.  He assumes it is just a meaningless birthmark and no longer thinks of it.  The ultimate manifestation of the Starchilde prophecy has not come to fruition.  The nature of the prophecy is obscure to Judas, who keeps the ancient writings of a crazed seer locked in a safe.  All Judas knows for sure is that one of his sons is destined to greatness, to surpass all expectations and leave a permanent mark on the passage of time.

Judas assumes, of course, it is going to be one of his legitimate sons, and has totally forgotten about the potential of Felix…

Jackson is perhaps not the best influence on his young nephew.  He has taken him under his wing and taught him how to track, sneak, move swiftly and silently through forests and grasslands, and the many survival skills necessary to be a hunter and stalker.  Additionally, Jackson has taught Felix how to use a bow and a shortsword, as well as many skirmisher techniques and strategies.  Finally, Jackson encourages Felix’s innate curiosity and mischievousness, and rewards Felix for exploring the “forbidden” areas of the manor.  When Felix skulks into one of the Starchilde children’s bedroom, he brings back a small trinket as a sign of his skill, which he presents to Jackson.  Jackson laughs and claps Felix on his back, congratulating him on his skill and prowess.

As Felix grows older he takes on more responsibilities about the Starchilde manor.  He leads the sons of Judas Starchilde on hunts in the great forest expanse surrounding the mansion.  Unfortunately, as they grow into adolescence and then to young men, the Starchilde boys find great fun in teasing and tormenting young Felix, who they see as a worthless servant who exists only to serve them.  Felix takes as much as he can, while venting his growing anger to Merry and Jackson.  Merry pleads with him to hold back his anger, not to retaliate or seek any vengeance to the ridicule and embarrassment.  Jackson, however, encourages the boy to seek his revenge through stealth and sneakiness, encouraging the boy to even further acts of larceny.

It is on one of these “excursions” into the upper levels of the mansion that Felix sneaks into Judas’ room, and observes him having relations with one of his whores.  Felix spies the star-shaped birthmark on Judas shoulder, noting that it is remarkably similar to his own birthmark.

The full truth of his birthright doesn’t dawn on Felix until several weeks later.  Felix is escorting Saul, one of Judas’ sons, on a hunting trip through the forest.  Saul, one of Felix’ most prominent tormentors, lays into Felix, teasing and taunting him as to his parentage, the wholesomeness of his mother Merry, and the truth behind Jackson’s shady history.  Finally Felix can take it no longer, and he strikes out at Saul.  A fight ensues, and Felix slays Saul.  In doing so, Felix uncovers a star-shaped birthmark on Saul’s shoulder, the same as is on Judas’ shoulder… the same is as on Felix’ shoulder.

Suddenly the truth comes roaring down on Felix.  He is a son of Judas.  Saul was his brother, and he has killed Saul in the heat of an argument.  Felix panics and flees, running as far and as fast as he can.  He runs from village to city to town to hamlet, eventually ending up here.

In the months of his running from Judas Starchilde, Felix has let his hair grow long and shaggy, and he has grown a thin goatee and gotten piercings and tattoos, trying to mask his appearance.  Whether or not this will allow him to evade the bounty hunters he suspects Judas will send after him remains to be seen.  Felix moves from place to place, earning his keep as a hunter and tracker, trying to evade Starchilde seekers, and possibly, finally, coming to his destiny.
[/sblock]
Following posts should be session by session journal entries Stone makes during his adventures in the Wilderlands of High Fantasy.  I hope.  Give me some positive feedback and encourage me to keep up to date


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## reddist (Jul 12, 2006)

*Session 01*

_ The following is writtin in a thin, flowing elvish script.  Stone keeps his journals in Elvish, for reason as yet unknown.  The journal itself is leather-bound, unmarked with stamps or reliefs.  Stone keeps the book in his pack, pulling it out at times of rest... _

Its been two weeks since I made a journal entry.

I killed Saul.  Saul was my brother.  I didn’t know this until after he was dead.  I am a son of Judas Starchilde.  I killed my own brother.  I don’t know what to think about that, yet.

Judas… dad?… will be looking for me.  I sold Saul’s sword, knife and hunting bow in Frikka to a dwarf named Finnias. I got a longbow out of the deal, as well as some used armor and beat up old scimitar.  The bow is decent… Finnias had it in his shop for a few months.  All the dwarves in Frikka use crossbows; this bow is too tall for most of them.  Still, it took most of the gold I had.  I don’t want to sell the rest of the rings and gems yet, but Saul’s stuff was too recognizable.  The seekers Judas has after me would know them.  They’ll know I was in Frikka, but I can’t escape that.

From Frikka I moved to Norgood, a tiny hamlet in the middle of nowhere.  I used hard-packed trails and roads to get here, and saw nothing more than hungry wolves in the distance.  This place is a little… odd.  They all rush to the baths when the bell rings, throwing their clothes off as they run.  I think I’ll be bathing in the creek from now on.

I paid my respects to Tymora for safe travels, but I met a cleric in the temple.  Cyridon… looks pale and sickly.  He asked me to accompany him on an exploration of some old graves and temples.  Not sure what he’s looking for, and I’m not sure I care.  Cyridon is NOT a cleric of Tymora… he smells of death.  Hells, he looks dead.  Pale and dry.

Still… working here in Norgood might earn me some gold, so I can move on.  I agreed to help him for a share of the spoils.  I gave him the name “Stone,” which at least still has some connection to my mother.  He didn’t inquire further.  Either he doesn’t care, or he’s wiser than I give him credit for.

As far as wisdom goes, his next hire was a man named Balderic.  A besotted knight from the looks of it, though he has scraped the paint off his shield.  So much for Cyridon’s wisdom.  Sure, Balderic can swing a sword, but what’s his deal?  No lord, no family, no roots.  He has even less than I do.  I hope his head clears before he has to draw that sword of his.

Cyridon is accompanied by a mage called Theros.  I haven’t figured him out yet.  Theros seems educated, but a little distracted.  I don’t think I’ve seen his full focus on anything yet.  Theros and Cyridon are acquainted, and apparently had something to do with the excitement here in Norgood a couple days ago.  It seems some traveling salesman lost control of his beasts, and these two had a role in quelling them.  

Whatever.

So the four of us are to set out and explore these tombs that Cyridon is so excited about.  I did stop by the map-maker to get an idea of the surrounding area.  “Russ” is a bit of an idiot.  50gp for a map?!?  Cyridon paid him up front… his church must be sponsoring this expedition, which means I should have asked for more gold.  Still, after looking over the map I have a better idea of the land.  Plains and forest, with plenty of game trails and foot paths.  Getting to these ruins should be easy enough, but I’m not sure about what has Cyridon so worked up.  What’s he expecting?

The first day of travel brought the four of us to an old cemetery.  Bugs.  Centipedes.  Bigger that I’ve ever seen, though Jackson warned me about carrion-eaters like these at graves and tombs.  Balderic and I made short work of them, while Theros and Cryidon cowered behind piles of stone rubble.  Bah.  Spell casters.

We uncovered a small stash left behind from who knows when.  A set of crystal lenses.  Placing them to my eye allows me to see distances far beyond my ken.  Using them, I spotted a squat stone tower south of us.  We approached this tower under the midday sun, Balderic and Cyridon prepare themselves to enter as I write these words.  Theros still seems… distracted.  Hopefully he’ll snap to once we go in.  I have a feeling we’ll all need to be “on” for this.  Something about this tower makes me uneasy…


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## reddist (Jul 19, 2006)

*Session II: Assault on the Tower*

The tower.  It stands tall, perhaps four stories high and fifty feet around.  The stone work is old, but not as old as the ruins we passed yesterday.  Still…  I don’t like it.  The two spell casters seem just _delighted_ to explore it, though they follow well behind Balderic and I.

Peering into the shadows I hear and see nothing beyond a stray mouse.   The first level is hard-packed earth and it shows no signs of foot traffic, though an ancient stone stairway curves up around the interior wall.  I shrug at Balderic and wave him onward.

Cyridon and Theros start poking around the walls, and Balderic stays with them, sword drawn.  Bored, I start making my way up the stairs, throwing up the trap door to the second levels.  Dust and bird feathers puff up as it slams, and light streams in from the windows above us.  Balderic glares at me.

I move up to find piles of feathers, deserted nests, and bird crap so old its crumbled to fine dust.  Warped wooden doors hanging from rusted hinges cut off the stairway from rooms beyond.  The door on the left leads to a dining room, complete with broken plates, smashed furniture and tarnished copper forks and knives.  Beyond the table is another door, though this one is shut tight.  

The door leading left from the stairs opens into an office, of sorts.  A couple of bookshelves that get the spellcasters excited, and a worn and cracked roll-top desk.  Between the two of us, Theros and I work open the drawers, revealing little more than dried ink pots and the remains of rotten feather quills.  Cyridon and Theros eventually dig up some legible scrolls and a leather bound journal, all kept by the long-dead lord of this long-deserted keep, a guy named “Pentolus.”

Balderic and I continue to poke around while the casters finger their new scrolls like little girls with new silk bloomers.  They turn out to be little more than the military records of this keep, though the journal seems to describe the final days of the men in this keep.  Betrayed by one of their own to the Orcs, and trapped in this tower to die of starvation.  

While Cyridon and Theros try to piece together the events of Pentolus’ final days, I push open another door, one leading from the office.  An explosion of feathers and the cacophonous roar of beating wings and screaming birds erupt into my face.  I slap at the birds, trying to keep them from my eyes, but they have little interest in me and soon manage to flee through an open window.  I think Balderic laughs at me.

They were nesting in what looks to be an old shrine or altar room.  A brittle cloth lays on top of a small stone altar, which is covered in symbols of a long-dead religion.  On top of the cloth are some stiff, old leather bags, and when I pick them up I recognize the scent of dried herbs, still potent with healing oils and resins.  Quietly, I drop three of these into my satch and replace the altar cloth.  Bored again, I decide to go look at the closed door leading from the dining room.

Balderic is in the office, perusing through a series of books he found on smithing and weaponry, and I hear Cyridon and Theros are still debating the fate of Pentolus and his keep.  I’m facing a closed door.  Looking around, I try the latch and find it unlocked.  Cautiously, I push the door open into a dusty kitchen

The kitchen might have been well stocked, if its utensils had not rusted beyond use and hanging herbs and sacks of dried goods had not rotted to powder centuries ago.  The light streaming in from the window lights up dust motes, hanging in the still air.  I can make out what appears to be two skeletons, men of this keep who had starved to death in their own kitchen, lying in the shadows, crumpled against the pitted iron of an oven.

I take another look behind me, and figure the others are still occupied in “fact finding.”  I loosen a chakram from my belt, letting it drop into my hand.  Pulling my arm back I let fly at the skeleton, intending to crush it’s skull to fragments.  I land a glancing blow, my chakram bouncing off, ringing first against the iron stove then the stone wall.  As it bounces and rolls to a clattering stop, the skeleton and its companion both leap to their feet, eyes blazing a hellish red, claws raking the air, and they rush at me…


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## reddist (Jul 19, 2006)

… the first one reaches me before I can draw my sword and rakes its claws against my chest and neck.  Blood spurts out, and I see red drops trailing from the skeleton’s claws, hanging in the air as I tumble backward.   My stomach grows cold and my vision goes dim… the pain vanishes as quickly as it came…

… I don’t know that I actually _died_.  I can’t tell you how much time actually passed, unaware of it was I was.  I know that I was in the kitchen and dining room alone, and then it went black.  When I came back, Cyridon stood above me, gazing down at me and whispering thin, spidery words that made me feel cold and empty, both of which were improvements on feeling _dead_.  His words give me a frigid strength and filled me with a grim resolve that can best be described as _not yet_.   As I regained consciousness, I could hear Balderic bellowing, his sword smashing through brittle bones like dried kindling.  I leapt to my feet, shoving Cryidon back against the wall in my fear and confusion…

I snatch another chakram from my belt and jump onto the scarred oak table, flinging the disc at the skeleton still slashing at Balderic with its sharp claws.  The chakram passes by only to bury itself deep into the wooden door frame with a meaty thunk.  Balderic brings his sword around again and smashes down on the bony frame, cracking through the shoulders and sternum, severing the link to the Realms Beyond and giving the corpse its final rest.

Panting, I lower myself to lay on the table, breathing in great heaving and painful gasps.  Frantically, I rummage through my satch to find the pouches of herbs I took from the altar room, crushing them to release their oils and smearing them on my wounds.  My hands shake and crushed herbs run through my fingers.  Calmly, Cryidon takes the pouch from my quivering hands and gently spreads the paste on my chest, covering the claw marks.  Their pungent odor fills my nostrils, and I find Cyridon’s touch strangely… cold.

Satisfied with his work on me, Cryidon turns his attention to the shattered skeletons.  He picks up the skull of each, looking them in the eye, then flips the skulls over to look at the back of the heads.

These were not made,  he announces calmly.  These skeletons arose from their own unrest.  There will be more.   And with that he drops the skulls to thock hollowly on the wooden floors, rolling against the walls, grinning at us with their white, rotten teeth.

I stomp on one as we leave the kitchen, and it gives a satisfying crunch as fragments scatter across the floor.  Wrenching my chakram from the door frame, I curse silently to myself as Balderic leads the way up to the next floor.  _What, exactly, are we doing here?_

The next level presents us with a locked door at the top of the stairs.  Theros produces a key, saying he came across it while going through the desk downstairs.  The key fits, and the door opens…

Barracks, rows of beds whose straw mattresses and rough canvas sheets have long since rotted together.  And skeletons, standing there, waiting for us.  They move as one, all raking claws and silent screams and that quick, surreal movement unhampered by muscles or tendons.

Cryidon stands ready for them, raising the medallion on his necklace and shouting deafeningly in a language that leaves cold ripples crawling down my back.  The skeletons all stop, lowering their arms, and they seem to gaze blankly at Cryidon’s sigil, swaying slightly on their feet.

Balderic does not wait for instructions.  He plows into them, cutting them down two at a time.  Seconds later nothing remains but splinters and dust.

Cautiously, I test the doors leading from this “tomb,” but I can hear or sense nothing behind either of them.  The first door opens to a room with a single bed, armoire, and another desk.  The other, a nursery.  An ancient crib made from a white hardwood, and the tattered remains of cotton bedding.

A quick glance is enough to tell me the nursery holds no surprises.  The bedroom though… something even now lingers, something hinting at a woman’s touch.  Pentolus had a wife.  Searching the bed, I find a small hidden compartment built into the wood of the frame.  Inside, two pieces of jewelry, a bracelet and a necklace, both of gold and amethyst.  Theros is aiding me, unfortunately.  I turn the pieces over to Cyridon.

One more flight of stairs, but these lead to the top of the tower and the observation deck.   There, hovering and nearly translucent in the midday sun, is a wavering, shadowy figure.  Balderic and I draw back, weapons in hand.  Cryidon, however, approaches the figure, arms held wide…


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## reddist (Jul 19, 2006)

… its Petolus, or at least his ghost.  Petolus and Cryridon speak for a while, at it appears that the ghostly remains of the lord of this ancient keep is still capable of giving orders.  He wants something from us, and Cyridon seems willing to do it.

Petolus _was _ betrayed, and by his own lieutenant at that.  His wife and child died as a result.  Their remains are below, in a hiding space under the stables.  Petolus and his men came back from the Beyond to revenge their betrayal, but were then forced linger in the tower for eternity as a price.  Until Balderic cut them down, at any rate.  Petolus asks us to put his wife and child to rest, so he can finally go to his reward.  He seems to feel no sorrow at the slaying of his skeletal troops.

Balderic and I spend the rest of the afternoon digging a shallow grave and gathering rocks for a cairn.  Cyridon spends it muttering his thin, spidery tongue over the remains we find in the basement.  Cyridon’s cold gods appeased and the corpses buried, we go back to Petolus and let him know he is free to move on.

The setting sun shining through Petolus makes him glow with a reddish light.  He thanks us and then fades from sight, dissipating with a faint, nearly intangible hiss.  We spend the night below in the stables, resting and recovering from the assault on the tower.

The following morning I awaken early, eager to get away for a bit and spend some time hunting.  Quail and rabbits are plentiful in the fields surrounding the tower and I easily catch four bairns, setting two of them sizzling on hot rocks for breakfast and cut and cook the other two, wrapping them for travel.  Rabbit meat and quail eggs fry upon the rocks, their succulent scents mingling with the crisp morning air, and we eat well before breaking camp.

The grasses and fields give way to scrub brush and damp peat as we approach the forest around midday.  Twisted trees rise up to the overhead sun, looking unhealthy and cancerous.  A dank haze emanates from the dim shadows under the trees, and we can smell swamp rot and decaying muck.

As we cross the tree line, Cyridon seems to be visibly relieved.  I seem him throw back the hood of his cloak and take several deep breaths, gaining strength and color with each one.  Sometimes I think Cyridon himself is something from the Realms Beyond.

Its past midday when we enter the forest and the thick trees cut off much of our sunlight, bringing an early dusk to our travels.  I crouch to inspect the mud, easily spotting large humanoid tracks, though they appear both bare-footed and clawed.  Additionally I find the webbed tracks of amphibians, though at least as large as my own hand.  

Owlbears riding salamanders.  Right now, I’m willing to believe anything.

The thrumming of great bullfrogs is deafening, and the dull bassy rumbling is pierced by the sharp chirps of crickets and cicadas.  Its almost as if we are herded along through the perverted trees towards an empty clearing where we find two long forgotten shrines, covered in moss and creeping vines, stonework broken and crumbling.

Both shrines have stone altars and ancient statues in their center.  One is to Amantir and the other Torm, two of the eldritch gods only Cyridon and Theros seem to care about.  

As we climb the worn stone steps up to the shrine of Amantir, it becomes apparent these holy places have been defiled.  Mud, feces, and graffiti in what can only be animal entrails cover every surface, and scrawled, repulsive signs and symbols mar the ancient altars.

Damn my innate curiosity.  As Cyridon and I approach Amantir’s alter, I put my foot down on one of the stone cobbles.  A cold numbness shoots through my leg and into my gut, sucking strength from my very core.  I crumple to the ground, weak and helpless, my bow clattering on the cool stone.

Cryidon and Theros cry out and rush to my side, looking for blood and wounds.  They find nothing.  I crossed an ancient ward of some sort, and once Theros realizes this he sets about finding others, marking the cobbles with small piles of sticks and stones.  Cryidon seems untroubled by these wards, actually setting one off intentionally, deliberately stepping on the pavestone.

It causes him no harm.  Indeed, he seems to enjoy it.

I’m not sure I like this death cleric.  Helpful enough, but… still…

We uncover a line of celestial runes engraved upon Amantir’s altar, buried under the encrusted muck and grime.  It seems to hint at some clue to activating the statue nearby.  I remain unconvinced solving this riddle is a good idea.  Nonetheless, Theros announces that he understands this cryptic puzzle and needs but to prepare a spell for the morrow.  In the meantime, he suggests, we investigate the other shrine, Torm’s altar.

Approaching Torm’s shrine angers the skeletons resting the shadows of the ruined and defiled columns.  They rise to attack us _en masse_. 

Again, Cyridon is able to hold them off for a while, but this time neither my nor Balderic’s blows seem to do them much harm.  The aura of the defiled temple gives these undead ravagers unholy strength, and they shrug off all but our mightiest blows.  Finally Balderic brings his flail to use, and under the pounding force of his blows the skeletons crack and splinter.  Just as Cyridon loses his slim control the last of them flies to pieces, smashed through by Balderic’s crushing blows.

I sheath my useless scimitar, cursing under my breath.  If this keeps up I’ll need to find a club or mace, and soon.  We’re several days from any smithy though, and I despair of finding anything useful before we are set upon again by these ubiquitous skeletons.

After the battle, Cyridon and I take a closer look at these skeletons… their bones are dyed or painted red, and they are covered in muck and filth.  I ask Cyridon about their apparent strength.  The unholy defiling of these temples empowers them,  he explains.  And what of you, Cyridon?  Do you too feel empowered?

I need to find that mace.  Soon.


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## reddist (Jul 24, 2006)

*Session III: Shrines to Eldritch Gods, and a Passage into the Hillside.*

We set up camp for the night, the four of us.  We bicker about the watches and Balderk and I take the long ones, while Theros takes the dawning hours.  Cryidon somehow escapes watch duty.  Figures.  Death clerics need their beauty rest, I guess.

As we’re pulling bedrolls and blankets from our packs, a scream builds from over the hill.   A single, long scream, growing louder and louder as it comes near… I drop my bedroll and leap to the top of the stairs, notching an arrow and looking to the horizon.  I am forced to stifle a laugh…

Running towards us, legs and arms pumping in a blur, is a Halfling, his ponytail streaming out behind him and bits and pieces of his backpack flying off him with every third step.  His mouth is open in single long, loud, seemingly never ending shriek of terror.  Chasing after this Halfling are two of the red skeletons, loping disjointedly on their boney legs with their clawed arms stretched out in front of them, grasping and snatching at their quarry.

It takes us a moment or two to decide to help the Halfling… it appears all of us have had some interactions with his kind before, and none of us are too eager to engage in the thankless task again.  Eventually our altruism outweighs our common sense, and we move to cut off the pursing skeletons.  Between Cyridon’s sigil and Balderk’s and my weapons, we make short work of them.

The little Halfling introduces himself as Chath.   Just moments ago he and his companions entered a tomb somewhere over the hill, and these skeletons poured out of the darkness slaughtering all except him.  He ran and two of them followed after, crashing through the forest between trees and the harsh, cold light of moonbeams.

Chath was hired by two others, a dwarf and a fighter, to help explore the same tombs Theros and Cyridon are so eager to see.  Chath’s companions apparently met a quick and violent end, though this does little to dissuade the spellcasters.  Indeed, Chath’s presense seems to encourage them.  He’s seen the entrance and the first fifteen feet or so of the tombs, and he managed to set off all sorts of alarms to the tomb’s skeletal (or worse?)  inhabitants.  Fantastic.

Even as he tells us his story, Chath makes himself at home in our camp.  He takes some of the left-over rabbit for himself, and chooses Theros’ bedroll as the most comfortable to lie down on.  He is asleep in moments.  Theros seems a bit flustered at the Halfling now under his blankets, but doesn’t know how to offend the little man.  I have no such qualms.  Grabbing the Halfling by a shoulder and leg, I lift him out of Theros’ bedding and move him to the far end of the camp, dropping him on a tuft of rough, scrubby grass.  Chath mumbles incoherently as he turns over, but never really wakens.

Shrugging at our ineffectiveness in forcing any other outcome concerning the Halfling, Balderk and I return to the business of preparing our camp for watches.  Together we note the best points for our backs and agree on times for changes.  He leans his guisarme against one of the stone columns and his flail across his knees.  I lay my bow on one side of me and quiver on the other, and make sure my scimitar is within easy reach before I sleep.

Balderk.  He finally corrected me on his name.  Took him five days to do it, but he did.  He nudged me after about 4 or 5 hours, and I awoke to the oppressive darkness of a swamp at night… you know there are things out there, but you can’t see them.  The faint moonlight casts a pale silvery haze on tufts of weeds and hanging moss in the small clearing around the temple, and inky black puddles glisten coldly.  Beyond the clearing, deep within the shadows, frogs and toads thrum, crickets sing, and bats flap their leathery wings, chasing crunchy flying bugs.

Balderk lays down, armor and all, with his flail near at hand.  Theros mumbles to himself… something about “ethereal manifestations of fractal beings within a quantum planar constant…”  I rarely know what he’s talking about.  I plant five arrows in front of me, point first into the dirt so they all are within easy reach.  The sixth I notch as I hunker down near a broken stone column for my watch.  I don’t expect to see anything more than bats crossing the clearing, casting flickering shadows as they flutter across after juicey, flittering moths.

I’ve been wrong before.


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## reddist (Jul 24, 2006)

About halfway through my watch my companions are snoring restfully and I’m having trouble keeping my attention focused on my job.  My eyelids are heavy and I blink away sleep, scrunching my face up and trying to work out the droopiness.  I force my attention out into the darkness, trying to feel what might be moving around… toads, water bugs, vermin…  I sense a toad coming up out of the water… a rat chewing on a bug near the water… the toad focusing on the rat… focusing, then… targeting… lighting fast, the toad lashes out at the rat, spearing it with a sticky tongue and reeling it in… no sooner that I feel this out there in the shadows, I pick out the flapping of wings… not bats…something… bigger.

Sweet and Gracious Tymora, this not-bat is huge. The toad never stands a chance…. It sits, munching on its rat, when a dragon swoops in through the cool night air, claws extended, flexing, to snatch at the toad and lift it off…. the size of horse!  I slide down the side of the column on my haunches, bow and arrow forgotten.  It does not see me, does not hear me, does not smell me.  Tymora be praised the toad stopped to finish its meal in a patch of moonlight.

The toad is lifted off and carried away without making a noise… the flapping continues over head and to the south, deeper into the forest.  For a while all I can hear is the pounding of my heart and the gasping of my breath.  As I regain control of myself I snatch up my bow and pull an arrow back, leaping to my feet frantically looking for something, anything, lurking in the darkness… but the coming of the dragon has silenced this portion of the forest.  I loosen the bow as the crickets start up again, and normalcy returns to the night sounds.

My companions, all of them, continue to snore, blissfully ignorant of the death they were moments from.  Had Balderk snored or Theros mumbled in his sleep, the beast no doubt would have noticed us.  Cyridon sleeps like… well… like the dead.

Over the next couple hours of my watch I regain my composure.  I toe Theros awake and let him know that “here there be Dragons,” but I’m not sure if he takes me seriously.  Its hard to believe myself now, only hours after I saw it.

I sleep restlessly, and awake as the sun pierces through the gloom of the forest.


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## reddist (Jul 24, 2006)

Cyridon and Theros again confer on their course of action for dealing with the inscribed clues on the altars and statues.  They spend an hour or so preparing their spells and praying to their gods while Balderk and I break camp.  The Halfling sleeps though all this.  I finally kick him awake as we prepare deal with the first statue, that of Amantir.  He sits upright, blinking in the morning sun, yawns and stretches.  Finally he gathers the bits and pieces that have fallen from his pockets in his sleep and stands to join us.

Cyridon approaches the statue, once again checking on the celestial runes emblazoned on the altar, then stands a respectful distance away from the statue and begins muttering in his strange, cold, spidery prayer language.  He addresses the statue directly, pointing his finger at it, and as his voice grows in volume, the statue begins to shudder, shaking off dust and debris.  It pivots to the side, revealing a spiraling stone staircase descending into darkness, deep under the shrine.

Below we find a single square room with thick heavy tapestries on all four walls.  Three of tapestries portray the events in the life of a great man, depicting him as a judge, a warrior, and a favorite of gods and angels.  The fourth is a crest, presumably of the man’s family.

It does not take us long to find secret doors hidden behind the three pictorial tapestries, though each comes with another riddle.  The runes themselves are interesting; graceful curving celestial runes inlayed in platinum in the smooth white stone.  Cyridon and Theros again huddle together to discuss these new clues, while Balderk examines the “warrior” tapestry in some detail.  The man, or god?, fights against large, black, wolf-spider hybrids using a sword and shield.

Chath hangs from one of the tapestries, determined to pull it off the wall.  All he does is bring dust down upon himself.  They are well-made and grommeted to steel hangers embedded in the wall.  The tapestries are going nowhere.  I don’t bother pointing this out to him though, as his struggles will at least keep him occupied for a while.

Finally, Cyridon and Theros quit their conference and announce they can open these doors in a manner similar to that of moving the statue above.  Each door requires another spell prayer from Cyridon. 

The first door slides back and into the wall, revealing another large room lined with cots, tables, and chairs.  The tables are littered with loose parchment, half-filled journals, and rolled scrolls.  Stacked in a corner are four small wooden cases, each with five crystal vials still filled with clear water.  The cases are unmarked, but we all recognize them as vials of holy water… a blessing from Tyrmora in this swamp filled with skeletons and worse.

Some of the scrolls describe a series of spell prayers that Cyridon says he can make use of, but little else of any use.  Some of the journals are still legible and we put these in a pack for later perusal.

The second room is much like the first, with cots, chairs, and tables.  In this one there is also a case with five crystal vials, but the liquid in these a pearlescent sky-blue.  Cyridon identifies these as healing potions, and we each take one.  I place mine in a pouch on my belt.

Going through the scrolls and papers scattered about turns up another handful Cyridon wants to keep, and soon his pockets and pack are overflowing with rolled-up parchment.  Theros seems increasingly frustrated that none of the spells or prayers described on these scrolls is of any use to him.  None are of any use to me either, but I’m not getting all worked up about it.  Here, I’m more in line with Chath’s thinking… where are the chests and footlockers?

Where are the corpses?  

In that sense, I’m very glad there are no skeletons down here.  Compared to the filth and desecration above, these rooms seem down-right holy.

The third room holds a few more surprises.  Four cots, four suits of chainmail on stands, each with surcoats with symbols that Cyridon has taught us as Torm’s, and four swords hanging from wall racks.  A fifth cot and set of gear sets apart, without the layer of dust and verdigris that the other four have… a suit of silvered chainmail and a scabbarded sword lie on top an oaken chest with metal bands.

Balderk reaches for the hilt of the sword, but just as his hand draws near he stiffens and crumples… I rush to him but am unable to keep him from crashing to the floor, his armor crunching and flail bouncing away.  Cyridon and Theros come to his aid, and I look for blood on his fingers or a needle in the sword hilt, anything that might explain his sudden collapse.

As I regard the sword hilt, there is a … _flicker_… suddenly Balderk is wearing the chainmail and grips the sword tightly in his hand, its blade lying across his chest.  His own chainmail is in a pile next to him.

Balderk struggles to sit up, looking at Cyridon.  Bluntly, he asks Where did these gods go?  Amantir and Torm?

They waned as any gods will, should their followers stop worshipping.  Gods never truly die, though.  They simply, fade.

Balderk then claims I spoke to Torm.  Almantir is dead.  I found myself on a plain, battling those wolf-spiders with Torm.  Almantir lay dead at our feet.  This war wages across the planes, and Torm has chosen me to aid in this struggle.  We must find a rod, which lies in the tomb of Alaric.

This, of course, elicits a barrage of questions from Theros, Cyridon, and myself.  Chath seems more interesting in trying to find a false bottom in the chest.  He takes out a small pile of scrolls, cloths, and odds and ends, crawls inside, and starts knocking on the sides.  I am tempted to shut it and lock it.

Balderk seems to have taken his geas to heart, and Theros and Cyridon accept it from a more inquisitive, scholarly stance.  I’m withholding any commitment to god-saving until I get a decent meal, a bath, and my pay-out from our current job of exploring eldritch tombs.  Which, I might pause to point out, has lead to several nearly lethal encounters with numerous skeletons, a shoulder-brush with a hungry dragon, being saddled with an annoying Halfling, and a notable _lack _ of piles of gold and treasure.


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## reddist (Jul 24, 2006)

With this bizarre turn of events still fermenting in the back of our heads we turn to the other temple, which presumably has a similar layout of rooms and secrets underneath it as well.

The riddle of Torm’s altar and statue is not as straightforward as Almantir’s, and requires as much guesswork as spells and prayers.  Finally, after consulting the papers and journals we found under Almantir’s temple, we decipher that which is most important to Torm and his champions… Truth, Courage, and Honor.  These three virtues, coupled with the proper prayer language, finally open the stairway for us, leading to another square room and another set of tapestries concealing yet another set of hidden rooms.

The tapestries this time depict Torm, first in his formal regalia of robes, sashes, and sigils.  The second is of Torm with open arms, welcoming his many followers.  The third shows a scene of Torm fighting more of the wolf-spider hybrids, using some sort of black rod or staff.  The fouth shows an image of Torm and Amantir facing each other, their armies joined, marching forth to battle.  Here though, Amantir has the rod, and Torm the sword.

Again, there are more prayer riddles concealed behind the tapestries, but Theros and Cyridon do not have the energies to open them.  We go upstairs and decide what to do with ourselves until Cyridon is once again able to cast the proper prayer spells he needs.

Chath points out that he is hungry.  Theros remarks that there are frogs in the nearby pond.  I knew that little bastard was going to be trouble.

With Theros, Cyridon, and Chath watching from a safe distance, Balderk and I approach one of the massive frogs, trying to flank it and make a fast, clean kill.  I draw back an arrow, but just as I take a step to establish my shot my foot finds a deep puddle and I stumble, the arrow going wide.  
The frog croaks at us, its bulging eyes turning to focus on me, and more bubbling and gurgling come from the pound as another responds to its call.  Balderk turns his attention to the newcomer, and Chath, eager to be helpful I guess, runs up behind me swinging a sling in circles over his head.

Once we are all engaged the two monstrous frogs succumb quickly, and as I prepare them I remember an old recipe Jackson taught me.  I slice the meat into strips and cook them with fresh tubers and herbs I find at the waterside.  Theros cracks open a skin of rice wine, and the five of us eat well in the reddening sun. 

The next day we again work on the doors under Torm’s temple, and manage to open two of the doors.  The third remains beyond us.  The two that we do manage to open reveal stores of weapons and armor.  The leathers need to be oiled and worked, but all seem useable.

All seem re-sellable….  I search for but do not find a mace or club.  Spears, swords, and shortswords.   With no way to carry them out yet, we leave them behind.


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## reddist (Jul 24, 2006)

The mysteries of the shrines uncovered, we turn again to the Halfling and his tales of a tomb carved into a hill.  This tomb sounds more like the locales Cyridon and Theros are looking for.  Chath says he and his party only made in through the entryway before they were attacked, and his companions were brought down fast.

We follow the Halfling’s path deeper in the forest.  The tree canopy grows thicker, and the boggy wet ground gives way to rotting leaves and nearly impenetrable underbrush.  He leads us to a clearing near a hill, and in the distance we can see a stone archway leading deeper into the hillside.  On the ground I notice signs of passage of many humanoids, both to and from the tomb.  Chath and his companions have made tracks on top of these marks, so they must be at least a couple days old, but still… there is someone else in this forest.  Someone who is not a skeleton or a frog.

As we get closer to the stone entrance, we see more signs of recent defilement.  Filth, graffiti, and vandalism to the stonework are evident.  Chath marches inside, eager to show us where his friends met their end just two days ago, and crosses the threshold into the tomb.  I shrug and nock an arrow, following after him.  Behind me, Balderk and then the two spellcasters fall in line.

Theros cries out, clutching his chest as he passes into the tomb.  Waves of nausea wrack him and he collapses to his knees, fighting back the urge to vomit.  He pants heavily as he regains himself while Cyridon inspects the pavestones.  Some sort of selective ward.  I too can pick out the thin inscriptions that cover the line of stones marking the border between the outer pavestones and the inner foyer, but messing with them wins me a cold shock of my own.  Chath offers to inspect them, but he also is shocked, though neither of us as badly as Theros was.  Finally Theros is able to stand, and we move deeper into the tomb.

The midday sun lights up the first 50 or 60 feet, and shadows claim the rest.  Chath and I spot blood stains and drag marks, and we find the bodies of his companions piled in a side room.  He cries out and runs to them, but I soon see him rifling through their effects and pocketing coins and small jewelries.  I ignore him and look at their equipment.  The dwarf carried a heavy axe, and the mercenary had a matching set of sword and shortsword.  Still no mace.  I’ll be dead out here before I find a mace.

We creep further down the main passage to find an intersection.  I hold up my hand for silence, and I pick out thin scraping of heel bones on stone cobbles, the clickling of finger bones on stone walls.   I am able to shout a warning just as four of the red skeletons lurch at us from the darkness.

Crydidon again lifts his sigil, shouting words of command.  He stammers though, and only one of the dripping, blood-red skeletons pauses to consider him.  The other three rush at us, bringing their claws to rip into Balderk’s chest and neck.  He fights them off as they tear at him, but they leave their mark… Balderk’s armor is darkened with his blood, and his breath comes in painful gasps.  Chath and I palm several vials of the holy water, which we smash against the ribcages of the foremost skeletons.  Hissing steam sizzles where the blessed water touches the abominable undead.  A green streak of acid crackles by my head, and I can smell the acrid, burning odors of chlorine as the emerald blob explodes against the skull of the skeleton nearest me.  Theros cackles with glee.

Cyridon pushes forward to touch Balderk and mutter those cold words of healing, which to me sound like metal against stone.  Balderk surges with newfound strength though, bringing his flail up to bear.  Soon the only skeleton remaining is the one Cyridon froze with his command.

Let him go!   Balderk cries out. ?!?!  I said.  I must fight it honorably!  ?!?! I said again, but I backed up to give Balderk his room.  As I step back, I feel something smash into the back of my armor, and a cold wet seeps through to my skin underneath.  I spin, raising my scimitar, and I spot Theros with a guilty look on his face.  Delicate crystal shards lie at my feet, and I realize he hit me with a vial of holy water.

He apologizes profusely as Balderk hammeres blows on the skeleton with his flail.  Still… a nagging feeling tells me this was no “accident.”  It has something to do with Theros’ inability to pass through the entryway without getting smacked with waves of nausea.

Theros, my friend, if you are concerned about any of your companions, I think I am the LEAST of your worries. Your cleric friend seems to have more in common with the ghosts and skeletons we’ve met so far, Balderk just ordered a captive enemy free so he could fight it “fairly,” and the halfling recently finished looting the bodies of his freshly dead friends.

I think you have enough to worry about.

I stand there, my back against the wall, watching Balderk finish off the skeleton and contemplating what future the rest of this tomb has in store for us.  It’s only going to get worse, I know.  Suddenly, I note that my wet back is cold.  Turning to the wall, I run my hand across the bricks and mortar, and sure enough I find gaps where a slight breeze is coming through… I follow these gaps and trace out what appears to be a secret door.  

Lucky, Theros.  If my back hadn’t been wet, I might not have found this.  I announce it to my companions, and set about finding a way to open it.


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## reddist (Aug 3, 2006)

*Session IV: Caverns Under the Tomb*

Running my fingers over the stone walls I find a brick with its mortar cracked just a bit too much.  I take the lamp from Balderk and hold it up, but I can’t see into the cracks.  Still, nothing about the brick or the door suggests that it’s trapped.  The Halfling comes over, grabbing on to my pant leg and trying to hop up so he can see.  Push it!  he says, push it!

Fine, little man, I’ll push the brick in, but as I do I hear _two _ clicks.  I leap back just as a fine mist of flammable oil sprays out at my knees, sparking alight to create a sphere of whooshing, roaring flames.  Chath and I both shout out, covering our faces against the searing heat as the flames roil about us.  

Fortunately there wasn’t much oil left in the old trap and the vaporized spray burns itself out quickly, leaving an acrid cloud of greasy black smoke.  The secret door swings loosely on its squeaky hinges, stout oak with a stone façade made to blend into the wall.  I hold the lamp high and take a step into the dark corridor beyond, but just as I do Balderk cries out More skeletons!  Fall back and defend yourselves!

I’m still patting out flaming bit of my clothes as the Halfling shoves me through the door.  Cyridon and Theros fall back towards the entrance while Balderk turns to face the oncoming skeletons, blocking the hall.  As I stumble through the door I spot a small lever about knee height.  I know what it is, but before I can shout a warning Chath pushes me down the dark, narrow corridor.  I leap as hard as I can as the floor gives way under my weight, flinging myself down the corridor.  I sail across the pit, slamming into the far side, scrambling to get hold.  Dirt and debris tumble past me down into the darkness and I dig my fingers into the cracks in the rock floor, my knees banging into the wall.  Finally, knuckles and knees bloodied, I catch myself.   Oops.. heh heh.  Ooo skeletons! Scoot over!

I pull myself to my feet just as Chath makes a running leap over the pit to land beside me, his momentum carrying him tumbling down the passageway to crash into a wall.  He clambers to his feet, digging a sling and stone from his belt.   I whirl and snatch a vial of holy water only to see Theros and Cyridon still standing at the doorway, Cyridon with his sigil held high and Theros fumbling through the many small pockets on his vest.  I cannot see Balderk, though I hear him roaring as he clashes with what surely must be more wet, bloody skeletons.

Theros spots Chath and me several yards down the hidden hallway and runs to join us.  Just as I shout to warn him of the pit, I hear a _bamf _ and feel my ears pop at the odd rushing of wind, and Theros seems to flicker the last few yards to suddenly appear before me.  I hear Balderk bellow in pain, and know that at least one of the skeletons got to him.

Finally, Cyridon shouts in that gravely, unearthly voice, and everything becomes still… nothing but the creaking of our armor, shuffle of our feet and the rapid heavy breathing of combat.  He must have finally gotten command of them.  I take a few steps and leap across the pit again, this time kicking the lever down to lock the swinging plates into place.  I throw Chath a dirty look as he ambles across.

Five dripping red skeletons stand dumbly, their arms limp at their sides, and  Balderk and Cyridon stand amidst them.  I roll my eyes a bit, because I know what’s coming next.  We can’t slay them like this, he says.  Go figure.  _I_ can slay them like this just fine.  _I_ figure they’re already dead, and really we’d be doing them a favor.

But instead we work out a plan, involving several vials of holy water, Balderk’s flail, Theros’ staff, a layer of protective shells cast by the mage, and an organized leapfrogging down the hall.  Once we’re set, Cyridon releases the skeletons and we take them out one at a time.


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## reddist (Aug 3, 2006)

Once the skeletons are done with, and Balderk’s queer _honor _ satisfied, we decide we have enough strength to explore the tomb a little further.  Hopefully, with the most recent batch of undead pouring down upon us from the darkness, we’ve managed to flush out the lot of them… or at least have drawn them all to us.   I take a quick look down the narrow hall behind the secret door and find a staircase of carved rock that leads deeper under the hill.  It’s dark and smells of damp earth.  The hall from which the skeletons swarmed lay ahead of us, and when we are silent, a faint gurgling, bubbling noise can be heard from beyond the shadows.

Rather than risk the dangers below before investigating the waiting halls, we decide to explore the hallway to its end.  We pause to relight our lamps and lights, and make our way down the hall.  If anything, the offal covering the walls is thicker here, almost caked on.  The hallways opens to a much larger room, the ceiling far above us and the side walls disappearing beyond the length of our light.  A faint glow comes from ahead of us, like a dying ember in a fire.

The gurgling noise also increases, but it’s not the pleasant bubbling of a cool fountain or brook.  No, before us is a fountain, covered in vile runes and excrement, and the thick murmuring we here is _blood _ pouring from the spouts.  The pool is crimson and viscous, with _chunks _ of rotten flesh and bones floating on the surface.  A skull rolls over as the blood swirls around the pool, grinning at me through red, glistening teeth.  The light we saw earlier shines from a pale glowing glyph set in a stone on the fount, a grim and evil sigil that speaks of nothing but eldritch horror.

Chath and I are the first to see this, and our gasps of revulsion draw the attention of the cleric and mage.  Theros enters the room, but as he nears the fountain we all can feel a wave of dark energy sweep across the floor.  The fountain blurps and splurges, blood boiling and slopping over the sides.  Four gruesome figures stand up out of the muck, dripping blood and gobbets of putrid flesh.  Their skeletal forms become apparent as the blood pours off them, and they climb up over the sides.  Their bony claws scratch at the stone as they pull themselves toward us, dripping stinking, sticky puddles and hissing in the dim light.

Theros flees, screaming down the hall from whence we came.  Cyridon raises his staff, smashing it down on the skeleton nearest him, while Balderk whirls his flail, shattering one and biting into another.  My sword is next to useless against these skeletal abominations, though I try to distract one from clawing into Balderk’s back.  Cyridon gasps in pain as his loathsome opponent swipes at him, and Balderk takes a staggering blow to his head.  Both look nearly dead, swaying as they try to keep their feet.

Chath and I hurl our remaining vials of holy water as Balderk finds a well of untapped strength, and all three skeletons collapse one after the other, their wet, sticky bones crumpling to haphazard piles.


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## reddist (Aug 3, 2006)

We collect Theros and decide we have had _enough _ of this temple for one day.  We exit the temple into the evening sun and pick our way through the dimming forest back to Torm’s shrine.  There, we make camp for the night, Cyridon using what Favor he has left to heal us while I start a cooking fire and prepare our meal.  We talk more of the quest given to Balderk, the Tomb of Alaric where we are to find lost artifacts, how we are to destroy or disable the Blood Fountain and its dark glyph.  Well… The Knight, the Mage, and the Cleric talk about it.  Chath and I go to bed once dinner is finished.  It has been a long day, and I don’t feel like reminiscing about it at the fire.  I feel like sleeping.

The next day we head back to the temple, though Theros does his little teleporting trick at the entryway, and make our way back to the foul fountain room.  There are six other passageways that lead from the room, all with stairways leading up.  The glyph still glows with its pale, evil light.  Even after discussing it all night and looking at it a second time, those three still don’t know what to do about it.  Cyridon though, he makes a careful copy of it in one of his books.  I won’t be surprised if the journal starts spitting little paper skeletons out at Theros before the day is through.

I point out the hidden passageway leads _down_, and perhaps we can find the source of the fountain below and shut it off.  Rather than explore the upper sections of this tomb, we decide to go below.  

The narrow hallway turns to rough stone as it curves around and down.  Finally, after a descent of perhaps 30 or 40 feet, the stone stairs lead to hard packed earth, and a chamber opens up ahead of us.  The dank smell of decay is strong here, and there is a still pool on one side of the chamber reflecting our light against the rough walls.  

Chath ambles over to inspect the pool, and as soon as he is range, a white, pasty toad lurches out of the water, slapping Chath with the sticky end of its spear-like tongue and pulling him in so nothing but the Halfling’s feet hung out, kicking feebly.  Another toad sloshes forward out of the pool, snapping at the Halfling’s feet before it notices us.

Balderk and I rush the Chath’s aid, slashing into the toads with our blades.  Practiced toad-killers, we make short work of them and free Chath from the beast’s mouth.  He tumbles out, covered in slime and blood, gummy and rank.


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## reddist (Aug 3, 2006)

While Chath rinses off the worst of the muck in the pool, we fan out to inspect the chamber.  At the far end we find an iron door set into the wall, carved with sharp, jagged runes which Cyridon identifies as signs of Bhaal, an anciet god of violence and death.  Cyridon tells us Bhaal was once opposed to Torm but was defeated somehow, centuries ago.

Chath emerges from the pool, dripping but free of toad-slime, and joins us as we inspect the door.  He takes a lamp and peers into the lock, gently probing with a thin metal wire.  Locked, but not trapped, he says, unrolling a leather kit with set of tools on the ground before him.   He soon gets the door to produce a series of clicks, then rolls up his kit and opens the door, bowing to us and holding his arms wide.  Ignoring his theatrics, I pass him by and enter the earthen cavern beyond. 

Another narrow corridor though the ceiling is far above us, beyond the reach of our torches.  A howling wind rushes through the cavern, pulling at our torches.  I kneel to inspect the loose earth at our feet and find the tracks of humanoids, moving to and from the rusted iron door.

The wind masks the buzzing of insect wings until it’s nearly too late.  I look up and come face to face with a large wasp-like bug, zooming at my face.  I raise my hands to fend it off but it’s too fast, darting in and latching on to my armor.  I feel a sharp, biting pain as it plunges a stinger into my neck, and weakness overcomes me.

It’s like I can _feel _ blood pumping out of the hole in neck.  My bow clatters on the packed earthen floor and I reach up to twist the thing’s head off, but the bug is far stronger than I thought.  It clings to me with a ferocious tenacity, buzzing angrily as it sucks at my neck, and the droning becomes a cacophonous roar as more of them drop upon us from above.

From the corner of my eye I see a flash of light streak from Theros’ fingers, and the stirge attached to my neck disappears in a cloud of green and yellow goo, spattering across my face.  Chath nails one with a hard-flung slingstone, and once we have the upper hand the remaining stirges swiftly fall.  Blood still oozes thinly from my neck and my knees wobble a bit as I try to stand, but I wave off Cyridon’s cold, probing fingers.  We just need to find a place to rest, I tell him.  Give me a chance to sleep some of this off.


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## reddist (Aug 3, 2006)

We turn back through the iron door, locking it behind us, and inspect the pool again.  That water has be coming from somewhere, and in the beams of light penetrating through the muck I think I can see silt and mud stirring lighty at the bottom, as if swaying in some slight current.  I wade into the pool, kneeling and feeling along the wall… there is a tunnel underneath!  I take a deep breath and duck under, much to the surprise of my companions.  Pulling myself along, I travel perhaps twenty feet before the underwater passage opens up again to another small chamber, no bigger than an inn room.  It smells of toad, dirt, and rot.

Perfect.

I swim back and convince the others to join me, and Cyridon calls upon his remaining Favor to heal what wounds he can.  Lamps are set for the mage and cleric to read by and rations are passed around.  With our pains eased and our hunger satisfied, all that remains is our exhaustion.

Easily remedied.


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## Fiasco (Aug 4, 2006)

This is a vivid and entertaining story hour. Keep up the good work! Your writing (and your DM) have done a great job of capturing the feel of the Wilderlands setting.


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## Gold Roger (Aug 4, 2006)

Just dropping by to say that I really enjoy this. Very good writing and an interesting game.

My only complain would be that the font you use is to small and hard to read. Trying to read long stretches makes my eyes hurt.


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## Rath Lorien (Aug 5, 2006)

Thanks for the storyline, reddist.
For those of us actually playing with you, it is a double treat!


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## reddist (Aug 28, 2006)

*Session 05: Lairs*

We sleep for an indeterminate time… with no outside light in the room it’s hard to tell how long we rest.  Watches are tests of endurance, cooped up in this small, dark, dank chamber.  Theros and Cyridon spend much of their time talking quietly between themselves.  I can’t understand much of what they’re saying, as they dip in and out of languages I don’t understand.  Something guttural and harsh, and it grates on my ears.  Somehow I manage to tune them out as I lay my head down on my pack, and I drift off to sleep.

Finally, after our internal clocks tell us its time to get out of this hole or go insane, we rouse ourselves and prepare to explore a little deeper into the caverns.  Beyond the cavern where the stirges descended upon us we come to an intersection, the passageway turning either to the right or to the left.  From the right, west I think, a fierce wind howls from high above, ripping and pulling at our torches.  Cooler temperatures drift up from the left, and it seems the tunnels descend even deeper that way.  We opt for the wind-swept tunnels.

The wind roars in my ear, and it’s a good thing, too.  Cyridon and Theros will not shut up.  Cyridon has become excited about some insight or discovery he made last night, and in his enthusiasm he is almost shouting at Theros.  If the wind makes it hard for me to hear them only 20 feet behind, hopefully nothing ahead of me can hear us stomping and shouting about in these dark and twisting tunnels.

The flames of our torches spurt and sputter as Chath and I move forward, clinging close to the walls.  We keep to the shadows of the lights carried behind us, but even this dim illumination is enough for me to pick out large humanoid tracks in the muck of dirt and bat guano.  Ogres, moving back and forth along this tunnel, and recently.


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## reddist (Aug 28, 2006)

The wind dies down as the tunnel widens into an open chamber.  A large column of rock supports the domed ceiling, and the room spreads wide beyond the reach of our lights, cowering as we are in the tunnels.  The ogre tracks are thick here, and it’s hard to tell if it’s one or many… I could only assume these tracks are not disturbed regularly, so one ogre tramping back and forth could account for these, over time.   

We enter the chamber and fan out, spotting three smaller passages that lead away from us.  Two of these are choked with piles of broken rock and rubble, though not piled so high we couldn’t pass through.  The third is clear and wraps around to the right, but proves to be a dead end.

We stand there a while until Cyridon and Theros realize we’ve stopped.  The two passages ahead of us, heaped with rubble, both seem to lead to short passages beyond.  Climbing to the top of one, I can spot a similar pile of rock at the far end of a short tunnel.

Shrugging, I pick the right passage and leap over the pile of rock and Chath follows me.  I creep to the next mound and peer over into another large room with another shadowy corridor veering off the right.  Chath clambers up beside me, and together we sneak into the chamber.  It smells like rotten garbage and dank fur here, surely if there are ogres in these tunnels, they are near by.


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## reddist (Aug 28, 2006)

Nearer than I thought.  No sooner had I come to this conclusion did I hear a rough bellowing, an ogre building itself into a chaotic frenzy, and Balderk shouting warnings and battle cries.  The noise reverberates through the tunnels and chambers, telling me the other passageway also connects to this room.  Chath drops back behind the pile of rock, heading back to the party, and I nock and arrow and dash around to the other tunnel, hoping to pin the beast between Balderk and myself.

I scramble over the pile of rock, easily spotting the great, hairy beast as it raises a massive club to smash down at Balderk.  I loose an arrow at its head and move toward the melee.  Over the din of war cries and shrieking metal I can hear Theros shouting in his guttural spell language and I see flashes of green and purple light.  The ogre swings its mammoth club again and Balderk drops like a puppet with its strings cut.  A stone caroms of the ogre’s head and I know Chath has made it through the other side to join the fight.  I rush to the top of the pile and fire point blank at the ogre’s head, screaming at it to distract the monster from smashing the inert Balderk to paste.

I drop my bow and whip out my scimitar, intending to cleave the thing’s head from its shoulders.  I swing wildly and the blow glances off the ogre’s shoulder armor.  It spins around to face me, backhanding me with its huge club. I feel ribs crack and I fly back against the wall, my head slamming against the rock.  My vision spins and ears ring as the beast roars, its victory cry echoing loudly through the chambers.

In my dizzying vision I see Cyridon scoop up Balderk’s guisarme and threaten the ogre with it.  Jabbing at its side, Cyridon tries to draw its attention away from the crumpled Balderk. Brave, but perhaps foolish, as the roaring ogre turns to regard him.  Screaming in its bloodlust, it raises the greatclub high over its head for a two-handed smash that would surely slay the death-cleric.  Foul bits of spit and slime spray the priest as the ogre roars gruesome death at him, and if he could go any paler I’d be surprised.

Just as the ogre pauses in the apex of its swing Theros musters enough power to shout out one more spell, sending a green gob of acidic plasma streaking from his fingers toward the ogre and catching it square in the throat.  The goo sizzles and hisses, and the sharp tang of chlorine mixes with the foul stench of the ogre.  It drops the club to clutch at its dissolving throat, its roars of anger and hatred turning to bubbling gurgles of red and green bubbles.  The beast drops to its knees as the glowing green jelly eats away at its neck.  Finally it goes silent, vocal chords liquefied by the acidic paste, and it falls to the floor to choke on the blood and gunk that used to be its gullet.


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## reddist (Aug 28, 2006)

Cyridon provides what healing he can, getting Balderk and me back on to our feet.  The battle with the ogre did not attract any other attention, and we reason that there is nothing more to threaten us, at least not nearby.  We move into the chamber Chath and I found on the other side of the rock piles to search out the ogre’s lair.

The room is bare, but I spot a ledge high on the wall, hidden in the shadows.  About 15 feet up, and an easy climb at that on the rough wall, we find another chamber.  Rotten furs, bits of bone and scraps of wood are scattered about.  Along one wall we find several canvas sacks and an old wooden chest.

This ogre has been around a while.  The sack and chest open to reveal a staggering amount of coins, gear, and miscellaneous items. If this is all loot the beast took from fallen foes, he has been ambushing parties both above and below the surface for some time.  We throw the most offensive of the rotten garbage to the room below and set up a make-shift camp to recover some from our wounds and sort through the piles of goods.

One of the most notable items is a small trident, long, light, and the shaft is inlayed with strips of platinum.  The points are sharp and barbed, and the thing seems to vibrate slightly in my hands. A line of runes run along the crossbar, and include a small stylized image of a frog. Theros and Cyridon sort out a smaller pile of items, including the trident, which they proclaim has having some sort of unusual properties.

I also find a bow amongst the pile of assorted weapons the ogre collected.  It’s sturdy and has a strong pull.  While Theros doesn’t identify it as having magical properties, I can tell it is well made.  I claim it as mine.

As Balderk and I sort through the collected weapons, divvying them into “rusted and useless” and “probably sell-able” piles, I come across a heavy, stout mace.   Thick metal flanges on top of a steel-shod shaft of solid oak, with a handle wrapped in leather.  The pommel sports a ring of steel to loop it on to a belt or harness.  I give it a practice swing and nearly topple myself.  THIS is what I’ve been looking for.  Something to smash those damned red skeletons to dust.  Finally.  I hang it on my belt with a certain degree if satisfaction… and anticipation.

After we rest and determine what items we wish to take with us, we decide to explore the passageway that leads from the chamber below further into the darkness.


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## reddist (Aug 28, 2006)

We find a long narrow tunnel that twists and turns through the rock.  These walls show signs of work, as if someone expanded the sized of the passageway.  We come across shards of broken glass, nicked and broken swords, and the ends of burnt out torches.

The tunnel opens up to reveal an end to the passageway, of sorts.  Fitted into the wall is a wooden door with iron bands.  The door is warped slightly, wedging into the frame, but it is not locked.  Balderk uses one of the broken swords to pry the door open, revealing a corridor of stone beyond.

The stone bricks and cobbles were a welcome change after creeping through the rock caverns.  The short corridor lead us to another wooden door, though this one swings open easily.  Behind it is a tomb, six stone sarcophagi, three to each side, line the walls, and beyond these is another open passageway.

All the sarcophagi are open, their lids pushed back to reveal skeletons lying in repose underneath.  On the chest of each is an amulet of red and black.  Bhaal, Cyridon mutters under his breath, reaching out to inspect one of the amulets a bit closer.  I unhook my new mace from my belt, gripping it tightly in two hands.  I can sense what’s coming next…


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## reddist (Aug 28, 2006)

And I am not disappointed.  As soon as Cyridon whips the amulet’s chain off the skeleton’s neck, they all jerk upright, pulling themselves up out of their crypts.  We scatter about the room, arming our selves as Cyridon yells at us to stay our hands… he raises his sigil and utters words of command in his voice of broken glass, but it does not good.  The skeletons rise up, standing now, with rusted longswords at the ready.  A deep, hollow laughter erupts from the far end of the room as a gaunt, yellow-skinned figure comes slowly around the corner.  Its eyes are coal black, its sickly yellow skin pulled tight across sharp, bony features.  The vile symbol emblazoned in its ebon armor seems to pulse with a dark light as it raises its arms, calling to its minions.

Yelling madly I lash out at the nearest skeleton with my mace, sending shards of rotten bone to skitter across the stone floor.  Bring the skeletons down now!  Quickly!   I shout, leaping up on to the next sarcophagus.  Theros puts a hand on Balderk’s arm, holding the knight back until Theros can complete a spell that makes Balderk’s flail glow with a faint blue light.  Satisfied, Balderk makes his way straight to the gaunt figure in ebon armor, ignoring the lashing, hissing skeletons.

Cyridon tries again with his sigil, focusing all his will on the undead warrior, but again it laughs, shrugging off Cyridon’s control as easily as I might wave off a child.  Then it reaches up to caress the eldritch symbol on its own black armor, and waves of power pulse through the room.

I grit my teeth as fear tries to consume me.  Chath yelps, dropping his sling and running from the room, but the rest of us hold fast against the waves of heart-freezing fear.  Balderk reaches the dark horror in ebon armor, swinging his flail wildly.  It easily dodges his blows and lashes out, raking its black, twisted claws across his neck and chest.   Blood wells up bright and red from Balderk’s wounds and he staggers to his knees.  I spin around with my mace and use the momentum to shatter another skeleton to splinters, taking one more step towards Balderk and his assailant, praying to Tymora I am not too late.

Cyridon musters his strength and raises his sigil high above his head, shouting commands at the skeletons in a loud, forceful voice.  For a moment they turn to regard him, their arms dropping to their sides.  The armored undead thing barks a sharp demand, driving his minions to a frenzy and forcing them to ignore the words of the pale, puny death-priest.

Balderk regains his composure only to have his flail knocked from his grip.  The ghastly being’s claws dig deep into Balderk’s chest and the knight cries out in pain as he collapses to his knees.

I launch myself up off a sarcophagus, twisting in the air past a swinging skeleton, spinning again as I land to bring my heavy mace crushing down on the wight’s head.   Chips of bone and shreds of skin fly from its skull as its knees crumple to the ground.  It topples over with a crash, the ebony armor clanging on the stone tiles.


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## reddist (Aug 28, 2006)

The skeletal minions come easily to Cyridon’s command.  Theros and I help Balderk to his unsteady feet, and we find Chath cowering in the shadows of the cavern.  Beyond the tomb filled with sarcophagi, we find another room set aside for the dark warrior.  A stone altar to Bhaal stands atop a small dias, and the entire room has dark, evil aura to it.  Theros looks sick just standing in here.  The wight’s sarcophagus stands open (of course), and inside we find several leather pouches that had been entombed with the corpse when it was put to rest.  Not quite as impressive as the Ogre’s loot, but respectable nonetheless.  

Cyridon somehow manages to gain complete control over the four remaining skeletons.  With their aid we manage to carry the bulk of the loot back to the temples of Amantir and Torm.  There I make a couple of travois so we can continue to clean out items from the abandoned temple and drag it all back to Pentolus’ old tower.  

Here I feel I have to remark upon the oddity of seeing four skeletons, recently intent on killing me, strapped to sleds made of tree branches and vines, hauling around piles of centuries old weapons and armor.  Funny how we adjust to things seemingly unworldly and spectacular, and make them mundane, just to cope.  Cyridon seems perfectly at ease, if not unduly excited, with his new minions, and Theros, whom I thought would bear the most vehemence against such creatures, strolls idly alongside the pale, hooded death cleric, chatting amiably.

The knight seems to have retreated into himself again, perhaps wrestling with his geas. He hasn’t spoken much since our last foray into the temple under the hill.  Brought low by both the ogre and the dark wight, only to be saved at the last moment, either by Theros or myself, might weigh heavily on a man of his supposed prowess.

Chath seems to bear no animosity or ill-will at all.  His former companions are dead no less than a week and he’s already attached himself to us like flies on dung.  I fear there will be no ridding of ourselves from him now.

I ponder these things over the cooking fire, outside of our “new” tower.  Apparently old Pentolus “gave” it to us, as he and his crew no longer have use for it.  Already Cyridon and Theros are arguing over how to divide the floors, so each can have space for whatever arcane research they want to commit.  Listening to them, I think they have forgotten that “us” includes Balderk and myself… we seem to be housed to the stables and cellar already, if not forgotten about entirely.

The dark ebon armor the wight was wearing rouses both interest and a certain amout of greed, I think, in Cryidon.  It radiates evil, emblazoned as it is with unholy symbols of hatred and fear.  I see him try to struggle into it, obviously inexperienced with armor so heavy.  The humor at watching him wrestle with the heavy metal is balanced by the unease I feel at his desire for it.  He finally gets it over his head and frees his arms from the tangles of buckles and straps, but he stands hunched over, not used to the weight.  Thankfully, after trying to move around in it for a while, he takes it off and tosses it into pile of items we intend to get rid of.

Included in that pile are a number of small statuettes, Bhaal, all of them.  Gold, sure, but who will buy such items?  Even at the festival, we would have a hard time unloading them.  Though what bothers me even more is the very presence of Bhaal.  Rune-carved doors, amulets, statuettes, even an altar.  What went on in these old temples?  What’s going on there now?  We still have not uncovered the source of the Blood Fountain, and I’m not sure I want to.

Haven’t seen any “bandits” either.  I’m beginning to think that was a ruse the death cleric used to get me out here.


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## reddist (Aug 28, 2006)

Still, a dinner of roasted rabbit and peppered shallots, together with some of Theros’ wine, will help me sleep easy tonight.  I can hear Balderk discussing plans to return to the tombs once more before we head back to town.  There is a fair coming soon, and none of us want to miss out on the opportunity it may provide. I shall join my companions once more, if they wish to continue to explore the caverns and temples, but perhaps I shall use the festival to slip away from this area.  Norgood is not as far from Judas as I might like, and he might have agents at the fair looking for me.

I pick over the sorted piles of loot we brought back, ignoring the skeleton which Cyridon set to stand sentry.  It was told to ignore us, so I ignore it in return.  Mundane.  I pick up a finely worked quiver, one of the items Theros set aside for further study.  Slinging it over my back, I find that it fits perfectly against my armor and it would place the ends of my arrows at precisely the right place, so reaching for them is as natural as scratching my nose.  Intrigued, I remove the quiver and begin filling it with arrows… and behold!  They simply disappear into the quiver!  I try to dump them out, but nothing falls!  Fearing that I’ve lost a half-dozen good arrows, I reach into the quiver… and feel their tips under my fingers.  I pull one out, and it looks whole and undamaged.  So I put all my arrows in, plus some we gained… it holds three times as many as my old quiver does!

I find the quiver holds many arrows, in addition to my bows, the trident, and even a couple shortspears.  Indeed, with the items we have, I am unable to reach the quiver’s limits.  Thanks be to Tymora!  This stroke of luck might make nearly dying three times over nearly worth it!

But only nearly.  Satisfied, I place my trust in the skeleton and its eerily silent gaze, unroll my bedding and go to sleep near the fire, underneath the bright stars of the summer sky.


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## reddist (Sep 8, 2006)

*Session 6: Frogs*

The next morning we set out to return to the tombs under the hill.  We leave the skeletons behind to watch over our loot and keep unwanted visitors out of “our” new tower, but we each take a few items out of the assorted piles of loot.  I grab my mace, bow, and quiver, while Balderk sticks with the armor and sword granted him in the temple.  Cyridon leaves behind the dark armor, but I do see him slip one of the amulets under his shirt… one of the amulets with Bhaal’s symbol on it.  Chath grabs one too, but I’ve learned to trust in the halfling’s innocent curiosity.  A proclaimed cleric of a death god, using an amulet to protect himself against the enemies of Bhaal… that I’m not so sure about.  I don’t think Theros sees it.  Balderk might not care.

We make it back to the caverns underneath the temple in the hill without incident.  We come to an intersection where before we chose right, which lead us to the Ogre’s lair and beyond that the Dark Wight’s tomb.  The left-hand passage is narrow and twisting and slopes downward, the air scenting of stagnant water the farther we go.

The passage eventually opens into a much larger cavern, sloping down to the edge of an inky black lake stretching out into the darkness.  The water is glossy ebon, smooth as silk with not a ripple to mar its surface.  It soaks up our light.  Above us are some of the first natural cavern formations we’ve seen, jagged stalactites hang 25 or 30 feet above us.  The shores of this underground lake are soft, like black sand or gravel.  Stones click and skitter as we enter the cavern.

Something about this wide open space makes my skin crawl.  We can’t see an end to either the shore or the mirror-like surface of the bleak lake.  I am appointed the lead, so I cling to the wall and skirt around the open space, feeling my way along the rough rock.


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## reddist (Sep 8, 2006)

I hear Chath cry out just as a biting pain pierces my shoulder, driving me to my knees.  A savage hissing fills my ear, and I can feel hot, rank breath on my neck.  One of the stalactites! Dropping from the ceiling and punching through my armor! Whatever the foul monstrosity, it chews on my neck and shoulder… I can feel it pushing itself deeper, digging into my chest.  My vision swims as the pain mounts, and I can sense Theros coming up behind me as Balderk and Chath shout out, both rushing towards me.  From the corner of my fading vision, I see more of the dark mantles drop from the ceiling, stabbing at the knight and halfling.

Theros reaches out to touch my shoulder and mutters the harsh, guttural words of his spell language.  They seem to bounce off my ears, I hear them but I can’t comprehend them or even remember them, and I sense a tugging at my center and I let it go.  It pulls at me, and for a moment I feel like I am being strained through a fine mesh.  For some reason I think of making sun tea on the porch with my mother, straining the tea through cheesecloth, squeezing the water out into a pitcher.  I blink, and then I stumble against the wall, several paces from where I was.  The mantle remains behind to fall to the ground at Theros’ feet, though the hole it made in my shoulder is now gaping and burning.

Cyridon comes up behind me, placing his hands on my bloody wound as it pumps out bright red blood, and he utters his own prayer in his thin, spidery language.  My skin crawls under his touch.  I don’t think I will ever get used to the chill he gives me, or the way I can feel insects crawling over my skin when he uses his whispering prayer-speak.  Still, his utterances fill me with a cold strength and I am able to stand straight and bring my bow to bear on the battle Balderk and Chath fight against the mantles.

Balderk has little to worry about.  Dodging the first piercing attack, his armor protects him from further lashings and he simply mows down his opponent with the sword of Torm.  Chath is not faring nearly as well, these mantles weighing nearly as much as he does.  I quickly put two arrows in the one he faces while Theros plugs the last one with a bolt from his crossbow.  Our foes fallen, we pause where we are to scan the rest of the stalactites… spotting two more of the beasts hanging from the ceiling.  I take my aim and put arrows into both of them, their corpses dropping to collapse in bloody, twitching heaps on the dark gravel, kicking up stones to rattle off in the darkness.


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## reddist (Sep 8, 2006)

The cavern calms once more and we feel freer to explore the banks of the dark lake. The far end holds a small surprise… a bronze door is fitted into the wall on the other side of the bank.  Thin, curving runes are inscribed on the door, and prove incomprehensible to both Theros and Cyridon.  Chath fiddles with the silver lock, but his efforts are futile.  The door is locked through magics stronger than we were prepared for.

We step back from the door to ponder our next move.  Perhaps out of boredom, Chath kicks and pushes at a corpse of one of the dark mantles, moving it to the murky water.  Even as he rolls the corpse into the lake, the waters come alive, boiling and frothing as giant frogs burst through the surface.  One lashes out at Chath, spearing him with a thick, sticky tongue.  Chath is hauled back, kicking and screaming as he goes, disappearing in to the frog’s gaping maw.  His legs jerk feebly and then go still, dangling out of the frog’s mouth.

I think this is the third time in a week Chath has been eaten by a frog.

With practiced ease I pull the slender trident from my quiver and lunge at the frog.  The trident pierces its hide like a needle into a ripe tomato, sinking effortlessly all the way to the crossbar.  I yank it out, and the frog explodes as the barbs rip apart muscles, bones, tendons, and inner organs.  Frog bits fly in all directions as I spin the trident around to stab the second beast, and it too dies a grisly and quick death on the end of the baneful trident.  Theros and Cyrdidon pull Chath from the mash of yellow, green, and red muck, wiping his face off.  He appears pale and drawn, and can barely keep to his feet.

While the two scholars help Chath back to shore Balderk and I wade in to the pool, looking for more of the monstrous amphibians.  The knight holds his sword aloft, and I wield the trident.  The water never gets much above our waists, even when the far back wall comes down to meet the surface.  We can each feel the pull of a slight current though, tugging at our legs, and we know there is a passage underneath the water leading back behind the rock wall.

And, no doubt, to more frogs.  Undaunted, I tie a thin rope around my waist and take a firm grip on the trident.  Surely no frog could stand long against the vengeful might of the Gig.  I take a deep breath, nod to Balderk, and duck under the water.


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## reddist (Sep 8, 2006)

I travel no more than five or ten feet before I come face to face with two more croakers.  I lance out at one and feel the trident’s barbs bite into its cold, clammy flesh, but this one doesn’t pop quite like the others did.  This one retaliates.  I scramble back to the surface just as it lashes out at me with its tongue, and a white hot pain blossoms in my calf and spreads to my back.  I blink away the flashes of light that splash through my vision, staggering against the wall, and I feel another nova of pain erupt in my belly… the second frog nails me with its own tongue attack.

Coldness spreads to every part of my body.  I try to toss the trident to Balderk, but it slips through my fingers to splash into the churning water.  I try to pull myself through the water, but it seems to turn to molasses, to tar.  My armor turns to lead and I collapse into the lake, drowning in three feet of water….


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## reddist (Sep 8, 2006)

Much of the rest of this battle is related to me by Cyridon and Theros later in the Ogre’s lair, where we retreated to recuperate before we made our way out of the caverns.   The frogs were much larger, and far more dangerous, than anything we’ve seen yet.  Pale yellow and ivory colored, with splotches of red and black, and with sticky tongues covered in a pale red slime that robs you of your strength.  Chath had been rendered feeble by the frog that ate him, and I had been hit twice.  Hearing this from Cyridon, I am amazed my heart didn’t stop beating, or that my lungs continued to pump.  

Balderk grabbed me as I collapsed into the chill water, only to be stung himself as he fell back.  Theros actually leapt into the fray, scooping up the trident from where I dropped it and slaying one of the cave frogs with a quick thrust.   He used his teleportation trick to zap back a few feet then threw a spell, thin filaments of webbing flying from his fingers in pulsing waves, covering the frogs in sticky strands.

Here, Cyridon whispers to me, is where Balderk suddenly looses interest in the fight.  The frogs are helpless, and he refuses to cut them down.  I blink at him in disbelief as he tells me this, but Cyridon nods and promises me its truth.  Unbelievable.  It takes a THIRD frog, popping up from under the water and nailing Theros with its cold, strength-stealing venom to start the fight up again.  This time its Theros who looses the trident, but Cyridon surges forward, snatching it up as Theros summons the energies to create a sphere of flame, burning and bouncing along the surface of the water.

The flaming sphere burns through the sticky webbing, freeing the frogs even as it singes them.  Cyridon pokes at the lead frog, goring it but getting a tongue-lashing from the one behind it in return.  Theros conjures missiles of pure force, slamming them into the hide of the final frog just as Balderk sinks beneath the surface of the lake, too weak to stand in his own armor.  

?!

The two spell-casters apparently saved our collective asses.


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## reddist (Sep 8, 2006)

Balderk and Cyridon, the only ones capable of standing upright after this massacre, drag Chath, Theros and myself back to the Ogre’s Lair, where we spend two nights recovering from the beating the white cave frogs gave us.  Cyridon has trouble summoning the reserves to heal our strength, but he does the best he can.  Lucky that we cleared this section of these caves earlier, though the wight and its minions probably would not have left their tombs to seek us.  The ogre though, he would have killed us all if we had gone left first, into that dreadful lake and its monstrous killer frogs.  Even the potent Frog Gig was little use against three of those monsters, and I’ll bet you gold to copper there are more of them further back.

After two days of recuperating in the Ogre’s Lair we crawl back to the temples, still weak and stumbling.  Our strength is slow to return, even though Cyridon has fully healed our wounds.  The frog’s venom was potent and took several days to work out.  One more night at the temple and we head back to the Pentolus’, or rather _our_ tower.

We rest another day, dallying in the summer sun and eating meals of rabbit, quail, and pheasant, and finally feel rested enough to trek back to town.  We sort through what loot we have recovered, taking the small valuables from the Ogre and Wight lairs and leaving the arms and armor, then make our way back to town, just in time for the festival.

As we arrive at the outskirts of town, I spy a series of flags and pennants flying at one of the many camps scattered about and stop short.  These people came to Norgood for the festival and tournaments, and are come from miles in all directions.  The flags that catch my eye though, I have seen before.  Indeed, I am very familiar with the crest and sigils.

Starchilde.  Falak, my eldest half-brother.

Crap.


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