# Company of the Red Kestrel (1/8/2004 - Confrontations)



## Joshua Randall (Feb 25, 2003)

*kestrel* [ME castrel, fr. MF crecerell] (15c): a small European falcon (_Falco tinnunculus_) that is noted for its habit of hovering in the air against a wind and that is about a foot long, bluish gray above in the male, and reddish brown in the female; broadly: any of various small Old World falcons (Webster's Ninth New Collegiate Dictionary)

*Our story begins with the PCs accepting an invitation to join the Company of the Red Kestrel, an adventuring group of moderate prestige, as junior members. Each PC met briefly with the Company's founders, a wizard by the name of Michael Dellarocca and his sister, Sara, a priestess of Ishir. Dellarocca spared little time for the PCs, as he had pressing business in Lof. He passed along a note he received from one Alessandro Simovicci requesting the Kestrels' assistance on "a matter of utmost importance." Dellarocca told the PCs that the Simoviccis were a Durenese family of minor nobility, but that was all he knew.

Their curiosity (not to mention their need for work) prompted the junior Kestrels to agree to meet with Alessandro the next day at noon "in the warehouse of the Green Scepter."*

The Company of the Red Kestrel - junior members:

Quaddla, Knight of the Moon (female dwarf Pal 2 of Ishir)
Banda Blushing Crow (female Vakeros Sor 2)
Brogun Rumenheim (male dwarf Clr 2 of Kirabá) [ not present until later ]
Madrak (male human Ftr 2)
Bilt Stokeestakt (male human Rog 2)

= = =

Inquiries revealed that the Green Scepter was a shipping company with a small warehouse near the Ragadorn docks. The group approached the door of the warehouse, knocked, and heard a quavering voice call, "Enter!"

The warehouse was a two story rectangular structure. Slants of sunlight illuminated a large collection of crates, chests, and barrels stacked haphazardly about the lower floor. Along the inside of the wall ran a catwalk, providing access to the upper storage areas. Towards the back of the warehouse sat a man at a rough table, a bottle of ink and several sheets of parchment laid out before him.

Alessandro Simovicci turned out to be a short, unkempt man who smelled of sweat and alcohol. He was exceedingly nervous, especially when he discovered that the Kestrels took no special precautions to avoid being followed. "You can never be too careful in Ragadorn," Alessandro warned. He narrowed his eyes as he surveyed the group. "Tell me about yourselves. Where were you from before you ended up here?"

This query elicited only blank stares from the group. Alessandro sighed; why were adventurers always so vague about their backgrounds? Shrugging, he continued. "No one's really from Ragadorn, you see. It's just where people end up when they reach the end of the line." The little man gulped unhappily.

The Kestrels' inability to account for their lives prior to this very meeting filled Alessandro with foreboding, as did their unusual appearance. Eventually, Quaddla calmed him down; her soothing words convinced Alessandro that he could trust the group, and they promised to help him. 

"It is vitally important that this message reach Edward Marrero in Port Bax." Alessandro withdrew a sealed envelop from his shirt and laid it on the table in front of him. He then reached down to retrieve a small box from under his seat. "In addition, please be sure that he receives—"

TWANG. Alessandro fell back, blood fountaining from his neck.

Banda reacted quickly. Whirling around, she spotted a man on the warehouse catwalk. "There!" yelled Banda, even as the man reloaded his hand crossbow and fired again. But his shot was hurried and it sailed high overhead.

The Kestrels sprang into action. With a mighty leap, Madrak hoisted himself up onto the catwalk and charged the sniper. Bilt flipped the table over, forming a barrier in front of the stricken Alessandro. Quaddla moved to the injured man's side. She covered Alessandro's eyes with her hands and intoned a brief prayer to Ishir. A soft, moonlit glow showed through her fingers, and the horrible neck wound closed enough to allow Alessandro to suck in a ragged breath.

The sniper got off one more shot, which embedded itself in the table near Alessandro, before Madrak was upon him. The two grappled with each other, and the lithe assassin proved a worthy foe to the muscle-bound Madrak. By this time both Banda and Bilt had loaded their crossbows, but neither wished to fire into the scuffle. Quaddla, after ensuring that Alessandro was alive, raced towards the door to cut off that avenue of escape.

The assassin dropped his crossbow and drew a dagger, plunging it into Madrak's side. The big man grunted and with a mighty heave tossed the assassin over the edge of the catwalk. The Kestrels gasped in unison as the man twisted in midair and landed on his feet, unharmed. Banda and Bilt both fired, and their target staggered as two crossbow bolts slammed into him.

But the assassin refused to go down. He raced for the table behind which Alessandro was hiding, only to be cut off by Bilt and Quaddla. The three sparred ineffectually. Finally, Madrak ended the fight with a vicious elbow to the assassin's face that sent him crashing to the floor, unconscious.

"Damn," someone said. "Who is this guy?"


----------



## Joshua Randall (Feb 26, 2003)

The Kestrels stared down at the unconscious, bleeding form of the assassin.

"I don't know who he is, but he really wanted our friend here dead," opined Quaddla, nodding at Alessandro. The latter proved reluctant to talk, but after some cajoling by Quaddla and intimidating by Madrak, Alessandro revealed the following. He'd been gambling heavily, and believed that the assassin – a member of the feared Silent Brotherhood – was sent to make an example of those who would shirk their debts to criminal society. 

The group couldn't decide what to do about the Silent Brother who, true to his name, refused to utter a word. But all debate ended with the arrival of a troupe of Enforcers, the local muscle who applied was passed for law in Ragadorn. A tense stare down ensued until the Kestrels were convinced to hand over their prisoner. They did so partly out of a desire to avoid a fight, but mostly because they learned that the leader of this band of Enforcers was Lachlan, son of Killean the Overlord of Ragadorn. Lachlan and his goons departed, dragging the Silent Brother off to whatever unpleasant fate awaited him.

Alessandro, who was nervous before, was now in a full blown panic. "You must leave for Port Bax immediately!" he squeaked. "What happens to me doesn't matter, but you must deliver my message to Edward Marrero." 

The Kestrels agreed in principal, but wonder what compensation they would receive for their efforts. "We bled for you," Bilt reminded Alessandro (although only Madrak had actually suffered any wounds).

Alessandro drew himself up. "I am Alessandro Simovicci. My family is of noble heritage. I shall personally guarantee you 500 Gold Crowns to undertake this task." 

This monetary inducement seemed sufficient, and the Kestrels accepted Alessandro's "I owe you" in lieu of cash. Hurrying to Ragadorn's eastern gate, they were just in time to catch the coach to Port Bax.

= = =

Port Bax was a small town near the northern mouth of the Rymerift, the natural water passage that divides the Durenese peninsula from the rest of the Lastlands. The city was quiet, its stone buildings covered with a layer of dark green moss. A small castle sat on a promontory above the ocean. A few ships were in port, resupplying before continuing up the coast of Durenor or through the Rymerift and onwards to the desert empire of Vassagonia.

The Company of the Red Kestrel arrived in town after a four-day coach ride. Banda, her tall frame unfit for such cramped conditions and her Vakeros temperament unused to such conveyances, spent a miserable journey atop the coach. Wrapped in heavy furs against the winter cold, she mused upon the differences between the coniferous forests of Durenor and the lush jungles of her home in Dessi, far to the south.

Finally, the bumpy ride came to an end, and the group piled out, paid the coachman, and marched up to the gates of Port Bax. "State your business in the city and surrender your arms and armor," intoned a bored guard.

"We're here to see Edward Marrero," Quaddla announced.

"That mayor?" asked the guard, incredulous. "What business have you with him?"

"That is none of yours," replied Quaddla haughtily, her burnished shield and crescent-shaped sword gleaming with the light of Ishir. "Now let us in and direct us to the mayor's office."

The cowed guard stood aside and told the Kestrels where to find Edward Marrero. A short time later, they stood before the mayor of Port Bax, telling their story.

Marrero admitted that he and Alessandro used to be friends, but said they have not seen each other in a few years. Further, he had no idea why someone would want to kill Alessandro.

"So…" mused the bureaucrat, "Alessandro wanted you to deliver a message to me?"

Quaddla produced the envelop. It was still sealed, and the box that accompanied it has not been tampered with. Amazing, thought Marrero to himself, that a group of adventurers would not even try to open such interesting containers.

*DM's note: As unbelievable as it sounds, the PCs never opened the envelop or the box, or even examined them. Either they weren’t curious enough, or they simply forgot to do so.*

Marrero unsealed the envelop and extracted a message, which he read silently to himself. The quick-thinking Bilt managed to read Marrero's lips as he mouthed the words of the message, and the Kestrels learned the following:


_My dear Edward,

Thank you for the loan of your spyglass, which I am returning to you, somewhat the worse for wear. Nevertheless I believe that careful examination will show it to be fully functional.

I regret that I am unable to deliver it in person, but I trust that the bearers of this note have performed their duty well. I am sure that you will compensate them for their efforts.

Yours,

Alessandro_


Marrero looked puzzled, but he took a key out of the envelop and used it to unlock the box. Inside was a battered spyglass. Marrero raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

"Do you think it's trapped?" worried Banda. "Probably a bomb," Bilt replied. "What's a bomb?" Madrak asked.

Quaddla, undeterred, asked if she could examine the spyglass. Marrero passed it over, and Quaddla ran her fingers along the telescope. Opening it cautiously, she peered through the device, seeing a magnified image of Marrero's office.

While Quaddla undertook her examination, Banda stepped to the corner of the room and closed her eyes. Her normal senses folded inward, allowing Banda to attune herself to any magical essences in the vicinity. Concentrating, the sorceress focused her inner sight upon the spyglass. But it was inert, unmagical. Satisfied, Banda opened her eyes.

By this time, Quaddla had found two hidden studs on the spyglass. Pressing them both at the same time, she caused a hidden compartment to spring open. Two rolled up pieces of parchment fell out. One was obviously a letter, while the other appeared to be a map of some sort.


----------



## Ruined (Feb 27, 2003)

Very cool, JERandall. I like hiding the messages in the spyglass. May have to borrow that myself.


----------



## Joshua Randall (Feb 28, 2003)

> I like hiding the messages in the spyglass.



Thanks! I made it a Search check, DC 25 to find the hidden studs on the spyglass. (Do-able for a 1st level PC with Int 12+ and 4 ranks in Search, as long as she Takes 20 on the Search check.)

I'll post another update in a minute here....


----------



## Joshua Randall (Feb 28, 2003)

Both Marrero and the Kestrels stared at the two pieces of parchment. There was a moment of panic while the group worried about _explosive runes_ or other magical traps, until Banda informed them of the negative results of her arcane investigation. Quaddla gingerly picked up the map, while Marrero retrieved the letter and read it—aloud, this time, much to Bilt's annoyance.

_Edward,

I write to warn you about the latest activities of our friends. That rascal Porfirio is up to no good. He’s delivering goods to those who shouldn’t have them. When I confronted him about his latest plans, Porfirio ejected me from the group.

You must warn the Baron immediately – take whatever steps are necessary and use my name if you have to. I know that you will do this, for I know you love your country as much as I do.

I have very little time left to me, but perhaps we will meet again in a better world.

Yours,

Alessandro_


The conversation degenerated into a confused babble. "Why is Alessandro sending you a map?" demanded Madrak. "Who's Porfirio?" wondered Banda. "Who's the Baron?" asked Quaddla.

Marrero raised his hand. "Calm yourselves, I beg of you," he said. "It appears I have much to explain."

It turned out that Alessandro was the leader of a group of pirates, the Sea Ghosts, who operated near Lof. Porfirio was a mage of modest ability whose magical skills were nevertheless crucial to the pirates' success. Apparently, these pirates had perfected a less violent method of seizing cargo from unwary trading vessels, smuggling the goods ashore at a secret location.

Marrero didn't know why Alessandro was "ejected" from the Sea Ghosts, nor why Porfirio had taken over. He speculated that "delivering goods to those who shouldn't have them" was a reference to running weapons to the Ice Barbarians.

Sensing the group's confusion, Marrero explained. The Ice Barbarians were a savage people who lived across the ocean to the north in the frozen wastes of Kalte. They had no contact with the rest of Magnamund save through their trading post at Ljuk and through occasional raids upon Sommerlund and Durenor. Normally, the governments of those nations were willing to overlook these raids and trade with the Ice Barbarians, exchanging refined metals for valuable furs and pelts that were much in demand among the nobility.

The past year, however, saw the most vicious Ice Barbarian raid in recent memory. The Durenese city of Lof was badly damaged, with many ships and men lost. For that reason, the King had forbidden further trading of metals with Ljuk, under penalty of death. "No more shall the Ice Barbarians attack us with weapons forged from our own steel!" was the cry among the people of Durenor.

Marrero cleared his throat. "Apparently, Porfirio has taken the Sea Ghosts in a new direction. He's running weapons now, rather than just smuggling." Marrero looked at the Kestrels. "Alessandro is right: Porfirio must be stopped. Journey to Lof and meet with the Baron, impressing upon him the necessity of stamping out this threat to the safety of Durenor."

"A moment," interrupted Quaddla. "You appear to know quite a lot about the activities of a group of pirates." Staring at Marrero, realization dawned upon the Knight of the Moon. "Are you also a member of the Sea Ghosts?"


----------



## Joshua Randall (Mar 2, 2003)

Marrero startled, aghast at the question. He slumped in his chair and cradled his head in his hands.

"It's okay, you can tell us," Madrak said. "It'll make you feel better," he prompted.

A shaken Marrero looked up at them. "I do not know how you deduced my involvement," he began. "Please understand that what I did, I did in the ignorance of youth. If word of my past life gets out, I will be ruined – my mayorship stripped from me and my personage jailed.

"Yes, I was once a member of the Sea Ghosts. Alessandro, Porfirio, and I founded the group. We were bored young noblemen with nothing better to do. The others thrived on it – the secret identities, the call of the open sea, the loot. They thought it was _romantic_." Marrero said the word with a mixture of sadness and bitterness.

"A few years ago, I left the Sea Ghosts. My father was becoming suspicious, and he wished me to take up the family position as mayor of Port Bax. As far as I know, Alessandro and Porfirio continued with their lives as gentlemen-pirates. I honestly do not know what caused the apparent rift between them, or what has driven Porfirio to take such desperate action. Running weapons to the Ice Barbarians! I can scarcely believe it."

Quaddla and Banda got the sense that Marrero was telling the truth. The Kestrels promised to keep his secret and further agreed that they would warn the Baron of Lof of the danger posed by the Sea Ghosts "in exchange for some cash" as Bilt put it. Marrero advanced them 100 Gold Crowns against the balance they were owed from Alessandro. Further, the mayor offered to pay their passage on a trading ship bound for Lof.

"On one condition," Marrero said, his eyes shining with excitement. "Give me that map. Alessandro sent it to me, and –"

Before he could finish, Quaddla handed over the map, her heart sick at the man's obvious greed. "Take it," she said sadly.

Bilt started to protest, but after one steely glare from Quaddla, he relented. Damned paladins, he thought to himself.

The Kestrels were reluctant to board a ship, even if Marrero was paying for it. What if the Sea Ghosts attacked? But after consideration, they agreed to a sea journey; the trip to Lof would be much faster that way than it would be by land, especially as the roads were clogged with frozen mud.

So it was that the next morning, the Company boarded the Cardonal, a trading vessel carrying a supply of winter wheat to Lof. The Cardonal was a two-masted sailing ship of some hundred feet in length with a crew of ten men.

While Bilt, Madrak, and Quaddla spent their time on the ship in seasick misery, Banda befriended the crew and delighted them with her prestidigitations. One of the crewmen taught the Vakeros sorceress to play Samor, a game similar to chess in which each player tries to maneuver an ornate keystone across a gridlike board. Banda smiled to herself. She had picked up the game rapidly, but she allowed the sailor to beat her from time to time, thus maintaining his friendship.

Several days passed in this fashion as the Cardonal glided easily through the frigid waters off Durenor. Unlike the northern Kaltersee, which freezes into impenetrable pack ice during the winter, the coasts of Durenor remain passable at all times of the year. Even in mid-winter, ships plied their trade, braving the possibility of a winter storm in return for a profitable voyage. The men of Durenor considered themselves the finest sailors in the world – and also the finest swordsmen, diplomats, and craftsmen. They would not be deterred from trading just because of some cold weather.

It was the evening of the Kestrels' fourth day at sea. A fine cold mist fell upon the Cardonal, soaking everyone to the bone. The adventurers huddled miserably under their clothes, cursing the Durenese winter.

"Ship ahoy off the port stern!" came a cry from the Cardonal's lookout. The ship's captain peered into the twilight, squinting against the fading sunlight. He could just make out the other vessel. She had two masts and stood high above the waterline, with an elevated forecastle.

"Where's the spyglass?" someone asked. Quaddla looked rueful; she had left it with Marrero.

As the other vessel closed rapidly on the Cardonal, both her sailors and her passengers noticed it lacked identifying markings of any kind. "This is damned peculiar," opined the captain. "Perhaps we should—"


----------



## Joshua Randall (Mar 3, 2003)

At that moment a dense fog appeared as if from nowhere, almost completely enveloping the Cardonal. It was as thick as the proverbial pea soup and restricted vision to a mere five feet. Moments later, a tremendous jolt ran the length of the ship as something rammed into it. All of the Kestrels save Banda lost their balance and were knocked off their feet.

"We are the Sea Ghosts!" yelled someone from astern. "Surrender and you will not be harmed!"

Madrak swore (using several colorful words he had learned from the Cardonal's crew). "We've been sold out by that cur, Marrero," he yelled. Peering through the fog, he adopted a ready posture and hefted an enormous cudgel in his hands. Just wait for someone to show themselves, thought Madrak, and I will crack his skull open. He advanced warily along the port rail from bow to stern.

Banda had been on her way to the poop deck when the attack came. She saw three shapes looming up through the fog. Two bore cutlasses and were garbed as seamen. The third was a tall, pinched man in outlandish purple robes with a high collar. Without warning, he pointed his long index finger at Banda, and she felt a wave of magical energy wash over her. The sorceress frowned and fought off the effect. She lashed out with her spear, catching one of the pirates in the leg and opening a shallow wound.

Meanwhile, Quaddla put her back to the Cardonal's mast and readied herself. She could hear the sounds of a scuffle taking place astern. Cautiously, the Knight of the Moon edged around the mast, straining to see. She switched to darkvision, but it was to no avail; the fog obscured all types of sight.

Amidships, Bilt found himself next to the hatch leading to the cargo hold. He hefted his crossbow, but couldn't see or hear any targets nearby. Hmm, wondered the rogue, what's in the hold? Taking care not to make any noise, Bilt eased open the hatch and slipped below decks.

The purple-garbed magician frowned and pointed insistently at Banda again. Submit! a voice seemed to say to her. Banda felt her will weaken. She stared, slack-jawed, as one of the pirates advanced and trussed her up. How shameful, thought the sorceress idly, as she was forced to the deck.

Completing her circuit of the mast, Quaddla came upon the aftermath of Banda's defeat. A pirate interposed himself between Quaddla and the magician. His cutlass in a guarding position, he parried Quaddla's thrust. She frowned and pressed the attack, trying to get past the man's guard. But he was obviously trained in the ways of defensive fighting, and turned aside most of Quaddla's thrusts with ease.

Madrak made his way amidships. The fog was thinning, borne away by the wind. He could just make out a curious scene up ahead: Banda, hog-tied upon the deck. Quaddla fencing with a pirate while another moved into position on her flank. And a tall man in purple robes, making gestures in the air before him.

"Brillante!" screamed the mage. A burst of glittering colors exploded in space between Quaddla and Madrak. They were so bright, so compelling. Madrak tried to look away, but it was too late. Colors swam before his eyes until he could see nothing. Madrak cursed again and advanced, swinging his club blindly. All he had to do was connect with someone….

Below decks, Bilt saw sacks of grain heaped willy-nilly in the hold. Realizing that he had wasted his time, Bilt climbed back up on deck and moved slowly and (he hoped) quietly through the mist. There, up ahead – was that a pirate, or one of his friends? Bilt couldn't be sure. He gripped his crossbow and swore under his breath.

As suddenly as it had come, the fog was gone. Quaddla, who had avoided the effects of the glittering colors, shook off another attempt by the mage to distract her. If only she could get to him to disrupt his spellcasting. But one pirate blocked the way ahead, while another had slashed her twice in the back when her guard was down. Cowards! she thought.

A plan occurred to Quaddla. "Madrak!" she yelled. "In front of you, the wizard—"

But Madrak was already there, his cudgel sweeping clumsily from side to side. Miraculously, he connected – a solid blow the caught the wizard in the head and neck. The mage grimaced, fell back, almost lost his balance, but somehow maintained concentration on his spell. A evil-looking bird appeared in the air nearby and the wizard sent it into battle. How ironic, thought Banda: we're being attacked by a hawk.

Bilt could see now: the man ahead of him was a pirate who had snuck down from the poop deck. Bilt leveled his crossbow and fired, but the bolt skidded uselessly along the deck. Frowning, the rogue took shelter behind the hatch cover and reloaded.

By this time two more pirates had joined the fray. One of them fought with snarling fury. His left hand was missing, replaced by a stump knife. He fell upon Quaddla and began hacking away futilely at her armor. The Knight of the Moon was worried: she was beset by three foes and of her two nearest companions, one was helplessly bound while the other was blinded by magic.

"Yeeeeeargh!" roared Madrak, as his sight returned, just in time for him to avoid the screeching bird that was trying to peck his eyes out. He brought his club down in a huge overhand blow, braining one of the pirates assaulting Quaddla. The pirate fell to the deck, his head caved in. At the same time, Quaddla dropped another pirate, her crescent-shaped sword catching him under the armpit. The man's eyes grew wide in terror and then glazed over. Slowly, almost gently, Quaddla eased him to the deck and withdrew her sword from his body.

The purple-clad wizard scowled. He had not expected armed resistance. Furthermore, the brute with the huge club was liable to take his head off if the fight continued. "Withdraw immediately," Porfirio ordered. "Get underway at once."

The Kestrels managed a few parting shots as the pirates retreated, but none of them was inclined to pursue. The pirate ship disengaged from the Cardonal and tacked about, sailing off into the gloom. Quaddla glared after it. "We will battle them again. I know it," she averred.

"Damn right," Madrak agreed. "And next time, I won't be blinded." Cursing, he looked around for something to clobber.


----------



## Joshua Randall (Mar 4, 2003)

After untying Banda and the Cardonal's crew, the Kestrels debated their future course of action. Madrak insisted upon his point of view: that they had been sold out by Edward Marrero, who had tipped off the pirates to the Company's presence on board the Cardonal. They why had the pirates withdrawn? wondered Quaddla. There were no solid answers.

The following morning the Cardonal arrived at Lof. The adventurers stared at the mighty stone walls of the fortified city, and at the equally impressive rents in those walls. Scorch marks covered most of the buildings – those that had not been burned to the ground in the most recent Ice Barbarian attack. In the harbor, three warships flying the flag of Durenor were being worked on by hundreds of shipwrights and craftsmen.

A detachment of baronial guards met the Company at the harbor and escorted them to the citadel. It was a gloomy place, drafty and damp, built more for defense than comfort. The current baron, Giosue da Silva, had only ascended to his position after the deaths of his father and two older brothers. All were slain by Ice Barbarians. The baron's only remaining family was his daughter, Olivia, whom he protected as a greedy man guards a precious gem.

The baron's chamberlain led the Kestrels through the citadel, admonishing them to behave with proper dignity in front of his lordship. As the group arrived at the throneroom, they witnessed a curious scene. A surly looking dwarf clad in fine ermine was pleading his case to the baron. "As you well know, my lord, I still haven't been paid for the latest shipment," said the dwarf, petulantly.

Baron da Silva replied icily, "You have received a letter of credit."

"But my lord," the dwarf rejoined, "I have expenses, suppliers, laborers. I cannot pay them with a letter of credit."

"How dare you question me!" thundered the baron, nearly coming out of his seat. He glared at the dwarf, who glared back with ill concealed rage. "You may cash your letter of credit only after the shipment is recovered. Not before. Do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly," the dwarf snarled. With that, he spun on his heel and stomped out of the throneroom, brushing past the adventurers without so much as a passing glance.

There was an uncomfortable silence. A guardsman shifted his position behind the throne, his armor creaking loudly. Another stared at the floor, engrossed with the laces of his boots. Finally, the chamberlain cleared his throat and announced the party. "My lord, I present to you The Company of the Red Kestrel." He glanced markedly at the group, urging them forward.

"His Lordship, Baron Giosue da Silva, Ruler of Lof!" cried the chamberlain in a surprisingly loud voice.

After introducing themselves, taking care to follow the proper rules of Durenese decorum, the Kestrels got a good look at the baron. He was a man of medium built in fighting trim – indeed, he had a reputation as a fine warrior. A long scar covered the left side of his face from temple to chin, and the baron wore a patch over the hole where his left eye had been. His hands were enormous, almost freakishly so, and they gripped the arms of the throne tightly, as if the baron wished he still carried a sword.

"Pirates less than a day from Lof!" he roared, rising to his feet. "Damn it all!" Quaddla took a step backwards, unsure if the baron would blame the Kestrels for the attack on the Cardonal. "My lord," she offered, "we did our best to fight them, but—"

"And a fine job you did, too," said the baron, sinking back into his throne. "Just like Dellarocca did with the rest of the Sea Ghosts." Da Silva smiled grimly at some private joke.

"You've seen Michael Dellarocca?" asked Madrak. "When?" he demanded, forgetting his place. But the baron ignored the slight.

"About a week ago," da Silva replied. "Dellarocca and his Company asked my permission to investigate an abandoned house outside the city. Following up some rumor an old alchemist who lived there years ago – turning lead to gold, if you can believe the tales."

The baron paused, then leaned forward and continued with vigor. "But instead of finding any alchemist, he found a gods-damned nest of Sea Ghosts. Wiped them out without breaking a sweat, too. My men tell me that whole house is covered in scorch marks from the fight." The baron nodded knowingly to himself: Dellarocca favored electrical evocations.

"Then who were the Sea Ghosts who attacked us?" wondered Bilt aloud.

The baron continued his tale. Apparently, the pirates' operation was split into two halves: the seaborne half which had boarded the Cardonal, and a landborne half which received and disposed of the loot. A secret cave system under the abandoned house served as the land-based pirates' lair. The pirates kept in contact with the ship through an elaborate signaling system, which Dellarocca had been kind enough to decipher for the baron.

Now da Silva intended to turn the tables on the pirates. "Six of my men are encamped in the caves," he told the Kestrels. "When the Sea Ghost ship arrives, they'll signal it, then go and board it." The baron narrowed his eyes and started at the adventurers as if sizing them up.

"You will join my men. Assume command of the boarding operation. Capture the ship. Take the mage alive. You may kill the others."


----------



## Joshua Randall (Mar 5, 2003)

*If anyone is curious, I've also got a Rogues Gallery thread for some of the PCs and NPCs.*

= = =

Quaddla was aghast at the thought of needless bloodshed, but the others relished the opportunity to get revenge for their humiliation aboard the Cardonal. Bilt negotiated another advance on Alessandro's "I owe you," netting the Kestrels another 150 Crowns. The group ventured into Lof proper, finding it a dreary place. Most of the citizens were in a sullen mood, and the shopkeepers were utterly unwilling to haggle. Nevertheless, Banda purchased several vial of Laumspur (an herb with healing properties). Madrak and Quaddla pooled their resources to trade up to better armor. Madrak chose a used but serviceable breastplate, while Quaddla bought a simple suit of chainmail. Bilt was content with his gear, saying he had all that he needed.

Morning came sharp and cold. A layer of frost covered everything as the party marched out to the old alchemist's house. They were met by two men in the baron's livery who escorted them through the decrepit mansion. The floorboards creaked ominously, causing Madrak to step gingerly for fear of plunging through them. But the soldiers negotiated a safe path to the basement, where the Kestrels were surprised to find a barracks area, and beyond that, a small series of caverns. Twisting their way through the tunnels, the group at least reached a cave open to the sea. It commanded a view of the ocean and was abutted by a small sandy beach, upon which a small boat was drawn up.

A man in an officer's uniform approached. "I am sergeant Tomás Estutlé," he announced grandly in a drawling voice. "I understand his lordship wants you to assist in this operation."

"That's not how we heard it," Bilt said. "The baron put us in charge."

Quaddla shook her head and sighed, motioning for Bilt to be quiet. "Of course we will assist you, Tomás. What is your plan?"

The sergeant pointed out to sea. "When the pirate ship arrives tonight, we will signal it to begin unloading its cargo. Then we will row out in that boat" – he pointed at the dinghy – "and order them to surrender."

There was a moment of stunned silence while the Kestrels absorbed the plan. "That's it?" Madrak scoffed. "Just row out there and ask them to turn themselves in?"

Tomás blinked. "Have you a better idea?" he drawled.

The group debated tactics for the better part of the morning. Banda was quite worried about the "potent spells" of the pirate mage, Porfirio. (_Note: these awe-inspiring spells consisted of daze and glitterdust._) Quaddla was dubious about rowing up to the ship openly, until Tomás pointed out that they could row around behind the Sea Ghost ship, thereby taking them unawares.

There was just one problem: the dinghy could only accommodate six passengers – and there were ten people present between the Kestrels and the baron’s men. As if to compound their space issues, at that moment Tomás' two guards returned, leading a stout, well-armed dwarf into the sea cave.

"Brogun! I wondered when you would show up," said Quaddla. The other dwarf grinned at Quaddla. "I had some church business to attend to in Hammerdal," he replied, "but I heard the Kestrels were in this area, so here I am."

After proper introductions had been made, the group continued debating tactics. Tomás finally agreed to send for another boat, as well as several crossbows: Quaddla wanted to have the advantage of ranged weapons. At last, their preparations made, the Kestrels settled down to rest before nightfall.

= = =

_Note: there was some disruption in the group, so I will fast-forward through the boarding of the Sea Ghost vessel._

The Kestrel's plan was for Tomás and his men to serve as a decoy, signaling the pirate ship while approaching it slowly from shore. Meanwhile, the Kestrels would row around behind the ship and board it by stealth. Their plan worked out fairly well: Bilt spotted an open porthole in the stern of the ship and was able to clamber aboard into an empty cabin. After the other Kestrels joined him, they peaked out the cabin door, spotting a couple of pirates standing near the rail.

Quaddla and Brogun charged the pirates and knocked them into the ocean. Madrak, Banda, and Bilt raced out of the cabin and each engaged in his own small skirmish. After a lengthy battle (_Note: 18 rounds!_) the Kestrels were victorious. The captured the pirate captain, Sigurd, and found the mage Porfirio hiding in the crow's nest. Tomás and his men arrived to take the pirates into custody, and the Kestrels congratulated themselves on a job well done.

Searching the ship, they found a prisoner in a secret compartment. Judging him to be some sort of aquatic creature, they set him free, being unable to communicate with him. Strangely, the Kestrels then ceased their search, and so missed out on finding the secret cache of weapons, or on looting the ship's valuables.

The next morning, Baron da Silva summoned the Kestrels. His men had worked all night, tearing the Sea Ghost vessel apart to discover its secrets: the weapons cache as well as some curious semi-literate documents requesting "an additional shipment at the agreed terms." Da Silva believed the Sea Ghosts were running weapons to the Ice Barbarians who, according to a map found on the ship, must be camped at a spot up the coast. Before the Baron could order the Kestrels to investigate this, a messenger burst into the room.

"There's been a cave-in in Nosop!"


----------



## Jodo Kast (Mar 5, 2003)

Cool stuff!  Seems like a well-realized world.  I'm looking forward to seeing how things develop.


----------



## Joshua Randall (Mar 6, 2003)

*Interlude - Magnamund Background*

The reason the world of Magnamund seems so well-realized is that I am shamelessly borrowing it from the Lone Wolf game books, by Joe Dever. I have layered a lot of my own ideas on top, but the foundation already existed.

You can learn more about the world of Lone Wolf at Project Aon. Also, as you may have heard, Mongoose Publishing has the license to produce a d20 version of Magnamund. (Of course, I found this out only *after* putting in tons of work on my version of Magnamund... d'oh!)

Anyway, here's what I wrote up as hooks for my players. (This is paraphrased from the intro to _Flight from the Dark_, the first Lone Wolf gamebook.)



> In olden times, during the Age of the Black Moon, the Darklords waged war on Magnamund. The conflict was a long and bitter trial of strength that ended in victory for the free peoples of Magnamund at the great battle of Maakengorge. King Ulnar of Sommerlund and the allies of Durenor broke the Darklord armies at the pass of Moytura and forced them back into the bottomless abyss of Maakengorge. Vashna, mightiest of the Darklords, was slain upon the sword of King Ulnar, called 'Sommerswerd', the sword of the sun. Since that age, the Darklords have vowed vengeance upon all Magnamund.



I've also established a theme for the campaign:



> *Magnamund Theme*: Heroic, adventurous characters rise to fame on the backdrop of a detailed world that serves as a battleground between good and evil.
> 
> *Summary*: This is a world in which larger-than-life heroes battle relentlessly evil villains. Characters are members of adventuring companies, holy orders, or other groups, seeking to become the prime movers in Magnamund. They may choose to involve themselves in worldly affairs, being drawn into political struggles and conflicts. Or they may attempt to remain aloof from such considerations and simply seek glory from themselves. Regardless, the characters' long-term goal should be to prepare for the inevitable next assault of the Darklords.
> 
> The game will feature a mix of investigation, role-playing, and combat. Information and influence will be as valuable as gold and gems.



Right now, the PCs are still in the "build themselves up" phase; as one of my players describes it, "It's like being in the minor leagues waiting to get called up to the majors."

Finally, for your viewing pleasure, I've attached a map (scanned from _Flight from the Dark_) of the Lastlands, the region of Northern Magnamund in which the campaign has taken place to date. (In the future, I hope to get the PCs to travel to some of the other regions of Magnamund, all of which have groovy maps like this one.)


----------



## Joshua Randall (Mar 7, 2003)

*Off to Nosop*

Nosop was a fortified mountain village in the forbidding Zanzur peaks, the last settlement before the crags became impassable. Apparently, a wizard called Sionas the Shaper had purchased land in Nosop and hired the villagers to excavate the foundation for a home. Unfortunately, a cave-in had trapped several men under the rubble. Why Sionas didn't use his magic to free them remained a mystery, but for whatever reason, he insisted that arcane energies would only exacerbate the cave-in.

After a hard night of digging, the Kestrels helped to free the men. Two were dead, but a young boy had survived. Upon questioning him and examining the bodies, the group deduced that the men had been killed not by the cave-in, but by some THING that had strangled and bitten them. Further investigation revealed a narrow tunnel, burrowing into the earth. Sionas, alarmed, asked the Kestrels to root out the unseen creatures and destroy them.

And Sionas was even more alarmed when the Kestrels refused. "Why should we slaughter some innocent creatures of the earth just so that you can build a house?" asked Quaddla. The other so-called adventurers agreed with Quaddla's position – except for Brogun, who was willing to assist Sionas.

But the group could not come to an agreement on how to proceed. The next morning, all except Brogun departed.

Sionas sighed and looked down at the dwarf. "So," began the wizard, "you are of the dwarven lands of Bor? I journeyed there once, in my youth…."

= = =

Brogun and Sionas chatted amiably. The cleric of Kirabá found the wizard a widely-traveled and well-read man who was genuine in his desire to settle down in the remote village of Nosop to continue his academic research. Sionas was also genuinely upset about the deaths of the villagers, and, at Brogun's urging, made sure that their families were well compensated for their loss.

"Now," growled Brogun, "I will take care of whatever beasties killed those men." Clapping his helmet onto his head and hefting his axe, the dwarf began pushing his way into the tunnel. "No magic!" cried Sionas behind him. Brogun rolled his eyes: as if the divine grace of a dwarven god would disrupt the earth. Preposterous!

The tunnel twisted its way deeper into the earth, and soon the last bit of light that had been filtering in behind Brogun faded away. He switched to darkvision, and saw the featureless tunnel curving on before him. Brogun's sense told him that this tunnel was not naturally occurring, but had been burrowed into the earth. And a burrow this big meant… the dwarf swallowed his fear and pressed on. A priest of Kirabá shies not from battle, he reminded himself.

At last the tunnel opening into a large cavern, stretching away in all directions. Brogun couldn't see the ceiling or the end of the cavern, but he could FEEL that it must be at least a hundred feet in each direction. Cautiously, he began to edge his way along the wall of the cavern, keeping his back to the wall. That way nothing could sneak up on him.

So Brogun was quite surprised when something dropped onto his head from above, smashing him to the ground. The dwarf let out a gurgled yell of fright as he felt slimy tentacles encircle his neck. "Gaaaaauugh!" Brogun screamed, and managed to wrench the creature off of him before it could crush his windpipe.

With his darkvision Brogun could make out his adversary: a centipede-like creature, but much bigger. Ten feet long at least, with plates of hard chitin around its front section. A mass of writhing tentacles emerged from the creature's face above two mandibles, dripping with slime.

The creature let out a high-pitched shriek and charged at Brogun, attempting to plow him into the ground. Brogun stood firm, bracing himself against the creature's rush. He batted away its tentacles with his shield, and concentrated on infusing himself with the strength of Kirabá. At once, Brogun felt divine power coursing through his muscles. He hefted his axe and hacked at the thing's midsection. The blade bit deeply into the creature's flesh. Slimy blood poured out, provoking another scream from the thing.

It bit Brogun twice in the leg, chewing right through the links of his mail, before he brought the axe down on its back, cutting the creature in two. With a final ear-splitting shriek, the creature expired.

Brogun stepped back from the corpse and wretched. He was covered in sticky slime, and his leg bled profusely. Closing his eyes, Brogun drew on the healing energies of his god, causing the wound in his leg to knit itself up. Feeling better, Brogun brought forth a glowing ball of divine light, centered on the top of his helmet.

By the light of Kirabá, Brogun examined the cave. In one corner he found an old skeleton, probably human. Its clothing had mostly disintegrated, but it still wore an ornate belt. Brogun carefully freed the belt from its resting place, and found that it contained 20 Gold Crowns sewn into the leather. The coins bore the stamp of Durenor, but from a time almost 100 years ago. This cave must have existed for some time, and the creature had been living in it undisturbed until Sionas began his excavation.

Satisfied that the cave contained nothing else of interest, Brogun returned to the tunnel, taking the two halves of the creature with him. He had just entered the tunnel when he felt a familiar weight land on his back and shoulders. Slimy tentacles tried to close around his neck.

"Gaaaaauugh, not another one!" Brogun yelled. This time he reacted more quickly than the creature had anticipated. With two mighty sweeps of his axe, Brogun decapitated the thing before it could land a blow. "Take that, beastie," the dwarf spat.

Hefting his burden once more, Brogun pushed his way out of the tunnel, blinking in the light of day. Sionas was still waiting, and he stared at Brogun, aghast.

Brogun waited for the wizard to congratulate him on his kills.

Sionas stammered, and finally managed to speak. Pointing at Brogun's glowing helmet, he said, "You used MAGIC?"


----------



## Joshua Randall (Mar 11, 2003)

*Interlude: Dellarocca Imprisoned*

Michael Dellarocca swallowed the blood in his mouth and pressed the stump of his tongue against his teeth. His entire body ached, but inwardly, the wizard smiled.

The _sending_ had come in the early morning, just as the slaves were being roused for another day of back-breaking labor. _Sara on her way. Expect rescue within three days. – Sionas, for Sara._ Dellarocca was surprised that Sionas remembered him, let alone had cared enough to cast the spell. Ah, but my sister can be so convincing, he thought. Then a scowl crossed Dellarocca's face as he recalled the last time Sara had chosen to convince someone – not that that b*stard Heydricus had needed much prodding to take advantage of the situation.

The lash across his back brought Dellarocca back to the present. He scowled at the taskmaster, swallowed some more blood, and half-heartedly tapped out a few cuts in the stone with his hammer and chisel.

Things had started out so promisingly. After the departure of the self-styled Heroes of the Temple, the Company of the Red Kestrel needed new faces, so Dellarocca had recruited some young adventurers in Ragadorn. They were the typically motley assortment – a couple of dwarves, a Vakeros, two men. Good mix of abilities, though, he had thought at the time. Dellarocca frowned again. If Sara hadn't convinced him to let the newcomers stay behind to handle the Simovicci business, they might've helped in the fight with the ciquali. Or at least provided more targets and given Sara a chance to get to him.

What a disaster that had been. Sara had cast _water breathing_ on the lot of them – her brother along with the others. The they dove into the freezing water – he'd had to deplete his spell repertoire with a bunch of _endure elements_ – and swam into the sea cave. Where they were set upon by scores of ciquali.

What in Naar's name were the ciquali doing off the coast of Durenor anyway? Dellarocca couldn't figure that part of it out. Not that it mattered in his current predicament.

The fight, such as it was, didn't last long. Gunther and Kednor had taken down a few ciquali warriors each, but their heavy slashing weapons weren't so effective underwater. Leta, moving more easily than the others thanks to her ring, almost got out the way they'd come in, but the ciquali were amazingly fast swimmers. The last Dellarocca had seen of her, she was being speared repeatedly by no fewer than six warriors.

Dellarocca had blasted a huge group of ciquali with electricity, killing most of them where they swam, before stabbing a few to death with Fulmine. But their numbers were just too great, and he'd felt himself being grabbed from all sides, ruining his remaining spells. Sara had tried to reach him – he could see her clasping her holy symbol – she was bleeding from multiple wounds – and he'd yelled at her to get out and come back for him later – and with relief saw her finally speak the command word and disappear.

If that damn fool Loi-Kymar weren't so stingy with his transportation magic, this whole mess wouldn't have happened. Even a single _dimension door_ would've meant the difference between capture and escape. But no – the Guildmaster had to hoard that knowledge for himself. Dellarocca sucked at the pooled blood in his mouth and spat it on the ground, earning him another lash across the back.

He turned to look up at the ciquali taskmaster and smiled, showing two perfect rows of bloody teeth.


----------



## Joshua Randall (Mar 12, 2003)

*Note: the above "Interlude: Dellarocca Imprisoned" is actually a flash-forward of sorts. Brogun still has quite a bit of adventuring to do before he catches up to that part of the time-line. So, back to everyone's favorite dwarven cleric.*


"… up the coast a ways. Probably Ice Barbarians who got separated from their fellows during the retreat. Find out what the hell they're up to, and wipe them out."

Brogun nodded at Baron da Silva and asked, "Will any of your men be joining me for support?"

The Baron assented. "Sergeant Tomás and Corporal Guillermo are at your disposal."

Brogun bowed and departed.

= = =

Their small boat made good time on its way north, and Brogun listened intently as Tomás discussed the region. The map found on the Sea Ghost ship indicated that the rendezvous point was about 15 miles from Lof, in a region of hot springs and other geological phenomena. No one lived there, except some strange reptile-men, and even they hadn't been seen in a few years.

The boat slowed as it came near the outflow of the River Dor. Brogun wrinkled his nose in disgust; the sulfur from the hot springs was quite noticeable, even over the sea air. Directing the men to put ashore, Brogun announced that he would reconnoiter the area ahead on foot.

A large hill stood straight ahead, covered with scrubby trees. As Brogun advanced, he could make out two faint trails. One headed up the hill, while the other circled around its side. Hefting his axe, he took the nearer of the two trails to where it ended, smack dab in the middle of a group of shrubs.

"There's got to be a secret entrance around here somewhere," Brogun muttered to himself. Resigning himself to a lengthy search, he poked around the bushes until he found what he was looking for: a concealed doorway. Brogun tested it gingerly with his hands, but it was either barred from the inside or simply stuck, so the dwarf lowered his shoulder and plowed into it.

And bounced off. Rubbing his shoulder, Brogun charged again, this time bursting the door open and almost running into a figure standing inside it.

The creature wasn't very big – maybe five feet tall – but it was covered with green scales and had a long, pointed snout. Just now that snout was open in surprise, revealing its crooked teeth. The creature's right hand gripped a shortspear, while its left was raised as if to ward off the interloper.

The two stared at each other for a moment, until Brogun had the presence of mind to speak. "I have come from Lof. I mean you no harm." He wasn't sure why he said that, but it seemed like the right move.

The creature cocked its head at Brogun, but its blank expression remained. Brogun tried again in dwarven, but to no avail. Just then, another reptilian came walking around a bend in the hillside tunnel. It too stared at Brogun in alarm, then gave a yell and disappeared back around the bend.

Brogun swore under his breath. He invoked a _sanctuary_ spell and stepped forward, hands held loosely around his axe. The first creature tried to advance towards Brogun, but was rebuffed by his divine protection, and stepped back, eyes wide in awe. It yelled something down the passageway to its left, and several more creatures appeared. But none of them could muster the willpower to attack through Brogun's _sanctuary_, so the dwarf strode boldly into the passage ahead of him.

It bent to the right, and Brogun moved along. Behind him, the reptilian creatures were trailing along, afraid to come too close, but not willing to let this intruder out of their sight.

There – a door on the right-hand wall. Brogun opened it a crack and peered inside. What the … ? A kitchen of some sort, filled with what could only be female reptilians cooking. Brogun eased the door shut and continued onwards. If he could just get one of the creatures to understand him –

Up ahead, another group of reptilians approached Brogun. It looked like one of those from the entrance had gathered reinforcements and cut off his approach. The dwarf couldn't suppress a sense of admiration for these creatures; whatever they were, they were well trained. His spell would be wearing off soon, and in the face of a dozen reptilians, Brogun thought he had better leave.

He turned around and spoke slowly to the creatures behind him. "I am leaving now. Please excuse my intrusion." Striding forward, Brogun passed by the creatures and out of the hidden door, which was immediately slammed shut behind him.

= = =

"The problem," Brogun explained to Tomás, "is that my spell will only allow me to understand them, and not the other way around. So we've got to penetrate their lair deep enough to find one of them that speaks Durenese."

Tomás frowned. "What if none of them do?" he inquired.

"Then we'll use hand gestures. Now come on."

This time, Brogun led the way around the side of the hill, following the path he had noticed earlier. It ended at a large cave, into which Brogun peered with his darkvision.

"What do you see?" Tomás asked, too loudly.

"Quiet!" Brogun hissed. "There are two – no, three – large creatures inside the cave. Let's sneak past them. Stay close to me!"

With that, Brogun cast a _silence _spell, and entered the cave. The creatures appeared to be giant lizards; they were sleeping soundly. Praying that their sense of smell wouldn't alert them, Brogun picked his way across the mud of the cave floor and across to wear a worked stone archway marked the presence of another tunnel.

Heaving a (silent) sigh of relief, the dwarf quickly entered the tunnel. It twisted and turned. Wait. Were Tomás and Guillermo still behind him? Normally Brogun would've been able to hear their footfalls, but under the effects of the silence, he couldn't. Why couldn't the spell be dismissed at will? Brogun grumbled (silently). Of course, he was the idiot who had cast it on himself, instead of on something portable like a rock.

Aha! A door. No need for quiet – just crack the thing open and take a look. Ack! A bunch of reptilians forming up under some kind of officer.

Blast! They've seen us. What does Tomás want? He's waving his arms like – oh. Another passageway. Go, go, go!

T-junction up ahead. We'll go left. No – wait – I said LEFT. Argh! They can't hear me, of course. Can't even hear –

"– myself," Brogun said out loud. "Uh oh."

The spell's duration had expired, and Brogun could now hear the many sets of feet behind him. He whirled around to see an entire patrol of reptilians, heavily armed, bearing down on him.

"Wait!" the dwarf called out. "I am here on a peaceful mission from Lof."

One of the creatures held up its hand, halting the others. "Ssstop," it spoke to its troops, and Brogun realized that his _comprehend languages_ spell was letting him understand.

The creature turned to Brogun and spoke slowly in surprisingly good Durenese. "You will come withhh usss to the chiefff." The dwarf had no choice but to comply.


----------



## Joshua Randall (Mar 14, 2003)

*Of Crocaryx and Ciquali*

The chief was a large reptilian wearing a crude gold collar around his neck. He too spoke Durenese, as did some of his priests and advisors.

The creatures were called the Crocaryx, and they had lived in the area for "a great number of years" as their chief put it. Some time ago, they had abadoned this lair in favor of a far superior one even further north. But a few months ago, the Ciquali came, driving the Crocaryx out of their lair and forcing them to re-occupy this old one.

Brogun had never heard of the ciquali, or the crocaryx for that matter. He learned that the former were rapacious marauders of the seas, so wicked that they numbered only sharks among their friends. They had set upon the crocaryx suddenly, killing so many that the chief was forced to withdraw, for the good of the tribe.

Now the crocaryx were trying to arm themselves, train for combat, and recruit allies among the aquatic races. They must make war on the ciquali, for if they did not, the ciquali would gain control of the area and "do terrible things."

Brogun rubbed his chin. The crocaryx's story did explain why the Sea Ghosts had been running weapons, and if the ciquali were half as bad as they sounded, Lof could be in serious danger. He cleared his throat.

"On behalf of the Baron of Lof, I wish to apply for entrance into your anti-ciquali alliance."

The crocaryx chief sat back in his throne and smiled toothily. "Excccelent," he said. "There isss just one sssmall problem. We are bothhhered by a group of sssavage men. They kill my warriorsss and eat many fishhh. If you hunt thhhem down and take care of thhhem, then I will consssider your request to join our allianccce."

"We'll do our best," Brogun replied.

= = =

Brogun, Tomás, and Guillermo returned to their boat, gathered their supplies, and set off up the river to confront the "savage men" who had been discomfitting the Crocaryx. Their plans made, the three men felt confident they could handle a fight.

About two miles up river, Brogun spotted a thin plume of smoke rising into the sky. "Must be their campfire," he mused aloud. "Let's put ashore here and continue on foot."

They crept forward, taking cover beneathe two large evergreen trees. Peering through the branches, they could make out a crude camp, with seven rough-looking figures sitting or standing around it. The figures wore filthy furs and carried strange looking whitish swords.

"Ice Barbarians?" Brogun wondered. Tomás nodded, then motioned to Guillermo, who quietly loaded his crossbow.

Brogun whispered the words of several spells. In quick succession, he had warded himself with a _shield of faith_, protected Tomás from chaos, and enhanced his companion with _bull's strength_. "Now, watch this," said Brogun, grinning wickedly.

"GALOR BRAKATH!" he roared, aiming his outstretched arm at the center of the Ice Barbarians' camp. A tremendous boom burst forth, the wave of sound knocking the Ice Barbarians off their feat.

For a moment, no one moved, as the _soundburst_ dissipated with a groan like far-off thunder. Then a few of the Ice Barbarians began to stir, hauling themselves painfully to their feet, clutching their bleeding ears. Brogun and Tomás were already charging their position, even as Guillermo fired his crossbow, dropping his target.

The two Ice Barbarians already on their feet rushed to meet their adversaries, crashing into them and flailing about with their swords. Brogun ducked a slash, noticing as he did so that the sword was made of bone, with sharp teeth set along its edge. He struck out with his axe, catching the nearest Ice Barbarian in the side and sending him crashing to the ground. Out of the corner of his eye, Brogun saw Tomas skewer his foe with a neatly placed thrust of his bastard sword.

By this time the remaining Ice Barbarians had regained their feet. One of them, a slightly larger specimen in slightly less filthy furs, threw his head back and roared, flecks of spittle flying in all directions.

Great, thought Brogun, an Ice Barbarian barbarian. Should've prayed for _calm emotions_.

Tomás and Brogun stood side-by-side to meet the second wave, while Guillermo sent a few bolts flying harmlessly wide of their targets. "My brother's aim is off today," Tomás remarked. Brogun smiled eagerly, saying, "That just means more fun for us."

Then the battle was joined in earnest, and there was no more talk. It was eerily quiet to Brogun's ears. He could clearly make out the grunts of the combatants, his own breathing, the creaking of Tomás' armor nearby, even the stretching of Guillermo's crossbow string as he reloaded. Savage forms loomed into Brogun's vision as he hacked and hacked and hacked. Swords were turned aside on his shield, one of them splintering into fragments. Bursts of pain assaulted Brogun's leg, his side, his arm, but he gritted his teeth and fought on.

In moments, the battle was over. Brogun leaned wearily on his axe, his vision hazy and blurred, his breath ragged. Tomás knelt nearby, wiping off his sword blade on the furs of a fallen Ice Barbarian. "All dead," he remarked unnecessesarily.

Guillermo was unhurt, but the other two were badly wounded. Brogun used what little divine energy he had left to heal Tomás and himself a bit, and then the companions set off back to their boat, carrying the Ice Barbarian swords as trophies. Behind them lay seven corpses, their blood already beginning to congeal in the chilly air.

"Is this what being an adventurer is like?" asked Guillermo.

"Sometimes," Brogun replied grimly.


----------



## Joshua Randall (Mar 27, 2003)

*Magical gifts! Frozen monks! A heroic battle!*

*So, I don't update the story for over a week, but do any of my six loyal readers bump it? No-oooo!  *

= = =

The Crocaryx were favorably impressed with how quickly Brogun, Tomás, and Guillermo had dispatched the Ice Barbarians. The Crocaryx chief promised that he would send an ambassador to Lof within the week. The ambassador would explain why the tribe had been acquiring weapons – to arm for war with the Ciquali – and would explore the possibility of an alliance with the humans for that purpose.

As Brogun bowed and prepared to depart, a aged Crocaryx stepped forward. The sheen of his scales had grown dull over many years, and he walked with a shuffling gait.

"I am called Ssslath," spoke the Crocaryx. "I minister to this tribe, and ensure that the teachings of Nyxator are not forgotten."

Brogun racked his brain, trying to remember the name Nyxator. A vague memory rose to the surface of his consciousness: Nyxator, the great Sea Dragon, a creature of Kai, the God of Light. Apparently the Crocaryx worshipped Nyxator, believing that his essense guided the tribe's fortune.

Sslath spoke again. "Take this amulet," he said, fumbling with something around his neck. With difficulty, the wizened Crocaryx unclasped a gaudy gold chain with large links. In a crude setting sat a misshapen, yellowish pearl. Brogun couldn't hide a look of disappointment at the shoddy workmanship evident in the amulet. But Sslath pressed it upon him.

"It will guide you in the wisdom of Nyxator and ensure that Kai's light shines upon you," he pronounced. The other Crocaryx nodded their heads in agreement.

Brogun shrugged; there was no point looking a gift horse in the mouth. He placed the amulet around his neck to the "oohs" and "ahhs" of the assembled reptilians. "I shall wear this necklace proudly, and always remember your generosity," Brogun said somberly. Sslath inclined his head in acknowledgement.

= = =

A gaudy necklace was all well and good, thought Brogun, but what function did it serve? He had already detected magical energies surrounding it, radiating a faint aura of transmutation. Brogun decided to return to Nosop, where he hoped the mage Sionas would _identify_ the amulet.

After making the hard climb up the Zanzur peaks, Brogun surveyed the town. Two fresh graves paid silent testimony to the loss of the two men who had perished in the cave-in during excavations for Sionas' house. As for the house itself, Brogun saw a hastily constructed cottage with stone walls that bore the obvious marks of magical construction. "Humph," snorted Brogun, "I thought he said not to use magic around here."

Shrugging, the dwarf pounded on the door with the butt of his battleaxe.

= = =

Beorn Lammond thought of himself as a dedicated public servant. He'd accepted appointment as mayor of Nosop, even though the settlement was so tiny that its mayorship brought little compensation and less recognition. Still, someone had to be mayor, and it might as well be Lammond.

So when Mayor Lammond heard that the dwarven adventurer was in town again, consulting with the wizard, it was like the answer to his prayers. Here was someone who could be induced to go up the path to the Shining Light monastery, and find out why the monks hadn't made their last two trips down for supplies.

Adventurers were always doing that sort of stuff. All you had to do was say the right words. Haven't heard from the monastery in six months. It's been a pretty harsh winter. Hope the monks are all right. Would be a shame if anything happened to them.

Lammond chuckled to himself. This would be easy.

= = =

Brogun woke with a start. For a moment, in his panicked half-awake state, he couldn't get his limbs to move. By Kirabá's beard! Was he dead?

With a groan, Brogun forced himself upright. It was pitch black, and he was enormously cold – the furnace was out. Holding his breath in fear at what he might find, Brogun switched to darkvision. Guillermo lay curled up next to the wall, while Tomás was slumped over by the door. Brogun cursed, staggered to his feet, and kicked Tomás awake.

"Get up!" Brogun growled. "You're supposed to be on watch. And you let the furnace go out."

Tomás sheepishly got to his feet and began prodding at the coals in the furnace, coaxing them to life. If the creature had come while they slept – but it was not yet time.

= = =

It had been a difficult hike up the narrow path from Nosop to the monastery. Especially after the storm had started, its winds, snow, and freezing temperatures weakening the climbers. With relief, they had pried open the monastery doors, squeezing into the entry chamber, where the howl of the wind was somewhat lessened.

Tomás was halfway across the room when darkness engulfed him. He gave a muffled cry, while Brogun and Guillermo shouted instructions to each other. In the chaotic melee that followed, they managed to kill the creature while only horribly wounding Tomás. But the healing power of Brogun's spells soon had the sergeant on his feet, and they explored the monastery.

Nothing living remained. In several rooms, the bodies of the dead monks rose in unlife to attack. Each time, Brogun channeled the divine energy of his god, blasting the weak undead into a fine dust.

They found the furnace in the basement late in the evening. Once it was lit, Brogun led the way to the second floor of the monastery, where more scenes of carnage and undeath awaited them.

"What happened here?" the dwarf wondered aloud. He opened the door to yet another room, his holy symbol held before him. The long, narrow room held only a bed, a chair, and small writing table. Everything was covered in a layer of frost – a layer that was melting in the increased warmth of the funace-heated monastery.

While Tomás and Guillermo poked through the debris on the floor, Brogun scrutinized a hastily written note he had found on the table. A prayer to Kai, the Sun God. Something about a "nameless evil against which there seems no defense" that "comes at midnight."

Idly, Brogun wondered what time it was. When they heard a bang from downstairs and felt the temperature drop twenty degrees, he knew.

"Ready your weapons," Brogun snapped. "Bar the door."

But the creature smashed through the door in two blows, shrugged off sword, axe, and crossbow bolt, and sent Tomás spinning to the ground with a single backhanded smack of its withered, clawed hand. Then, as unexpectedly as it had come, the creature stepped over the ruined timbers of the door and stomped off down the stairs.

That had been one night ago. Now, Brogun, Tomás, and Guillermo huddled next to the re-lit furnace, knowing that when the creature came tonight, they must finish it, or die.

A commotion in the supply room outside the door let them know the thing had returned. It beat upon the door. Once. Twice.

On the third blow, the door crashed inwards, somehow remaining intact and smashing to the ground with a loud bang. As the creature stepped through, it took a bolt in one side and a two-handed sword strike in the other. Brogun was already holding up the crossed battle-axes, symbol of Kirabá, commanding the thing to be gone.

Its claws took Brogun in the chest, ripping through his chainmail, and sending a wave of intense chill into the cleric. For a moment, his heart stopped beating; the blood flow in his veins slowed to nothing – and the next Brogun knew, he was lying on the floor, wondering if he had dreamed it all and was just waking up again – for he could not feel his limbs.

Guillermo's strangled cry brought Brogun back to the present. Raising his head, he saw the creature grab the young soldier around the neck with one icy claw and lift him two feet in the air before throwing Guillermo to the ground. Tomás screamed and laid into the thing, slashing again and again at its back.

With a great effort of will, Brogun rolled onto his stomach, then pushed himself to his knees using arms and hands he could not feel. He tottered towards the ice haunt, eyes half-shut, forcing his lips to form the words of the spell, forcing his fingers to make the gestures. Then lurched forward, hands outstretched, grabbing the creature round the waist, hugging it to him, unleashing the positive energy – and hearing the ice haunt shriek as the healing spell dissolved the bonds of undeath and sent its soul screaming to Naar.

_Note: Brogun need to make two Reflex saves (to stand and to move) and a Concentration check (to cast); he made them all. If he hadn't… *gulp*  It also helped that Tomás was beating the crap out of the ice haunt – he would've been crit'ing it if it hadn't been undead._


----------



## Ruined (Mar 28, 2003)

Cool fight with the ice haunt!  Yeah, it's taken me a while to get back to reading this story - lots on my plate.

I got pretty excited though when I saw the map. "Magnamund... Sommerlund?"  Yay, he's using the Lone Wolf world!  So I'm curious - you don't have any monks in your group, but theoretically you could have Kai monks, right?


----------



## Joshua Randall (Mar 28, 2003)

*Kai Lords / Monks*



			
				theRuinedOne said:
			
		

> *I got pretty excited though when I saw the map. "Magnamund... Sommerlund?"  Yay, he's using the Lone Wolf world!  So I'm curious - you don't have any monks in your group, but theoretically you could have Kai monks, right?*




None of the players were familiar with the world of Lone Wolf, so I was able to gloss over the Kai Lords in my introductory material. I described them as a monastic order, based in Sommerlund, who are dedicated to the God of the Sun and derive powers from Him. None of the players expressed an interest in *being* a Kai Lord, so I was able to avoid the rules headache *that* would've been. (Are the Kai Lords equivalent to D&D monks? rangers? psi warriors? Are they a base class? A Prestige Class? Yikes!)

Also, it is early in the year MS 5049 when the campaign starts. And you know what's going to happen on the Feast of Fehmarn, MS 5050... a little more than one year from the "now" of the campaign....


----------



## Joshua Randall (Apr 28, 2003)

Sister Sara Dellarocca, Priestess of Ishir, Co-Founder of the Company of the Red Kestrel, cursed her goddess, her brother, and herself.

During the debacle in the ciquali fortress, Sara was certain her death was upon her. When Michael had ordered her to get out, she wasted no time in invoking the _word of recall_ stored in her holy symbol – and the sense of relief she had felt at appearing in the familiar confines of the Temple of the Moon in Varetta filled Sara with a deep and abiding shame.

Yet why should she feel shamed? It was Michael’s foolhardiness that had gotten the Kestrels in over their heads. Again. And gotten a lot of them killed – for the scrying pool could locate no trace of Kednor, Gunther, or Leta.

Sara also harbored guilt for who she had scried next – not her brother, but the handsome sorcerer-knight who had come between them. He, at least, was alive. Her heart fluttered.

Then, at last, with great trepidation, she focused the font on Michael, fearing that the pool would remain dark as it had for the others. But no – there he was, huddled miserably in a corner, his hand wiping away the blood at his mouth.

Sara sank back, exhausted, and lay sprawled upon the holy ground. Once more it fell to her to rescue her brother, the great wizard Dellarocca. Once more, Ishir’s blessing of safety had left her thousands of miles from him.

“Damn Michael and damn you, Ishir,” Sara muttered aloud. _Damn yourself_, a voice inside her seemed to answer.

= = =

Sionas was more helpful than Sara had thought he would be, given the falling out he’d had with her brother. He cast multiple _sendings_ for her. The first, to Michael, was to let him know that help was on the way. The second, to Quaddla, the Daughter of Ishir, was answered curtly: _I take no part in your family affairs_. Sara blinked in surprise at that. Finally, almost as an afterthought, Sara had Sionas send to Brogun, the dwarven priest.

He made no reply.

“… would like to help, but my researches keep my busy here. And I’m afraid my spell selection wouldn’t be of much use in a fight,” Sionas was saying apologetically.

Sara smiled sadly, thanked the Shaper for his assistance, and departed. She warded herself against the bitterly cold temperatures of the gods-forsaken Durenese winter and set off for the ciquali lair.

That night at her camp, she decided to try entreating Brogun’s aid one more time. An _animal messenger_ could carry a more detailed request, Sara decided. She would appeal to his love of battle and sense of adventure this time. Sighing, Sara pulled parchment and ink from her pack and began to write.

= = =

The two of them made a good pair. This time, rather than wasting their energies on an underwater assault as the Company had in its initial foray into the ciquali lair, Sara and Brogun strode across the causeway to the top-level entrance in broad daylight. Brogun put his shoulder to the door and they stormed into the guardroom. While the dwarf wasn’t as capable a fighter as her brother, his axe hit hard, and his spells were true. Between the two of them plus some summoned assistance, Sara and Brogun slaughtered the ciquali guards before the alarm could be raised.

Then it was a desperate race through the fortress, trying to find and silence any remaining guards or patrolling warriors while finding Dellarocca. After a few more skirmishes, the two clerics located their objective. Dellarocca, along with several other human, dwarven, and crocaryx slaves, were finishing the construction of a room in the fortress, overseen by six ciquali taskmasters.

Brogun’s _soundburst_ was deafeningly loud in the stone room. Slaves and masters alike clutched their ears in pain as the dwarf’s stubby legs carried him into battle. Sara immediately made for her brother’s side, ignoring the intervening ciquali. Once there, she invoked the protection of Ishir upon him, then followed that up with a _shield other_ for good measure.

Meanwhile, the other slaves seized this opportunity for escape. Taking up their hammers and chisels, they shuffled as fast as their shackled legs would let them into battle. Brogun was hewing ciquali like grain, his strength enhanced by the might of Kirabá.

The fight was over quickly; six ciquali were no match for two adventurers and a dozen angry slaves. Brogun found the key to the shackles and released the slaves from their bonds. “Follow me – to freedom!” he proclaimed dramatically.

Dellarocca rolled his eyes and grinned at his sister. Sara smiled back, but there was pain behind her mirth. Once she had restored her brother’s health, he would want revenge. 

And what Michael Dellarocca wanted, he took.


----------



## Nail (May 27, 2003)

Joshua Randall said:
			
		

> *Sister Sara Dellarocca, Priestess of Ishir, Co-Founder of the Company of the Red Kestrel, cursed her goddess, her brother, and herself. *



Not that you need me to tell you this, but your story's good stuff.  You've gained a reader today.  (I may even shamelessly copy parts of your writing style.)


----------



## Joshua Randall (May 27, 2003)

Ah, like water to a parched plant is a response to a Story Hour author.

Your intention to shamelessly copy me deserves an update, Nail. And you shall have one... soon. That I promise.


----------



## Nail (May 27, 2003)

Joshua Randall said:
			
		

> *Ah, like water to a parched plant is a response to a Story Hour author.
> 
> Your intention to shamelessly copy me deserves an update, Nail. And you shall have one... soon. That I promise. *




Excellent.

As a storyhour author myself, I've even stooped to _emailing_ my players and asking them to post to the story hour.  

Heh.


----------



## Joshua Randall (May 28, 2003)

Brogun’s head hurt.

He had been discussing tactics with Dellarocca for going on six hours, and the wizard showed no signs of letting up. As a follower of Kirabá, Brogun could appreciate planning as much as the next dwarf. But he also knew that in the chaos of battle, many plans would be cast aside for expediency’s sake.

“Aaach! Enough!” the dwarf finally said. “I seek my rest now.”

Dellarocca looked up from his crude map of the lair. “Yes, I suppose it does grow late. We shall continue tomorrow.”

_And where will that get us?_ wondered Brogun. He itched for the certainty of combat rather than the vagueness of planning.

Everyone wanted something. Dellarocca wanted revenge upon the ciquali who had imprisoned him. Baron da Silva wanted information on the lair so that his soldiers could invade it. The crocaryx wanted their home back. Sara… well, who knew what she wanted; she was so quiet.

Brogun just wanted to fight.

= = =

Brilliant yellow electricity lanced down the corridor, illuminating the perfectly tiled walls and leaving darkness in its wake. The ciquali guard column lacked the time even to scream before they incinerated where they stood. And then Dellarocca was upon them, kneeling before those still twitching, his dagger slashing across their throats.

Brogun turned his head aside. So far, this second incursion into the lair had been nothing more than slaughter. The combined magical power of two clerics and a wizard had overwhelmed all those ciquali they had seen. Dellarocca held nothing back. “Overwhelming force is the best application of magic,” he had declared, and then proceeded to demonstrate the truth of that axiom.

The wizard looked up from his grisly work. “Sara! How close are we to Fulmine?”

Sara closed her eyes, concentrating. “Two hundred forty-seven feet, just east of south,” she intoned, like one in a trance. 

Dellarocca nodded, stood, and hurried down the passageway. “Is your brother always this… focused?” Brogun asked. Sara nodded solemnly. “Always,” she said hoarsely.

The group neared a bend in the passage, where it turned west, towards the large room in which Dellarocca and the other slaves had been imprisoned. The sounds of metal on stone once again echoed through the passageway. Had the ciquali taken more slaves to continue their work?

Brogun crept closer to get a better look. This time, it was the ciquali themselves chiseling away the rough stone of the room, smoothing out the balustrade around the stairway that led down into the flooded lower level. Brogun noted with alarm that the work was almost finished. He thought – no, somehow he *knew* – that when the ciquali finished their construction on the fortress, they would strike.

“Let us attack these sea-devils, taking them unawares” Brogun whispered to the others.

“Not yet!” hissed Dellarocca. “Fulmine first.”

Sara closed her eyes again. “Forty-three feet, almost due east.”

Brogun pulled out the map given to him by the crocaryx. According to the map, there was a storage room just east of their position.

A quick search through the stores turned up no sign of Fulmine. “Still six feet away,” Sara announced, before her brother could pester her.

“Six feet away? That’s outside the room,” Brogun remarked. “There must be a hidden door… right… about… here!”

The burst of flames blew Brogun off his feet and deposited him in the opposite corner of the room, where he lay moaning in pain. Sara rushed to his side while Dellarocca leapt to the door and hurriedly scanned for magic.

After some patching up, Brogun clambered to his feet and approached the secret door again, this time more warily. He reached out to touch it, then jerked his hand back.

Dellarocca chuckled. “There are no additional magical energies. It’s safe, now.”

Muttering under his breath, Brogun ran his hands over the stonework of the door. Crudely made, even by surface-dweller standards. Although the ciquali didn’t really live on the surface, did they? He wasn’t used to thinking about creatures that lived under the ocean. Then again, Dellarocca had said the ciquali weren’t native to the ocean, either, but to the swamps around the Danarg.

Either way, their stonework was shoddy. Brogun had the door open inside of a minute.

“What the –“ he spluttered as Dellarocca shouldered his way into the small room beyond.

Only a little light filtered into the hidden room, but it was enough to show a variety of items. Heaped in one corner were two suits of armor, one chain, the other ornately worked plate. An enormous sword was propped against the wall, towering over a finely wrought warhammer. Next to these sat a plain wooden chest, sealed with an outsized iron lock. Finally, in the corner nearest the door, a perfectly round, shiny shield lay flat on the ground with a scabbarded blade just behind it.

Dellarocca was already reaching for this last item when Brogun found his wits long enough to issue a warning. “Careful! There could be more traps.”

The wizard’s hand closed around the pommel of the sword.


----------



## Joshua Randall (Jun 2, 2003)

The sword _Fulmine_ was forged by the Dwarven master smith Zaccarias Zabar in MS 5048 for the wizard Michael Dellarocca, leader of the Company of the Red Kestrel. Dellarocca, a specialist in electrical evocations, requested a weapon that would mirror his arcane predilections.

Fulmine is a finely wrought rapier, exquisitely balanced, crafted of the best Durenese steel. Its back edge is gilded, both for visual effect and as a strong conductor. The blade is enhanced with magical energies that improve its wielder’s accuracy and cutting power, and the whole weapon crackles with electricity when drawn. Upon an especially effective hit, an extra burst of electricity flows along the blade, inflicting additional damage upon its target.

= = =

This was the weapon Dellarocca had been so intent upon finding. Fulmine, along the rest of the Company’s equipment, had lain undisturbed in the ciquali treasure vault until such time as the creatures could wrest their secrets from the uncooperative wizard.

Naturally they had not counted on said wizard being rescued and returning to claim his gear with vengeance in mind.

Brogun’s eyes lit up as he surveyed the room. He was no smith, but any dwarf could tell these items were masterfully crafted at the least, and probably magical. 

Dellarocca was lost in thought as he stroked the edge of Fulmine with an almost sensuous touch. The wizard absentmindedly cast a minor spell that unlocked the wooden chest, then used another spell to open its lid. Inside rested a thick tome, bound in expensive-looking leather. Sighing contentedly, Dellarocca carefully took up his spellbook and began leafing through it.

Sara moved among the remaining items and weaponry sadly. “Come here, Brogun,” she stated. He complied, eager to see what she intended.

“This was Kednor’s armor,” Sara said, pointing at the ornately wrought plate mail. “He will not be needing it any longer,” the priestess of Ishir continued softly.

“Ach, ‘tis a pity what happened to your companions,” Brogun began, “but it would be foolish to let their equipment go unused. Armor was meant for battle, after all. It will be an honor for me to avenge Kednor’s death while wearing this.”

Sara nodded. “May it protect you better than it did him,” she whispered. She also pressed Kednor’s large warhammer upon Brogun, although he insisted that he would prefer to use his trusty waraxe.

= = =

The three adventurers spent some time re-equipping themselves. Sara took up her Shield of Ishir; its highly reflective surface would deflect the blows of enemies away from its bearer. Dellarocca wore two rings upon either hand: the first was his trusty Ring of Protection; the second had been Leta’s Ring of Stealth. “I’m not sure of its exact function,” Dellarocca admitted, “but we may have need of it nonetheless.” The wizard also outfitted himself with a pair of copper bracelets, each carved with arcane symbols.

Those items that were of no immediate use to any of the Company, such as Gunther’s enormous sword, were distributed throughout the party’s packs.

Dellarocca then spent half an hour preparing spells, turning the pages of his spellbook with barely concealed glee. Sara meditated, while Brogun clanked about the room happily in his new – that is, Kednor’s old – armor.

When the three had properly prepared themselves, Dellarocca led the way back to the nearby stair-room, where the ciquali worked away, oblivious to the approaching adventurers.

The mage drew Fulmine in his right hand and glanced behind him, a murderous glint in his eyes [*]. “Leave no survivors,” he growled as his left hand twisted through the motions of a spell. Moments later, an electrically substituted _fireball_ blossomed in the center of the room.

Brogun swung his axe about his head and charged.




[*] Image the look on Anakin Skywalker's face right before he slaughters the Sand People and you have Dellarocca's expression to a T.


----------



## Nail (Jun 2, 2003)

> _Originally posted by Joshua Randall _*[*] Image the look on Anakin Skywalker's face right before he slaughters the Sand People and you have Dellarocca's expression to a T. *



Excellent.

<insert toothy grin>


(I take it that _raise dead_ and the like are not viable options...because they are missing the bodies?)


----------



## Joshua Randall (Jun 3, 2003)

Nail said:
			
		

> (I take it that _raise dead_ and the like are not viable options...because they are missing the bodies?)



Well, they are missing the bodies *for now*.... (cue ominous music)

I'll try to stay on a roll here and post another update later today. By looking at the views I can tell that Nail and my other six readers must be waiting with baited breath.


----------



## Nail (Jun 3, 2003)

Joshua Randall said:
			
		

> *I'll try to stay on a roll here and post another update later today. By looking at the views I can tell that Nail and my other six readers must be waiting with baited breath.  *



<insert story hour author comiseration comment here>

....and anyway, I look at it this way: We're keeping all of PC's fans happy while they wait for an update from _him_!


----------



## Joshua Randall (Jun 3, 2003)

Brogun picked through the aftermath of the battle against the ciquali. Only the two ciquali farthest from the entrance had survived Dellarocca’s magical assault, and they fell quickly under Brogun’s axe. Now, he was regretting that he hadn’t left one of them alive to answer questions.

But he had prepared a _speak with dead_ spell for just such a contingency, so Brogun knelt beside the corpse of a fallen ciquali.

“How many ciquali warriors inhabit this place?” Brogun asked.

The corpse’s mouth moved in a grotesque imitation of speech. “Two… hundred….” came the reply.

Brogun frowned in dismay, then asked, “Do any of the ciquali use magic?”

“Yes,” responded the corpse.

Brogun frowned again. Should’ve asked something more specific, he thought to himself. Ah well.

Looking around, he noticed that Dellarocca was not present. “Where’s your brother?” Brogun inquired of Sara.

“He has gone to retrieve the rest of the small army we travel with,” she replied.

Ah yes. Baron da Silva had insisted that a small unit of his men accompany the Kestrels on their reconnaissance-in-force, and a group of crocaryx had joined as well. At the last moment, an Herbalish scout named Kell had arrived in Lof and attached himself to the motley crew. 

In order to keep the adventuring group down to a manageable size, and to prevent the reconnaissance from turning into an invasion, Brogun had talked sergeant Tomás into holding his men back from the initial foray. The precepts of Kirabá applied: _The timely arrival of reinforcements will win the battle._ Brogun had also used his clout with the crocaryx to convince them to remain hidden until the ciquali disposition was determined. 

As for Kell – Brogun knew next to nothing about him. He claimed to hail from Bautar, along the Tentarias far to the south. He said that his Order had commanded him to journey to Lof, there to confront a great evil. Brogun had ordered Kell to remain with the reinforcements, and was surprised when the Herbalish assented. There’s something strange about such passivity, Brogun had decided.

Now the whole assemblage came noisily down the hall and entered the stair room: Tomás and his five men, including Guillermo; six crocaryx led by one slightly larger (they had given names, but Brogun could not tell them apart); and Kell, slouching along at the back of the column, carrying an unstrung bow.

Everyone wanted to descend into the waiting darkness of the flooded levels. But that would tax the Kestrels’ magical resources to their limit, so Brogun imposed his will again with another plan: he, Dellarocca, and Sara would use magical aid to survive underwater. They would be accompanied by the crocaryx, who were naturally amphibious. Tomás, his men, and Kell would remain in the stair room to secure the group’s retreat. If any ciquali showed up, they must be dealt with quickly and permanently, lest a general alarm be raised throughout the complex.

This plan established, Brogun, Dellarocca, and Sara returned to the hidden treasure room for a night’s sleep. (During the night, four ciquali guards entered the stair room from below, where they were swiftly cut to ribbons.) Upon waking, the Kestrels prepared spells in consultation to afford them the best mix of offensive and defensive capabilities. Sara passed out potions of _water breathing_, and Dellarocca placed a spell of _darkvision_ upon himself and his sister. Brogun contributed _endure elements_, for without such protection, they would not survive long in the frigid water.

It was now time to descend, and Brogun eyed the murky water with trepidation. What if the ciquali had superior darkvision and could see the adventurers approaching? What if they were struck with _dispel magic_? How accurate was the crocaryx map, and what modifications had been made to the fortress?

He had no answers. Now it was time to trust to luck. Involuntarily holding his breath, Brogun stepped into the water. He rolled his eyes and told himself to relax and breathe. The cold water felt strange in his lungs, and Brogun had to suppress his gag reflex at first. As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, Brogun could see that the group had descended into an entry chamber, with passages leading off to the west, north, and east.

The group quickly developed a plan: the crocaryx would scout ahead in a direction indicated by Brogun, who would consult the map of the old fortress to get a general sense of where they were headed. Their goal was to scout things out at thoroughly as possible while at the same time remaining undetected.

For a while, this plan worked perfectly. The group managed to navigate unseen into the northeast corner of the complex, where according to Brogun’s map, another set of stairs would lead to the bottom level. Descending, they came upon a large troupe of ciquali forming up to go on patrol.

Dellarocca obliterated the ciquali with an expertly placed electrically substituted _fireball_.

Continuing onwards, the group found a crossroads of sorts. From the north came hideous screams, amplified by the water. Thinking quickly, Brogun led the way south, noting a slight downward slope in the passage. It ended at a set of double doors; beyond, he could make out faint grunts and muffled cheering. Baffled, Brogun edged open on of the doors and looked upon a strange scene.

In the center of what could only be an enormous arena, two ciquali warriors tore and bit at each other, their blood billowing in the water around them. Around the arena, row upon row of stone benches stretched away towards the ceiling, many of them occupied: Brogun counted over fifty ciquali scattered throughout the stands.

He closed the door and started an urgent whispered conversation. Dellarocca wanted to barge into the arena, reasoning that the ciquali would be caught off guard and make easy prey. Sara advised finding a way to seal off the area, and revealed that her brother was carrying a scroll of _wall of stone_. Brogun favored Sara’s plan, but after speaking with the crocaryx and looking at his map, decided that it was unfeasible because there were at least two other entrances to the arena. In the end, the group decided to avoid this area, over Dellarocca’s strenuous objections.

There was but one thing left to do: explore the northern hallway, from which the hideous screams were heard. Brogun gripped the haft of his axe and crept northwards as quietly as possible. He could begin to make out a wide but narrow room with a series of barred doors along the far wall. The screams were coming from the left. Motioning to his companions, Brogun burst around the corner, axe at the ready.


----------



## Joshua Randall (Jun 6, 2003)

The ciquali chuckled evilly as they scraped the serrated blade along their captive’s arms. He screamed, a bubbling sound in the water, and thrashed around, but he was securely chained down.

One ciquali turned to the other, a suggestion for new and interesting ways of inflicting pain upon his lips. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed something whooshing through the water towards him. Something that showed grey and cold to his darkvision.

Odd, thought the ciquali, we should be –

Brogun’s axe split the ciquali’s skull in twain. A burst of deep red blood billowed into the surrounding water. The other ciquali stepped back, emitting a choked cry. Brogun swept his axe into the creature’s torso just as Dellarocca pierced it in the small of its back. Soundlessly, the ciquali drifted away, spinning an erratic course through the water, given momentum by the force of the blows.

= = =

The Kestrels freed the torture victim, and thanks to Sara’s knowledge of the language of aquatic creatures [1], learned that he was a locathah named Borghas. Borghas had been on a hunting expedition when he ran into a ciquali patrol. He was captured, separated from his giant eel mount, and intermittently tortured between stays in one of the nearby cells.

After he was freed, Borghas rushed to the cell into which his giant eel had been forced. It was too late; the creature was dead, its bloated and distended body hanging limply in the fouled water. The locathah swore a vow of vengeance upon the ciquali, which earned him a clap on the shoulder from Dellarocca.

Meanwhile, Brogun and Sara had opened another cell and discovered another captive: Kysh, a triton. He told a similar tale of capture and torture, but after retrieving his sea lion mount from one of the cells, Kysh sped off into the gloom.

“Just don’t give away our position!” Brogun yelled after the fleeing triton.

The group rested for a bit, then set off to the south, skirting the strange arena in the center of the complex. Around yet another corner, Brogun spied an apparent guardroom. Two ciquali were lounging on a bench, cleaning their weapons, while a third stood near a lowered portcullis.

Uttering a prayer to Kirabá, Brogun charged.[2]

About ten seconds later, he wished he hadn’t.

The ciquali guard at the portcullis swiveled and smashed his trident into an alarm gong, its sonorous BONG seeming especially loud in the water. From a barracks in a corridor to the north that the Kestrels hadn’t yet explored, a dozen ciquali issued forth, engaging the crocaryx (and Borghas) in a furious scrum. Meanwhile, from the enormous sea-cave further to the south – the very one into which Dellarocca had made his ill-fated entrance – nearly a hundred ciquali heard the alarm and swam into action.

Things were spiraling out of control. All the careful planning that had gone into the reconnaissance mission was undone in an instant of foolishness.

The same ciquali who had rung the alarm next tried to winch up the portcullis. Brogun saw this and quickly summoned an octopus, which engulfed the ciquali’s head in its tentacles.

The two other guards turned to meet the intruders.

Dellarocca _hasted_ himself and shot forward, Fulmine glittering at his side.

Sara bolstered her brother with _shield other_ and moved to the center of the guardroom, keeping an eye on the fighting.

A huge mass of ciquali appeared outside the still-lowered portcullis and began battering it down. Brogun and Dellarocca cut up the remaining guards, then moved to hold back the horde. It was no use. The portcullis gave way, and dozens of angry ciquali poured into the room, making good use of their superior swimming skills to surround Brogun and Dellarocca.

Sara wept, her tears lost in the seawater. It was going to happen again! She laid about her clumsily with her mace, trying to reach her brother’s side. Her off hand drifted unconsciously towards her _word of recall_-imbued holy symbol.

Dellarocca was a blur of activity. With each thrust of Fulmine he slew a ciquali, striking twice as quickly as they could react. Brogun was holding his own, his axe sweeping slowly back and forth in the increasingly bloody water.

But there were just too many ciquali to handle. It was obvious that the adventurers would have to retreat. The three heroes found themselves bunched together in the center of the room, completely surrounded by ciquali. Though the creatures stabbed repeatedly at the Kestrels, for the most part they could not penetrate layers of armor and magical abjurations.[3] Still, they could bear their targets down with weight of numbers.

“We must get to the entrance whence we came,” Brogun shouted unnecessarily.

Sara, sobbing with fear, was desperate. She lowered her shoulder and plowed into the nearest ciquali. In that moment, the weight of her armor ceased to lay upon her, and she shoved the surprised creature aside.[4] “Quickly!” she yelled. Brogun and Dellarocca slipped through the gap moments before it was filled and raced to the exit.

Dellarocca lingered there long enough to unfurl a scroll and hurriedly read its contents. A wall of stone sprang into existence directly in front of him, sealing off the guard room. “Let’s see them batter that down,” the wizard sneered.

Up ahead, Brogun stared in alarm. Four crocaryx were dead, their bodies floating here and there, while those remaining fought on tenaciously against the nine remaining ciquali. As Brogun watched, Borghas the locathah tried to grapple a foe and was spitted on the end of a trident for his trouble.

Unsure of what to do, Brogun felt himself shoved aside. Disoriented, the dwarf saw that Dellarocca had pushed to the front of the hallway, where he unleashed a _lightning bolt_ into the melee. Ciquli and crocaryx alike were instantly slain.

“By Kirabá’s beard! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Brogun roared.

“Silence!” Dellarocca snapped. “Make for the stairs or we’re all dead.”

Wordlessly, Brogun and Sara followed the mage as he sped off.

= = =

Kell was bored. He’d been pacing back and forth so much that Tomás finally ordered him either to sit down or to get out. Kell shrugged and stalked off.

He pulled a crumpled piece of parchment out of his jerkin and smoothed it with the edge of his hand. It was the map of this level of the fortress – Brogun had said he wouldn’t need it on his foray into the water-filled parts.

Kell studied the map, his eyes darting back and forth, picking out those areas where the dwarf’s comically large printing had updated the map. “GUARD POST,” read one entry. “PRISON. SECRET TREASURE ROOM.”

The scout smiled to himself. The left-hand portion of the map was completely free of annotations, indicating the Brogun hadn’t been there. Well, if there was something new to see, Kell was going to see it. He sauntered through the empty stone corridors, relieved that for once he didn’t have to go stealthily.

Locating the right area, Kell shoved the map back into his jerkin and headed for the nearest door. Probably just another store-room. He nonchalantly pushed it open.

The room beyond was cold, even in contrast to the already cold fortress. Scattered about the floor were a great number of bones, their surfaces scraped smooth. Judging by their whiteness, these bones must be rather… fresh. As his eyes strained to pierce the shadows at the back of the room, Kell made out a form of some sort. Advancing cautiously, he began to make out its features.

The body was slumped against the wall, naked, its tongue lolling out of its mouth. In life the man must’ve been huge, well over six-and-a-half feet tall, but now it appeared strangely shrunken. Squinting, Kell saw some weird markings on the corpse’s torso. When he realized what they were, he turned away and retched, bracing his hand against the wall, muscles quivering.

Just as a butcher marks out a side of beef for various cuts of meat, so too had the ciquali marked the body of Gunther, former member of the Company of the Red Kestrel.




[1] Sara worships Ishir, the Goddess of the Moon, and (in my version of Magnamund) the Sea. As such, it was in-character for Sara to learn the aquatic language.

[2] I have no idea why Brogun’s player decided to charge the ciquali guards when he had been successfully sneaky so far. Perhaps he was bored.

[3] This fight illustrated why it’s a bad idea to use hoards of weak monsters against higher-level PCs. The ciquali could only hit on an 18, 19, or 20, so they presented no real danger to the adventurers. By contrast, the adventurers’ only concern was avoiding being grappled.

[4] Sara, Str 8, successfully bullrushed a ciquali, Str 14. It was an inspiring moment that probably saved the Kestrels’ collective butts.


----------



## Joshua Randall (Jun 10, 2003)

Brogun’s lungs ached as he hustled through the murky, water-filled corridors of the ciquali lair. He had seen no sign of pursuit for several minutes. Was that a hopeful sign? Brogun wasn’t sure. He had bought himself and his companions additional time by using stone shape to close off a key doorway after passing through it. But there was more than one way to the upper level of the fortress, and the ciquali could take alternate routes.

At last, up ahead, he began to make out a faint light that dimly illuminated the staircase to the uppermost, dry level of the fortress. With the Dellaroccas at his side, Brogun staggered his way up the stairs, bursting from the water and feeling once again the comfort of air upon his face.

As Brogun stood there, blinking water out of his eyes, he heard the unmistakable TWANG of crossbows being discharged. The ciquali must be assaulting Tomás and his men, he thought, moments before two bolts slammed into his armor.

Brogun’s vision cleared, and he could make out Tomás and the other men of Lof deliberately reloading their crossbows and taking aim. The dwarf stood there, dumbfounded, as another two bolts struck the armor above his chest. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dellarocca spin out of the way of the shots aimed at him, while to his left, Sara had raised her shield in front of her face.

He stumbled forward, hefting his axe, but unwilling to strike. Why was this happening? What obscure betrayal would lead the baron’s men to fire upon him? Had he been meant to perish in the waters below?

Just then, Brogun caught a glimpse of the Herbalish scout, Kell, lurking in the entranceway. Brogun watched in horror as Kell fitted an arrow to his bow and took aim. _Not him too!_ Brogun thought, aghast.

Kell loosed his arrow at – who was that? A ciquali – no, two – stood behind the row of Lofian crossbowmen. One was arrayed in typical warrior’s garb, but the other, somewhat smaller, wore a gold-colored circlet around her brow and carried a slender black wand in her hand. It was this priestess at whom Kell directed his shot, aiming for her left eye.

The arrow passed by a few feet to her right.

Lowering his head, Brogun forced his tired legs to carry him past the nearest crossbowman and straight towards the ciquali priestess. She shrieked and stabbed at him with her wand. Where it touched his arm, Brogun felt a momentary chilling numbness, but he shook off the effect and plowed into her. The other ciquali reversed grip on his trident and raised it in both hands before plunging it into Brogun’s back. But his borrowed armor held and the tines of the weapon bent.

Kell dropped his bow, put his hands to his hips, and withdrew a shortsword in each. Darting forward, he struck at the ciquali warrior, slashing him twice. By this time Dellarocca had recovered from his shock and was stabbing at the priestess.

Beset by three determined foes, the two ciquali fell. With their deaths, Tomás and his men seemed to come to their senses and looked dumbly about the room. Apparently, the priestess had placed some spell upon them, compelling them to turn against their friends.

“And where were you when this happened?” Brogun demanded of Kell.

“I was checking out the… pantry,” Kell replied, his face blanching.

= = =

The Kestrels wished to vacate the ciquali fortress as quickly as possible, before their unwilling hosts made it to the surface. Stopping only to gather up the bodies from the “pantry” that Kell had discovered, they beat a hasty retreat to the entrance. Along the way, they battled another large group of ciquali, including a four-armed brute whom they took to be the sea-devils’ leader. But the fierce fighting of the Kestrels and the disciplined archery of Tomás and his men sent the ciquali scurrying for safety under cover of several darkness spells.

Once outside the fortress, the adventurers and soldiers fled down the coast towards Lof, relying on Kell to obscure their trail as best he could behind them. A few days later, the exhausted company reached the gates of the city. Brogun had never been so glad to see the drab, gray walls of Lof as at that moment.

No ciquali pursued them.

“Hah!” Dellarocca snorted. “The way we carved through them, they would be fools to seek out more punishment.”

Sara frowned to herself as she stood up from the remains of Gunther, Kednor, and Leta. “They are beyond my help,” she said sadly. “We shall have to seek one on whom the light of Ishir reflects more strongly.”

= = =

Baron da Silva was overjoyed with the detailed report that Brogun delivered on the layout of the ciquali fortress, as well as the projected makeup of its forces, and suggestions for how to conduct an assault.

“With the information you have provided,” the baron declared, “we shall crush the ciquali. Wipe them out. Let those croco-men back into their home.” He was clearly well pleased with the prospect of the coming battle.

So it was that the Company of the Red Kestrel successfully completed its reconnaissance of the ciquali fortress.


----------



## Joshua Randall (Jun 11, 2003)

_Note: this part of the story is in second person present tense instead of the normal third person preterite. I hope it's not too jarring._

= = = = =

With a start, you leap to your feet, grabbing for your weapons. A loud drumming comes from overhead. Disoriented, you try to figure out what it is – only to realize it’s the rain, pounding on the roof of the inn. Your tensed muscles relax and you lay down your weapons.

Throwing open the window of your room (provided to you free-of-charge by the grace of his lordship, Baron Giosue da Silva),  you breath in the fresh, cold air of another winter morning in Lof. You can smell the Kaltersee, although your vision is obscured by the sheets of water falling from the sky. Below your window, the streets of Lof are clear, the rainwater rushing down them like a shallow river.

Stretching your aching muscles, you decide to head downstairs to seek out some breakfast. The common area is clear, the innkeeper sullenly mopping the floors beneath the windows where the driving rain has entered.

As you are about to ask for some food, the doors of the inn burst open and two figures enter. At first you hardly recognize them: the tall, imposing man clad in a bright blue traveling cloak, water streaming off an ostentatious red hunting hat. Behind him, a short, somewhat dumpy woman in simple gray robes but wearing a gleaming silver crescent moon on a pendant around her neck.

Dellarocca takes off his hat and wrings it out on the floor. “Damn this rain!” he complains, but you can tell that the wizard is in a good mood.

“Brogun, Kell – we’ve come to bid you farewell – for now, anyway,” Dellarocca announces. “We’re off to Sommerlund. I mean to have a word with Loi-Kymar and the rest of the Guild. They’ve been far too selfish with their arcane knowledge –“

His imminent rant is cut off as Sara puts a hand on her brother’s arm and looks piercingly into his eyes. Dellarocca scowls as he slaps her hand away, then makes an awkward coughing noise. “No need to nag, sister. I was just coming to that,” he snaps.

Sara sighs and steps forward. “The main reason we’re headed to Sommerlund is to visit the Temple of Ishir in Holmgard. There we shall appeal to the Goddess to return the breath of life to our fallen companions.”

“Yes. Exactly,” Dellarocca cuts in. “The Brotherhood of the Red Kestrel takes care of its own.”

“That reminds me, Brogun – I’ll have to ask for Kednor’s armor and warhammer back. I’m sure he’ll want those once he is revivified. But go ahead and keep that magic wand and the net that ciquali leader was using – they might come in handy.”

Dellarocca looks at you, then abruptly wheels around, claps his hat on his head, and opens the door to leave. “Oh, I almost forgot,” he says over his shoulder. “I’ve made arrangement with the baron to get us a cut of any treasure recovered when they raid the ciquali lair. Well, goodbye, then!” And with that, Dellarocca steps out into the street.

You almost don’t notice that Sara is still standing in front of you. The corners of her mouth curl upwards in a smile, but her eyes bear a hint of sadness. “Our paths shall cross again,” Sara says, “when Ishir designs.”

Raising her hands, the priestess intones a blessing on each of you in turn.

“May the Goddess Ishir watch over and protect you. May the moon light your way through the darkness of the night.”

Sara remains standing before you, her arms outstretched, her head tilted back as if to contemplate the heavens. You feel a great serenity wash over you.

The mood is shattered by a cry to “hurry up!” from outside the inn. Sighing, Sara lowers her arms and shakes her head in dismay. “Farewell,” she whispers before departing.

As she opens the door, you catch a glimpse of Dellarocca, mounted atop a fine riding horse, water streaming off his hat and cloak.

“Damn this rain!” he exclaims happily, before jerking the reins and riding off into the mists.

= = = = =

_Brogun next decides to track down Zaccarias Zabar, a famed dwarven weaponsmith. Brogun had been supposed to do this much earlier, but he kept pushing it to the back burner in order to pursue his adventuring._

The innkeeper provides directions to Zabar’s smithy, so you head out into the rain. Your path takes you up the street, the water rushing past at your feet. Soon it becomes somewhat challenging to walk, as you slog your way along the street that heads up a slight hill. At last you reach your destination – a low building of dark stone with a pair of impressive metal doors.

As you draw near these portals, you take note of their extremely weather-beaten appearance. The doors seem incredibly old, their metal pitted and stained. Upon their surface is engraved two runes – two interlocking letter Z’s. As you draw nearer to study these doors, you see that they tower above you, blocking out the light, looming immense and hideous over you –

You blink the rain out of your eyes and step back. The doors are no more than five feet tall, as you would expect in a dwarven dwelling. Shrugging, you knock upon them. A low booming sound echoes within.

Several moments pass. Rain pours down upon your, soaking your garments and chilling you to the bone.

There has been no answer to your summons. So, frowning, you knock again, noticing this time that the doors are slightly open. There is still no answer, so you push them fully open and step inside.

A corridor stretches off to your sides. To your right, you see a small room; a line of pegs on the wall and benches on the floor suggesting it functions as a cloakroom. Presently, however, there is only a single forlorn pair of boots in one corner.

To your left, the corridor stretches off into darkness, but you can make out a wooden door ajar at its end. Advancing down the corridor, you are struck by how quiet things have gotten – no sounds of rainfall make their way inside the building. It’s also incredibly dark. Surely some light, however dim, should be filtering in from the main doors? But no – you must’ve closed them after all, for glancing behind you, you see that they are shut tightly.

As you near the wooden doorway ahead of you, you catch a glimpse of a large, open room. A giant hearth fills the center of the room, but it is cold. Two anvils stand to either side of the unlit hearth, one with a hammer lying upon it. Empty weapons racks hang on the walls. The entire area is scorched and blackened as if a great fire had once raged within.

“Wh—Who’s there?!” stammers a voice from behind you. Whirling around, you see a rumpled-looking dwarf blinking at you and clutching a military pick.

“Oh, it’s y—you,” the dwarf says. He appears relieved and lowers his weapon. “If you’re l—looking for M—M—Master Zabar, he’s n—not here.” The dwarf blinks, his eyes wide. “They’ve all g—gone. To Ha—Ham—Hammerdal,” he stutters.

“I was j—just cleaning up,” the dwarf says. “There’s n—nothing h—here, now,” he continues in a low voice.

Apparently your business with Zaccarias Zabar will have to wait. You follow the dwarf back to the main doors, which he motions at apologetically. “I h—have to o—o—open them for you,” he announces. Stepping up to the massive portals, he mutters something incomprehensible.

The doors remain shut.

“S—sorry!” the dwarf says. “S—sometimes my st—st—stutter…” he trails off as his face contorts and spasms. Finally, the dwarf masters his tics and blurts out a string of syllables in a shrill voice.

The doors swing open silently. Outside, the rain pours down, drumming loudly on the street.


----------



## Nail (Jun 11, 2003)

Nice change.

Was this done via email?


----------



## Joshua Randall (Jun 13, 2003)

Right you are, Nail. This was from an e-mail exchange, although I did clean things up so it was less choppy.

DM tip: e-mail is a great way to give out background information in far greater detail than would be practical face-to-face. You can also give slightly different versions of the information to each player... not that I would _ever_ do something like that.... 

Another great use of e-mail is to send out rumors and plot hooks in advance, to see which ones interest your players. You can then plan in advance as opposed to winging it at the table. (I'll try to post my Magnamund campaign list of rumors soon.)


----------



## Nail (Jun 13, 2003)

Joshua Randall said:
			
		

> *DM tip: e-mail is a great way to give out background information ....*



I've tried this to.  I'd be very interested to see what sorts of things you send.  My stuff tends to be short snippets of rumors, etc.

Your "clean-up" of the email exchange is impressive.  (My own skills need some polishing, it seems.)


----------



## Joshua Randall (Jun 16, 2003)

*Non-Story Campaign World Interlude*

It's no secret that the world of Magnamund is not my creation. It is, rather, the creation of Joe Dever, author of the Lone Wolf game books, which were immensely popular in the '80s. You can learn more about the Lone Wolf game books at Project Aon.

That said, when I started this campaign, I provided the players with various background documents, cobbled together from information in the Lone Wolf books and augmented with my own imaginings. (These documents are too lengthy to post here, but if anyone is interested in a copy, please e-mail directly at the address in my user profile.) One of the most well-received documents was the list of campaign rumors, which I'll reproduce below. Each of these rumors, or plot hooks, could lead to several adventures. Some could even take the campaign in a new direction.

Of note - I have *not* fleshed out all of these potential adventures. That would be a lot of work, and the vast majority of them are never going to be needed. Instead, I make up additional details regarding each rumor as needed to respond to PC inquiry or investigation. Only when the PCs are ready to interact directly with the people or places referred to do I go ahead and make stat blocks and so forth.

This "just-in-time campaign building" saves me a lot of effort.

Now, here are the rumors.

= = =

Magnamund Rumors

The following rumors (in no particular order) are current as of mid-winter, MS 5049.

There are fears within the Sommlending military that the people have become soft without a direct Darklord threat to motivate them. As well, the king’s heir, Prince Pelathar, seems more interested in pomp and circumstance than in leading the nation. There are whispers that King Ulnar will pass his throne to a worthy Kai Lord, thereby combining the political and spiritual leadership of the realm.

The Maakengorge is a vast scar across northern Magnamund, a great rift south of the Durncrag Mountains. It was here during the Age of the Black Moon that King Ulnar I of Sommerlund slew Darklord Vashna with the Sommerswerd. The bodies of the Darklord and all his followers were cast into the abyss. According to folklore, Vashna's death cry echoes throughout the gorge to this day. Darker tales also hint that somewhere within the Maakengorge lie the pieces of Gajikago, Vashna’s mighty axe, which was hewn in half by the Sommerswerd.

A powerful witch is rumored to make her home on one of the Kirlundin islands. Despite repeated attempts by Baron Tor Medar’s forces to locate her, she has never been found.

Travelers across the interior of the Wildlands tell of seeing the ruins of a mighty fortress, now occupied by fearsome humanoid creatures.

Lord Axim of Ryme (Durenor) is commander of King Alin IV's personal bodyguard and leader of the royal navy. His daughter, Viveka, is something of a tomboy. She received weapons training in southern lands and is reputedly an expert swordswoman.

In the throne rooms of northern Magnamund, it is said that Zultan Guldarra is so desperate to restore Cloeasia to her former glory that he is openly selling her services to the highest bidder. Reportedly, the Zultan is offering exclusive trading rights and a military alliance to whichever nation presents him with the most favorable terms. As yet none have taken him up on his offer.

Every year, High-Mayor Kordas of Casiorn sponsors the Grand Games, which feature gladiatorial combat, magical displays, archery sharp-shooting, and the like. Much of the High-Mayor’s staff is kept busy preparing for, running, and recuperating from the Games. While some of the more cynical citizens of Casiorn believe the spectacle is meant to distract the populace from crushing class inequalities, the Games are undeniably popular throughout the region.

Lately, Barrakeesh (capitol of Vassagonia) has been abuzz over repeated sightings of black-clad figures entering and exiting the imperial palace. The word in the bath-houses is that Zakhan Moudalla is negotiating with agents of the Darklords; such talk has been quickly suppressed.

Caravans crossing the Dry Main report many lost cities and ruins buried under the sands. Evil creatures are said to lure the unwary to their doom and to guard untold treasures.

Tahou, the capitol of Anari, is supposedly built atop the ruins of an ancient civilization. However, the presidential administration closely regulates access to the Tahou Cauldron; there are few whoknow what’s down there, and even fewer willing to talk about it.

Ages ago, on the Isle of Khor (in Dessi), a great evil took old. For centuries, the Elder Magi have used their powers to contain the evil but could never destroy it. They are currently seeking help from experienced adventurers willing to enter and confront the perils of Kazan Oud.

Dessi is also threatened by stirrings from within the Chasm of Gorgoron. Ancient tales tell of a great beast within the chasm that will one day emerge and lay waste to Dessi. Some Vakeros tribesmen believe the beast to be a dragon – even though such creatures have been extinct in Magnamund for thousands of years.

The soldiers of Palmyrion continue to patrol the western frontier of Ruel, and despite steady loss of life remain steadfast in their resolve to keep the Cener druids bottled up. Those few Palmyrians to survive forays into Ruel return with their minds snapped, babbling insanely.

For the last several decades, the Daughters of Ishir have been especially active throughout Magnamund, traveling far and wide in their effort to root out and confront evil. Some of the surrounding lands grumble that Telchos is attempting to spread its matriarchal doctrine in an effort to undermine traditional society, setting up women in positions of authority. Whatever the Daughters of Ishir truly intend is known only to them.

Varetta (the major city of Lyris) is a melting pot for mercenaries of all nations who come here to serve the feuding Stornlands princelings in their perpetual wars. The mercenaries frequent the Inn of the Crossed Swords, a cavernous, rowdy tavern where macabre betting games take place and blood is often spilled. 

Varetta is also home to the Halls of Learning in Brass Street, run by Gwynian the Sage, the wisest man in Northern Magnamund. When he’s not being pestered, Gwynian studies the night sky, divining the future in the patterns of the heavens.

Helin, a town to the north of Varetta, is desperately seeking funding for its continued conflict with Karkaste. Prince Janveal has nearly bankrupted himself to pay for a war against Baron Maghao. Without additional gold to pay his mercenaries, Prince Janveal will have to concede the war.

On the border between Lyris and the city-state of Casiorn sits Quarlen, whose heavily fortified stone walls protect it from attack. Although not a mercantile town, Quarlen’s wealth comes from the merchants who pay substantial levies to pass through it. The Barrel Bridge Tavern in Quarlen is an impressive hostelry, a meeting place for merchants and mercenaries. The Tavern, which sits on the approach to wide stone bridge over the River Quarl, is overseen by the landlord Gnetzis, supposedly a retired rogue who still fences illicit goods to supplement his income.

Amory is a town in Salony ruled over by the Lordling Roark, a thoroughly nasty and paranoid man, but a fine swordsman. Roark has challenged – and defeated – every warrior in the region, growing more arrogant with each victory. He has publicized a standing offer of 50,000 Lune to the man who can best him in single combat. 

Recently, it is feared that Darklord subversion has undermined the court of Grand Prince Ormond of Slovia, and civil war seems imminent. The Prince of Tekaro has already withdrawn his support for Ormond and is openly calling for men-at-arms to join his cause.

Queen Evaine is recalling her troops from Palmyrion to face the threat from Ogia. This has in turn forced Palmyrion to withdraw men from its border with Ruel.

Prince Graygor of Eru and his small army are unable to defend their borders from attacks by creatures of the Hellswamp and Drakkarim renegades from the Hammerlands. Graygor is calling for aid from the dwarven kingdom of Bor, aid which the dwarves have proven curiously reluctant to give.

Haleón, patron Saint of the Knights of the White Mountain in Durenor, was originally from Valerion. A magnificent tomb in Kelis is said to contain St. Haleón’s mortal remains along with his legendary sword, Xamenh Evtexia.

Kalte just completed a vicious but ultimately futile assault on Sommerlund and Durenor, and traders report that the Ice Barbarians of Ljuk are even surlier than normal. In light of the strained relations between Kalte and the civilized nations of the Lastlands, both Sommerlund and Durenor have clamped down on trade with the Ice Barbarians. Normally, in the summer months, merchants journey to Ljuk where they trade metals for furs. Since there are no mines in Kalte all metals are considered rare and precious, especially steel. Currently, the flow of most commodities is regulated and trade of metal implements is outright forbidden.

For the last several years, the Crusaders of Nyras have journeyed throughout Northern Magnamund, seeking recruits and magical aid for their quest to reclaim their ancient land from the Drakkarim. Their leader, Prince Richard of Westhaven, recently disappeared. He may have been assassinated by agents of Warlord Magnaarn, or he may have taken his recruitment efforts underground. Regardless, the Crusadersappear leaderless.


----------



## Joshua Randall (Jun 16, 2003)

*Now, back to the story*

_We now continue our regularly scheduled story hour._



The Kingdom of Durenor encompasses a peninsula in northeastern Magnamund, jutting out into the Northern Void. Its western border is defined by the Rymerift, a natural natural causeway between the Gulf of Durenor and the Kuri Sea, formed during the Age of Chaos when intense volcanic activity reshaped much of Magnamund. Two roads cross this waterway, each carrying great amounts of foot and wagon traffic. The northern road, which crosses the Rymerift at Port Box, stretches westwards along the coastline of the inhospitable Wildlands, into the rough and tumble city of Ragadorn, and further westwards to the borders of Sommerlund. The southern road crosses the Rymerift at the city of Ryme, an important port and naval base on Durenor’s southern coast. Trade caravans muster at the Cloeasian city of Kadan for the journey to Ryme, where their goods can be dispersed by the wide-reaching Durenese sea-traders.

East of the Rymerift, the Durenese countryside becomes heavily forested and progressively more hilly until the mighty ring of mountains that surrounds the capitol, Hammerdal. Three great tunnels were excavated through these mountains during the Age of the Black Moon, consuming the efforts of generations of human and dwarven miners. Each tunnel is over forty miles long and over one hundred feet in height and width – except at strategically located chokepoints that allow small contingents of soldiers to control passage through the tunnels. So well protected is the city of Hammerdal by its natural fortifications that in the years since its founding no enemy has attempted an assault.

It was to Hammerdal that Brogun Rhumenheim, Priest of Kirabá, decided to journey. 

He spent several pleasant days of leisurely travel down the coast from Lof, his lungs drinking in the fresh spring air, glad for an end to the long winter. Brogun passed many wagons and the occasional carriage upon the road south from Lof. Several times he stopped to lend his strength to those that had become mired in the muddy roads. Those whom he aided may have raised their eyebrows at this heavily-armed dwarf, traveling alone, but in the end all were glad for the help.

At the River Durenor, the road to Hammerdal turned east. Brogun knew that he would pass through the Tunnel of Tarnalin, and looked forward to his first glimpse of this marvel of engineering. He had disdained several offers to purchase a horse, preferring both to conserve his money and to experience the countryside on foot. So Brogun plodded on, singing the ancestral songs of his people to pass the time.

Brogun was now in the foothills, the mountain ring looming above him to the east. He paused to take in the majestic snow-capped peaks in the distance. It was an inspiring sight, even for a dwarf from Bor.

As he stood there, savoring the view, Brogun noticed some strange sounds emanating from the woods to his right. Frowning, Brogun strode boldly toward the source of these sounds. A little way into the woods, he came upon a strange scene. In a small clearing a man lay sprawled out, groaning and writhing on the ground; from his chest protruded a short spear. A horse in the white livery of Durenor cropped the grass at the opposite end of the clearing.

Brogun furrowed his brows at this scene. One hand to his axe, he cautiously approached the injured man. The man wore mud-stained brown traveling robes and a pair of well-worn boots upon his feet. The spear was embedded deeply within his chest, yet there seemed little blood. The man’s hands were wrapped around the spear, and as Brogun watched, he weakly attempted to pull it free.

"Do you require assistance?" Brogun inquired, rather pointlessly. The man’s face contorted in pain and he groaned incoherently. Shrugging, Brogun placed both hands on the spear and tugged. It came free more easily than Brogun had expected.

The spear’s haft was covering with writings in some unknown tongue intertwined with ornate carvings in a woodland motif. As Brogun turned the spear in his hands, he noticed how light it felt. Surely not stout enough to be a proper weapon, he thought.

He startled as the injured man lept to his feet. "How did this –" Brogun began – but his words were choked off as the man underwent a rapid and hideous transformation. The skin of the man’s face and hands seemed to tighten and shrivel until it was a black skein over his bones. His teeth elongated into fangs and his eyes sunk into his skull until they were mere pinpricks of glowing red light.

“By the Gods!” Brogun gasped, backing away and fumbling for his axe. The creature glared at Brogun as it advanced towards him, claws outstretched. The dwarf felt a terrible pain erupt between his temples and clutched his head.

The creature laughed, a harsh grating sound, and lashed at Brogun with one clawed hand, ripping a gash through his armor and slicing his flesh. "Gaaa!" Brogun roared through a haze of pain. Gripping his axe in both hands, he swung it in a wide arc, catching the thing just above and waist and ripping upwards to its opposite shoulder. It lurched backwards with the force of the blow.

Brogun looked with satisfaction at the results of his handiwork – then looked again in horror as the creature’s wounds closed before his eyes. It laughed again, its eyes boring into Brogun’s. Then it spoke several words in a guttural tongue and gestured in the air before it. Brogun cringed, expecting to be blasted by some spell. But the creature had shot off towards the horse, racing across the ground at unnatural speed.

Brogun glanced at his axe in disbelief. Shaking his head, he ran towards the creature, his armor clanking loudly. The thing had grabbed the horse’s reins in one clawed hand, but the terrified animal neighed frantically and reared up. As the creature spotted Brogun approaching, it grabbed at something under its robes.

Brogun circled warily behind the horse’s kicking hooves, axe held in one hand. He invoked the power of Kirabá’s healing touch in the other hand and held it before him. He thought back to the fight with the Ice Haunt in the monastery above Lof. Brogun hoped he had guessed correctly about the undead nature of the thing he confronted now, and that it would prove as susceptible as had the Ice Haunt.

The creature saw Brogun’s outstretched hand, saw that it glowed with positive energy. It released its hold upon the horse, which bolted into the woods. The thing raised its bony hand, a spike of black metal clutched within it. From the spike’s tip spat an arc of bluish energy that slammed into Brogun and knocked him off his feet. Ribbons of blue crawled over his body for a few seconds before dissipating.

By the time Brogun got to his feet, the creature had fled, but the dwarf could still hear it crashing through the trees. He charged after it, boughs and braches slapping at his face, roots and brambles tearing at his feet. At last Brogun reached the road. He peered in both directions. To his right, he could just make out a brown-robed figure before it disappeared around a bend. 

Brogun sighed. There was no way he could catch up to the thing. Even if he removed his armor, its magically enhanced speed would allow it to stay ahead of him.

The creature raced east, toward Hammerdal.


----------



## (contact) (Jun 17, 2003)

*Re: Interlude: Dellarocca Imprisoned*



			
				Joshua Randall said:
			
		

> *Then a scowl crossed Dellarocca's face as he recalled the last time Sara had chosen to convince someone – not that that b*stard Heydricus had needed much prodding to take advantage of the situation . . .  After the departure of the self-styled Heroes of the Temple, *




I'm going to write Dellarocca and Sara into the LoT, now.   

I actually like the fact that there is only one PC (Brogun); It does reflect back to the Lone Wolf books, which is really kind of cool in a subtle way, and it avoids quite a few of the D&D-isms that have been straining my sense of disbelief over the last few years.

"Well, the half-minotaur half-ogre acrobat who is searching for his mother is adventuring with the snobbish teenage princess of the Lost Realm of Vis and the superstitious revenge-seeking Uthgardt clansman because, um . . . er . . ."

Of course, I get that it's D&D, and that's just how D&D goes (my games suffer from the same disease to an extent), but it still kind of works my nerves.  It's nice to see a campaign with one sole protagonist, letting you can rotate NPCs as the situation and story dictate.

Does your player read this SH?  The 3rd-person insights into the motivations of the major NPCs might prove useful and or interesting.

Also, the 1st-person interludes are ok (we all understand the DMing conventions, and will read the 'email to the players' for what it is), but it's especially interesting when you have 3rd-person sections as italic text, sort of a narrative aside, while the main narrative is happening within the "you do this, and you see" convention.  It really made me think of the Lone Wolf books!

Maybe you should keep it up, and write this story-hour as a full homage?


----------



## Joshua Randall (Jun 19, 2003)

*A Response to (contact)'s Queries*

_This update has a lot of background musings that don't directly advance the story. I promise to compensate by writing a real update later today._



> _Originally posted by (contact)_
> I'm going to write Dellarocca and Sara into the LoT, now.



Counter-yoinking is always appropriate.

Dellarocca the Wizard is a combination of two NPCs from two of my favorite modules of all time. 

First there was Old Elmo, the imprisoned mage in (AD&D 1e) module U3, The Final Enemy. He had been captured by the sahaugin (the ciquali in this story), tortured, and had lost most of his mind. I always thought it was completely unfair that the PCs couldn't rescue poor Elmo, so I decided that he would be not only rescue-able, but an active participant in their assault on the fortress. Except that he would have an alternate agenda (vicious revenge and destruction) that was not compatible with the PCs' stealthy mission.

The second inspiration for Dellarocca was the archmage Desatysso from the (AD&D 2e) Return to the Tomb of Horrors super-module. In that module, the PCs discover Desatysso's journal and follow his trail toward Acererak the Demilich. Unfortunately, this won't have much impact if the PCs have never heard of Desatysso, or met him. So I decided that Desatysso would become Dellarocca, and that he would be introduced in my campaign right from the start. That way, when the PCs eventually discover my version of Acererak, they will be following up on the researches of one of the campaign's primary NPCs, someone who they have known and adventured with for a long while.

My only regret with the Dellaroccas is that I didn't give them more fantastical names.  *sigh*

As for my theft of Heydricus, the idea is that he had been a former member of the Company of the Red Kestrel. But any time you put two Cha 17+ men in the same room, sparks will fly, especially when one of them has a sister.  Hence the rift between Dellarocca and Heydricus.



> I actually like the fact that there is only one PC (Brogun); It does reflect back to the Lone Wolf books, which is really kind of cool in a subtle way, and it avoids quite a few of the D&D-isms that have been straining my sense of disbelief over the last few years.



Officially there are two PCs, Brogun and Kell (who will show up again later). However, only Brogun's player is dedicated enough to stick with the game through thick and (mostly) thin.

As for the D&D-ism problem, I tried to solve it at the start of the campaign by forcing the PCs to become members of the adventuring company. This gave them an explicit reason to be together, despite their disparate backgrounds, and had the side benefit of allowing me to order them around on behalf of the Kestrel's leader.



> Also, the [second]-person interludes are ok [...] but it's especially interesting when you have 3rd-person sections as italic text, sort of a narrative aside, while the main narrative is happening within the "you do this, and you see" convention.  It really made me think of the Lone Wolf books!
> 
> Maybe you should keep it up, and write this story-hour as a full homage?



I find it hard to write in the second person singular, yet I can spew out traditional third person preterite with ease. Maybe I'll give it a shot, though.


----------



## Joshua Randall (Jun 19, 2003)

*The Road to Hammerdal*

As he could not pursue whatever had just attacked him, Brogun returned to the forest clearing. The horse was nowhere to be found; it must’ve fled deeper into the forest. However, a search of the area did turn up something of note: the body of a Knight of the White Mountain, his neck broken, lay partially obscured in the undergrowth.

Brogun tried to recall what he knew of the knightly order. Certainly, they were recognizable by their distinctive garb: clothing and armor of the purest white, the latter specially treated to resist discoloration. Their device was the Seal of Hammerdal, a majestic snow-capped peak graced by twin silver stars. Followers of Saint Haleón, the Knights were dedicated to truth, honor, and goodness.

Why was one of them traveling alone? How had he died – in a fall from his horse, as the broken neck suggested, or in battle? Had it been the Knight’s spear that had impaled the creature Brogun had fought? And what was that thing, anyway?

The dwarf sighed to himself. "I grow frustrated with these unanswerable questions," he said petulantly, staring at the heavens. "Enlighten me, Father," Brogun implored. But there was no response.

*DM’s note: possibly because the PC didn’t actually cast a spell. This would’ve been a great time for an augury to determine a course of action, for example.*

Shrugging at his recalcitrant god, Brogun set to work digging a grave for the fallen Knight. After some hours of work, he stood over the mounded earth.

"I don’t know your customs. Or your name," Brogun began, awkwardly. "Whomever you are – were – I hope that you find peace on the great Mountain of Heaven." After a suitable few minutes with bowed head, the dwarven cleric departed. Death comes to every warrior eventually, he mused, for none can defeat the final enemy. He shuddered uncomfortably and trudged onwards.

= = =

Behind him, the spear lay where Brogun had dropped it in alarm after being attacked. The carvings upon it seemed to writhe and dance along the haft, though that could have been a trick of the light filtering through the branches above.

Time passed. Toward dusk, several sets of eyes stared at the spear in widened wonder. The eyes’ owners spoke to each other in their barely audible language. Only after they had encouraged each other sufficiently did they quickly dart from the trees into the clearing to snatch up the spear and return, hearts pounding in alarm, to the protective embrace of the forest.

= = =

Something is wrong here. There should be a steady flow of traffic into the Tunnel of Tarnalin, but you see no one. Peering into the tunnel, you see the trails of several carts, but no people. Listening intently, you hear no sounds.

You step cautiously into the tunnel entrance and begin walking. The road is level and well-graded, the walls ramrod strait, the vaulted ceiling showing no signs of wear despite its age. Your chest swells with pride at the craftsmanship of your ancestors. Human kingdoms may come and go, but the work of the dwarves endures.

Up ahead, you spot a cart by the side of the tunnel. It must have been abandoned just recently, for there are fresh cuts to the leather straps that would have connected it to a team of horses. Your breath sounds loud in the quiet as you advance, axe at the ready.

Movement – an apple, dislodged from its pile, rolls off the cart and lands with a plunk on the roadbed. You freeze, vision locked upon the pile of apples.

There! Something behind them! It’s a – what is it?

A creature, no more than a foot-and-a-half in height, pokes it whiskered snout into the air. Its face is that of a common rat, but its eyes glitter with intelligence, and it stands upright. From what you can see of its body, it is covered with soft, light-brown fur, thought it is far from naked. No, the creature wears a pair of tiny woolen breeches, as well as a vest and loose-fitting jacket. In its left hand is clutched a makeshift spear: a stick with a nail bound to its tip with twine. In its right hand, the creature holds a half-eaten apple.

It is just about to take another bite when it spots you staring at it and squeaks in alarm, dropping its prize and disappearing around the side of the cart. Moments later, it returns, tiny spear leveled at your knees.

"YouzanottaDureneezman-man,eh? YouzanotaBlackscreemerz,izyouz?"

You can barely keep up with the little thing’s incredibly rapid speech. Even a _comprehend languages_ has no effect; the creature is already speaking Durenese, after a fashion.

"I am Brogun Rhumenheim, Priest of Kirabá. I mean you no harm," you state, slowly and clearly, hoping your interlocutor will reciprocate.

The creature sniffs the air, its whiskers dancing. Very deliberately, it speaks to you with exaggerated care, as one would to a child or a pet.

"Youza not a Blackscreamerz, thatza for sure." It pauses, then plants its spear on the ground in front of it and proclaims proudly, "Iza Twitchwhiskers. Youza wantza follow mee, yez?"

After a brief discussion, you determine that Twitchwhiskers is willing to guide you throw a network of passages that run beside, under, and above the main tunnel. That way, you won’t fall afoul of the "Blackscreemerz," one of which apparently entered some time ago and caused quite a panic. Twitchwhiskers, who says he is of a race called the Noodnic, had bravely ventured forth to lay claim to the cart full of apples when you two spotted each other. He says he will take you to "ze beeg bozza" who will in turn decide what is to be done.

You follow the furry creature as it hurries along a narrow, twisting passage for nearly ten minutes and are about to call for a halt when the passage opens out into a huge torchlit cavern. A stunning sight greets your eyes. The cavern houses an entire colony of these strange creatures, all busy sorting through and examining a vast pile of miscellaneous objects littering the center of the hall.

A large Noodnic, wearing a brightly colored cloak of patchwork silks, addresses you, saying he is the leader of this colony. His name is Gashgiss and he welcomes you and invites you to join him on top of a raised platform in the center of the chamber. Gashgiss draws himself up to his full two-foot height and you politely bend a knee before him.

"Iza show yooze z'way past ze Blackscreemerz, eh?" he offers. You nod your agreement and follow him down the steps of the platform, to the hall below, where Gashgiss leads the way along one of the many passages leading out of the cavern. After an hour of trekking through the dark, he stops and points towards a shaft of light that is pouring through a crevice in the far distance. "Yooze goez left, yooze be zafe," he says.

You thank Gashgiss for his help before bowing and departing. You squeeze through a fissure in the rock wall and drop three feet to the pathway below. You are thinking how kind the Noodnics were when you put your hand to your pouch and discover it is missing half its gold. Shaking your head, but unable to suppress a smile, you walk out of the Tunnel of Tarnalin and into the outskirts of Hammerdal.

Hooves thunder on the road as a column of mounted men approaches. They are clad in burnished armor and bear heavy lances. From the center of the column comes a commanding, haughty voice.

"State your name and your purpose here, or face our steel!"





_Edit: I lifted some of the dialogue and description from the Lone Wolf book Fire on the Water; my player hasn't read the books, so I can plagiarize with impunity. Also, here are a couple of pictures, courtesy of Project Aon:_
Twitchwhiskers
Gashgiss (player comment: "He's a pimp!")


----------



## Joshua Randall (Jul 9, 2003)

*I’m way behind on this story hour, so in an effort to get it caught up, I will switch styles. Instead of imitating my long-winded better, (contact), I will now imitate my shorter-winded better, James McMurray.*



Brogun was accosted by Lord Axim of Ryme, commander of King Alin IV’s personal bodyguard, and his retinue of Knights of the White Mountain. They scrutinized Brogun to make sure he was neither evil nor something other than what he appeared. When the dwarf questioned this rough treatment, Lord Axim told him that a Helghast had been spotted entering the city.

“A Helghast!” exclaimed Brogun. That must be the creature he had fought in the forest outside the Tunnel of Tarnalin, the same one the Noodnics had referred to as a Blackscreamerz.

Brogun told Lord Axim of his confrontation, and the nobleman questioned him closely to determine the whereabouts of the spear Brogun had removed from the Helghast’s chest.

“Er, yes. The spear. I, umm…. Well, you see, it’s just that….” Brogun sighed. “I left it behind in the forest.”

“You WHAT?!” thundered Lord Axim. He was flabbergasted. It turned out that the spear was more than a simple weapon. It was, in fact, the fabled Shard of Gareth, a fragment of the holy tree sacred to the Herbalish Druids. A lone Knight of the White Mountain had been transporting the spear to Hammerdal – for what reason, Axim would not reveal. He ordered Brogun to say nothing of the Shard of Gareth, nor to speak of the presence of a shapeshifting undead assassin in the city. “We cannot risk a panic,” the lord said sternly.

At last, Brogun was released to make his way into Hammerdal proper. He sought out the whereabouts of the master smith Zaccarias Zabar, who was staying at the Inn of the Golden Badger. The dwarven cleric made his way there, where he got painfully drunk on Bor Brew and took part in a game of Squashgiak, a raucous and dangerous boulder-rolling contest.

Brogun made contact with Zaccarias and traded him the wand and magic net taken from the ciquali, plus some gold, in return for the smith’s agreement to craft a magical waraxe. The two dwarves also discussed Brogun’s recent adventures and drank yet more Bor Brew together.

The next morning, Brogun was on his way out of the Golden Badger when he ran into some familiar-looking Knights and an extremely angry Lord Axim.

“I gave you a simple order,” he hissed, “and you violated it. You are under arrest for crimes against the security of Durenor.” The lord’s men clapped Brogun in chains and hauled him away.

It turned out that Axim was wroth because Brogun had spoken of both the Helghast and the Shard of Gareth to Zaccarias. The two dwarves were taken before Eluchir,  Truthspeaker of St.Haleón. [Picture Cardinal Richelieu as portrayed by Charlton Heston’s in The Three Musketeers: a scarily intense religious leader with vast personal and political power.]

After being subjected to a barrage of divination spells, Brogun and Zaccarias were both _quest_ed “neither to speak of nor write about the Shard of Gareth.” It was also impressed upon them that further discussion of the Helghast would be ill advised (although they were not actually magically compelled on that account). Finally, the enraged Lord Axim banished Brogun from the realm of Durenor.

Fortunately, Narakh, the local ranking priest of Kirabá was able to intervene on Brogun’s behalf. “Pay no attention to that windbag Axim. He blusters, but he will overcome his rage. Already he has forgiven Zabar and invited him to take up residence in Ryme, where the smith’s presence will greatly enhance the lord’s reputation.” Narakh snorted. “All men of power can be bought off with influence, Brogun. Do not forget this.”

The two followers of Kirabá prayed together, and Narakh impressed upon Brogun the importance of remaining pure in deed as well as thought – for example, one must not use evil means for good ends, no matter how tempting the prospect. “We are the weapons of the Father of Battle. We must be as sharp and as bright as the finest blade. No blemishes must mar our steel.”

Finally, Narakh advised Brogun that another of their church, one Thrommel Redstone, was overdue to report on his efforts to spread the faith in the small Sommlending town of Bellhold. The cleric had also received a sending from Dellarocca asking him to join them in Holmgard in time for the Feast of Fehmarn. So it was the Brogun Rhumenheim set off westwards for Sommerlund.


----------



## (contact) (Jul 9, 2003)

(thinking) _. . . was I just praised, or insulted?_

DOGFOOD?!  DOGFOOD!!!!!!



> [Picture Cardinal Richelieu as portrayed by Charlton Heston’s in The Three Musketeers: a scarily intense religious leader with vast personal and political power.]




Check this guy out: 
Diego Velazquez' Innocent X.  Look how eeevil and hostile he looks.  It makes me wonder whether Velazquez and Innocent X got along personally or not.

So what's next for the stout dwarf-- getting righteously pissed at the high-handed authorities and going after the Malteese Falcon/Shard, or hunting down the undead assassin?


----------



## Joshua Randall (Jul 10, 2003)

(contact) said:
			
		

> Diego Velazquez' Innocent X



That's definitely _the look_ that I was thinking of. Except that Eluchir wasn't wearing a fez.



> So what's next for the stout dwarf-- getting righteously pissed at the high-handed authorities and going after the Malteese Falcon/Shard, or hunting down the undead assassin?



Would you believe - none of the above?


----------



## Joshua Randall (Jul 11, 2003)

*Getting There is Half the Fun*

Brogun still did not own any means of transportation other than his feet, so he walked out of Hammerdal, through the Tunnel of Tarnalin (its normal traffic restored), and into the forests of western Durenor. He tried to locate the spot where he had fought the Helghast, but to a dwarf, all the trees looked the same.

A little ways further along the road, Brogun was shocked to discover four arrows bolts streaking towards him. As one of them sunk into his arm, he was further shocked to discover that the arrowhead was coated with a clear, sticky substance that burned as it penetrated his flesh. Fortunately, his inherent dwarven resistance to poison spared Brogun the ill effects of the gnadurn sap that had entered his bloodstream.

The ambushers were garbed strangely, in green robes of a sickly hue, and wore glassy but flexible masks of the same color. They attacked Brogun efficiently, coordinating their attacks so that two struck at him with shortspears while the other two continued loosing poisoned arrows.

Brogun dropped one foe, then another, but the repeated poisonings had taken their toll. As he sank to the ground in a swoon, one of his enemies approached. “Where is the Shard of Gareth?” the man insisted, his voice strangely accented.

Thinking quickly, the dwarf feigned ignorance. “The Shard of Gareth? I don’t know what you’re” – but even as Brogun spoke these words, he felt a hideous pain contort his body, and he sank into unconsciousness.

*DM’s note: it’s not a good idea to trigger the quest penalty when you are already badly beaten up and poisoned.*

Brogun awoke several hours later. He had been dragged off the road into the trees, stripped of his equipment and gold (although his gaudy, crocaryx-made periapt of wisdom remained around his neck), and presumably left for dead. Searching the area, Brogun found the bodies of the two ambushers. Under their masks, they were normal men. One of them carried a vial half-full of gnadurn sap, which Brogun pocketed warily. Then, with a sigh, he set off again.

A few days later, the cleric reached Ragadorn, the only city in the Wildlands. There he managed to sell the gnadurn sap to an unsavory-looking fellow who asked no questions about its origins and paid in cash. Brogun felt somewhat bad about selling the poison, but with true dwarven practicality decided that his need for money made such an act acceptable.

Newly re-equipped, Brogun continued on towards Sommerlund. Another few days of travel brought him to the eastern border of that nation, and he climbed the hills and low mountains that divide Sommerlund from the Wildlands. It was in these mountains that Brogun made a curious discovery: a small, overgrown graveyard, apparently abandoned for years if not decades.

The dwarf quickly discovered a cave network underneath one a mausoleum and half-climbed, half-slid down the gnarled roots of a decrepit tree that had grown up around the tomb. Evoking a spell of _light_, Brogun explored.

The entry room held a stone coffin; within rested an unimaginably old skeleton bearing a gold crown upon its head. Brogun wisely decided not to disinter this buried monarch and instead pressed onwards. He discovered another room with a series of skulls resting on plinths on either side of the room. As the dwarf passed them, the skulls rotated to face him; and as he reached the end of the room, from within each skull burst a disgusting creature, like a flying brain with filmy wings. A quick application of turn undead sent the swarm of Crypt Spawn to cower in one corner of the room, allowing Brogun to exit unmolested.

Beyond, another room contained a stone throne, bedecked in cobwebs and dust. Facing it upon yet another plinth was a statue of a serpent, its forked tongue outstretched. Upon the top of the throne’s high back rested a stone bowl which emitted an eerie green light.

Of course Brogun had to sit in this frightening seat. As he did so, the stone serpent animated, stuck its tongue into the bowl, and emerged with a gold key, which it dropped in the surprised dwarf’s lap. Leaping to his feet, Brogun made his way to the next room; this one contained nothing but an ornately stone door. Carvéd figured twined around each other in a macabre dance, and in the very center of the door was a large keyhole. Brogun inserted the key.

The several-ton stone block which fell from the ceiling directly in front of the door struck Brogun a glancing blow, one that nevertheless grievously injured him. “What kind of depraved architect built this place?” Brogun fumed as he expended several healing spells. At last he was able to push through the rubble of the broken stone block and open the door beyond.

The final chamber bore another stone coffin, this one in the process of being robbed by a figure wearing familiar-looking sickly green robes and mask. Brogun reacted quickly, casting a _soundburst_ centered directly on the interloper. The noise was deafening in the enclosed room, knocking both Brogun and his target to the ground. By the time Brogun got to his feet, the would-be graverobber had faded from existence and disappeared.

Brogun cursed and raced back through the tomb towards the entrance. He began clumsily climbing up the same roots he had previously descended, when he felt said roots writhe and tighten about his limbs, holding him fast.

A heavily accented voice spoke from above. “This you shall suffer for meddling in the affairs of the Cener!” the voice continued.  “I, Caligraf, shall squeeze the life from your body.” The figure Brogun had seen robbing the tomb stood above him, sneering down at him… and then yelping in surprise as other loud voices could be heard nearby.

“We shall meet again, dwarf!” Caligraf spat before slinking away into the brush.

Brogun struggled in the tangled roots but could not free himself. Soon, however, another, kindlier face stared down at him. “You appear to require some help, my friend,” spoke the man above. “I am Larto, of the Sommlending Border Rangers.”

Brogun sighed with relief. For the first time in weeks he had met someone who didn’t want to kill him.


----------



## Joshua Randall (Jul 15, 2003)

*An Entire Post With No Violence*

Larto freed Brogun from the _entangle_d roots and agreed to guide him the rest of the way into Sommerlund. The Border Ranger expressed his concern and trepidation over the mysterious Caligraf. Why was a Cener druid plundering a tomb in the mountains of Sommerlund? What did he find there? Would he return to make further mischief? Neither Brogun nor Larto could come up with anything plausible.

As the two journeyed, Larto explained to Brogun some of the history of Sommerlund: how its people had come over the sea thousands of years ago; how they had forced the Darkland forces back beyond the Durncrag mountains; and how the Sommlending had vowed to stand against the Darklords, forever. Their mettle had been tested time and again by the minions of Naar, but each time, the forces of light had prevailed. The Sommlending were a proud people, confident in their ability to defend their homeland, defiant in the face of repeated attacks.

Eventually the two travelers had reached the outskirts of Holmgard, the capitol, where Larto bid Brogun farewell. The dwarf entered the bustling city, swelled to bursting with people who had flocked there for the Feast of Fehmarn, the holiest day of the Sommlending calendar. Brogun forced his way through the crowds to the local guildhall and there made contact with what was left of the Company of the Red Kestrel.

Dellarocca informed him that Leta had refused resurrection, but Gunther and Kednor had been returned to life. Unfortunately, restoring their two companions had nearly drained the Kestrel’s coffers, so that hardly any gold was left for future operations. Dellarocca vowed to rectify this situation immediately through the application of his personal magnetism in convincing his "fellow nobility" to fund a return to greatness for "Northern Magnamund’s most prestigious adventuring company." Brogun rolled his eyes but wisely kept silent.

Over a pleasant meal, Brogun, Dellarocca, and Sara discussed their adventures since their time in Lof. Brogun was able to refer obliquely to the _quest_ that had been placed upon him and that prevented him from speaking of the Shard of Gareth. Dellarocca though that perhaps some of his erstwhile colleagues at the Magician’s Guild of Toran might be able to remove or circumvent the magical compulsion, and suggested that they journey to that city.

First, however, Sara strongly urged Brogun to repair to the Inn of the White Sail, a fine establishment near the royal quarter, with a good view of the balcony where King Ulnar would perform his religious devotions during the Feast of Fehmarn. The priestess of Ishir also intimated that Brogun might find a pleasant surprise in store at the Inn.

His curiosity piqued, the dwarf set off. He retrieved a key from the innkeeper (his rooms pre-paid by spendthrift Dellarocca) and wearily climbed the stairs to his room. Brogun was looking forward to a long soak in the bath, and had already begun unslinging his pack as he opened the door. Thus, he was surprised to find another dwaf kneeling in the center of the room, head bowed in prayer, reciting psalms to the Father of Battle.

Although flabbergasted, Brogun did not forget his manners. "My apologies, sir. I did not mean to interrupt your meditation."

The other dwarf rose and turned around. His face was somber, the dark black hair of his carefully combed beard and eyebrows framing the lines of worry that already etched his still-young features. The dwarf’s eyes bore a sense of inner sadness and regret, even as his build and bearing bespoke years of military training.

"I am Kednor," he announced in a pleasing baritone voice. "I wish to serve you, and learn from you the teachings of Kirabá."


----------



## Joshua Randall (Jul 18, 2003)

*The Ministry of Winds*

Kednor explained that, after his death at the hands of the ciquali, he found himself in the presence of the divine: Kirabá had called Kednor’s soul to account. That soul was judged lacking, its edge not yet honed enough to serve as heavenly blade, so it was made to await the resurrection of its mortal body. Fortunately, Kednor’s body was at last recovered and returned to life. It was then that Kednor decided he must walk the true path of the Father of Battle, rather than continue to follow his formerly godless ways. He gained a touch of the divine essence and would use those powers to advance the causes of good.

*DM’s note: Prior to his death, Kednor was a Fighter 6. After he died, I ruled that he could return to life as a Fighter 4 / Paladin 1. This would also allow me to begin qualifying Kednor for the Paragon prestige class, from BadAxe’s Heroes of High Favor: Dwarves.*

After trading their background stories, Brogun and Kednor observed the Feast of Fehmarn from the comfort of their balcony. King Ulnar of Sommerlund gave a rousing speech, reminding his subjects of their glorious history and their continued duty to hold back the forces of darkness. The king singled out the Kai Lords, warrior-monks dedicated to the God of the Sun, as exemplars of the best traits of the Sommlending. Finally, King Ulnar ceremonially reiterated his vows to protect his people in return for their continued fealty.

And with that, the city erupted into celebration. It took three days for the revelry to die down enough to allow travel through the streets. On the fourth day, the two devotees of Kirabá along with their friend and patron, Dellarocca, journeyed northwest towards Toran, site of the famed Magician’s Guild. Brogun hoped one of the mages could free him from the _quest_ compelling silence regarding the Shard of Gareth. As for Dellarocca, he sought an audience with Guildmaster Loi-Kymar himself. Though he wasn’t very forthcoming about what the discussion would be about, Brogun judged it had something to do with wheedling spell formulae out of Loi-Kymar’s tightfisted grasp.

At the Guild, Brogun encountered a wizard named Nedín, who promised he would do his best to help with the _quest_ if the two dwarves agreed to investigate the mysterious Tower of the Winds in a run-down corner of the city. Never ones to pass up an adventure, Brogun and Kednor set off for this tower, which was indeed surrounded by magical winds of high velocity. They fruitlessly tried to enter the tower but were rebuffed by its lack of any openings. Finally, after hours of searching had given way to hours of despondent waiting, the winds died down enough to reveal a magically concealed door in the base of the tower. Quickly dashing through it, the companions found themselves inside a featureless expanse of grey stone.

Some eighty feet above their heads they could just make out an opening in the wall. It was only with considerable difficulty and numerous falls that two dwarves in heavy armor were able to climb upwards. There, they entered a room built into the side of the tower, a room whose outer wall appeared completely transparent! What was more remarkable was the strange creature therein, a barrel-shaped monstrosity with three arms, three eyes, and a toothy maw on the top of its body. What was even _more_ bizarre was that the creature was furiously writing down notes of everything it observed outside its magical window. The reams of paper scattered around the room suggested that the xorn had been at its task for quite some time.

Brogun cleared his throat, and the xorn reacted by using a bull rush to encourage Brogun to make the eighty foot journey to the bottom of the tower in a few seconds of free fall rather than several minutes of hard climbing. The priest of Kirabá and his cohort reacted badly to this suggestion, and proceeded to slash and pound their ill-mannered host into rocky fragments, though not without themselves suffering various painful wounds.

The dwarves gathered up the papers for later delivery to Nedín, then climbed back down the tower and searched the bottom floor. They found a hidden entrance heading into the ground. Exploring, Brogun and Kednor battled zombies in a corridor filled with powerfully rushing winds that made forward movement nearly impossible. They then discovered a kind of living quarter consisting of various bedrooms. Unfortunately, three of these were occupied, and the dwarves were set upon by the self-styled Ministry of the Winds: Varen the sorcerer, Justina the cleric, and Traan the minotaur.

Brogun slew a slavering wolf that turned out to be Justina’s animal companion, but Varen repaid this insult by unleashing a _lightning bolt_ at point-blank range, rending Brogun unconscious and horribly wounding Kednor. The cohort managed to stabilize his master, but he was then grappled and pinned by the size-L Traan.

Justina wanted to slay the dwarves on the spot in revenge for the fallen Wolfie. Fortunately, Kednor was able to negotiate a sort of trial-by-combat with the somewhat demented Varen. The minotaur Traan would represent the Ministry of Winds, while Brogun and Kednor chose to represent themselves as they lacked the funds to hire an expensive combat lawyer. Each side would be given 12 hours to prepare itself. With that, Varen locked the dwarven suspects into a room.

The next morning, Brogun and Kednor were led by a seemingly despondent Justina into a large, open hall. Traan stood at the opposite end of the room, but Varen was nowhere in sight. At a shout from Justina, the battle commenced, with Brogun’s _sound burst_ stunning the minotaur and buying time for a few preparatory spells. Traan eventually recovered and charged, head lowered, intending to gore the priest of Kirabá. But Brogun called on his god to strike the infidel _blind_, while Kednor repeatedly attempted to sunder Traan’s huge axe.

The _blind_ed minotaur was no match for the two dwarves, and soon fell. But no sooner had his body hit the ground than the deranged Justina set upon Wolfie’s killers with an insane fury. Unfortunately, she had neglected to take into account the advantages her two opponents had in BAB, Strength modifiers, and flanking bonuses, so she soon joined her deceased pet in the afterlife.

Kednor and Brogun hadn’t time to catch their breath before Varen faded into view by blasting them with another _lightning bolt_. This time the brunt of the attack hit Brogun full-on, stopping his heart! Kednor twisted out of the way of most of the attack, and as Varen began to cast again, the fighter/paladin introduced him to the partial-charge-and-attack-at-plus-two concept, displaying the superiority of that tactic over Concentration-check-DC 10-plus-spell-level-plus-damage-taken, not to mention the fact that sorcerers have poor hit points.

Kednor, lone survivor of the raucous trial, stood sadly over the body of his fallen master. Perhaps the wizards would know what to do. In the mean time, he would need money to fund Brogun’s revivification. He knelt and began examining the bodies of the strange inhabitants of the tower.


----------



## (contact) (Jul 18, 2003)

> Justina wanted to slay the dwarves on the spot in revenge for the fallen Wolfie. Fortunately, Kednor was able to negotiate a sort of trial-by-combat with the somewhat demented Varen. The minotaur Traan would represent the Ministry of Winds, while Brogun and Kednor chose to represent themselves as they lacked the funds to hire an expensive combat lawyer.




That is awesome.  A trial-by-combat lawyer!  I'm so stealing this.


----------



## Joshua Randall (Jul 21, 2003)

*Friends in High Places*

Kednor thoroughly looted the bodies of the ex-Ministry of Winds. He was most impressed with the huge axe borne by Traan the minotaur, its haft of dark oak, gnarled and knotted; its blade an enormous slab of pitted iron. The axe had resisted Kednor’s most strenuous efforts at sundering it, and even now it resisted his efforts to wield it. While he could lift the weapon (barely), Kednor could not effectively swing it without overbalancing himself. He shook his head in wonder at the great strength Traan must have possessed.

Justina the priestess had also carried a notable weapon: a finely wrought mace in some unknown silvery-grey metal, covered with stylized designs representing the rushing winds. In contrast to Traan’s axe, Justina’s mace was extraordinarily light. Kednor tucked it into his belt.

Finally, on the body of the fallen sorcerer Varen, Kednor found a key to the adjoining room. He carefully unlocked the door and stepped inside. “Oooh!” the dwarf could not help exclaiming aloud, for he looked upon a pile of valuable looking objects.

= = =

Later, Kednor and Dellarocca conferred over how to handle the problem of Brogun’s untimely demise. Dellarocca remained as optimistic as always. “I am certain that Guildmaster Loi Kymar has the wherewithal to return Brogun to life,” he said, “but the problem will be convincing him to do it. I can’t even get an audience with him.” 

The mage furrowed his brows in thought for a while, then snapped his fingers in excitement. “I have it! This tower you two explored – the Tower of the Winds – with its transparent upper story and connection to the sewers – it must be worth something to the Guild itself. Yes. Yes! Loi Kymar cannot afford to let that Tower go unoccupied.

“We shall trade the Tower for Brogun’s life. What do you think of that, Kednor? Pretty clever, eh?” Dellarocca chortled to himself. “And maybe I can finally convince that bull-headed old man to share the secrets of transportation with me….”

= = =

Word of what had happened at the Tower spread quickly, and Dellarocca was finally able to secure an audience with Loi Kymar. He strode grandly into the Guildmaster’s chamber, followed by Kednor. Behind them trailed some porters Dellarocca had hired to carry both Brogun’s body, and the assorted loot from the Tower.

(a picture of Loi Kymar) 

[Background note: Loi Kymar is the only known wizard in Northern Magnamund capable of casting transportation spells such as _dimension door_ and _teleport_. He uses his spells and the power of his Guildstaff to transport throughout the world on errands for the Kind as well as his own secretive missions.]

Dellarocca proved a shrewd negotiator (it helps to have Cha 17). He convinced Loi Kymar to accept the Tower of the Winds as a gift to the Magician’s Guild. In return, Loi Kymar would not only raise Brogun (via limited wish), he would agree to provide Dellarocca with a copies of the transportation spells.

= = =

Brogun took a few days to recover from his ordeal at the Tower of the Winds and then decided he had had enough of Toran and of magicians. Everywhere he looked, robed wizards were conferring in hushed tones that dropped to an uncomfortable silence when Brogun passed nearby, as if he were a diseased wretch rather than a priest of Kirabá. Disgusted with this treatment, Brogun sought out his cohort (who was dutifully contemplating the tactical tenets of the Father of Battle) and bid his farewell to Dellarocca, thanking the mage once again for intervening on his behalf.

“Pshaw! It was nothing. I would do the same for any of my Kestrels,” Dellarocca magnanimously declared. “Carry on, but try not to die again – it’s bad for our reputation.”

And with that, the two dwarves set off to the south. Brogun had been asked to follow up on the proselytizing efforts of another priest of Kirabá, by the name of Thrommel Redstone, who was overdue to report on his efforts to gain converts in the obscure Sommlending town of Bellhold. (And by overdue, the dwarven church meant almost 50 years overdue – dwarves having a different concept of time.)

= = =

Meanwhile, Kell (the Herbalish scout last seen in Lof) was on his way to Bellhold to discover why the citizens of the town were seeking aid from the druids.

After his adventures in Lof, Kell had received a message from an _awakened_ animal telling him to meet with a representative of the Herbalish druidic order in the forests of western Durenor. Journeying there, Kell was ushered before the local druid.

"Kell, I tell you this in secrecy and confidence. Several days ago, we requested that the Kingdom of Durenor deliver up to us the Shard of Gareth, a holy relic which had been in their safe keeping. As you know, the Shard is a fragment of the Great Tree which is sacred to all Herbalish.

"Unfortunately, the bearer of the Shard was waylayed and slain upon his journey. We do not know by whom. We also do not know the present whereabouts of the Shard of Gareth, for it was lost.

"We must discover the location of the Shard, but we must do so quietly, without letting on that it is lost. Keep your eyes and ears open. I do not charge you with directly searching for the Shard – we already have numerous agents doing that - but I do charge you with reporting anything you learn to the nearest druidic representative.

"As goes without saying, you should speak of this to no one but your most trusted companions. We cannot let our enemies the Cener know that we have misplaced this holy relic."

The druid paused to let this sink in, his deep green eyes boring into Kell's. Once he was satisfied that Kell understood the gravity of the situation, he continued.

"I do have a mission for you, Kell. The town of Bellhold, in southern Sommerlund, has requested aid from the Herbalish. I do not have full details on what it is they require, but the citizens of that town seem to believe that we can be of assistance.

"Go to Bellhold and determine what is required. Do whatever is within your power to do."

With that, the druid blessed Kell and bid him farewell.

= = =

So it was that the former companions ran into each other in the province of Ruanon, in southern Sommerlund. Brogun introduced Kednor to Kell [provoking a groan of dismay as the DM realized he had inadvertently given the cohort a name confusingly similar to that of a PC], and the three adventurers spent some time getting acquainted with their surroundings.

Ruanon was a mining province whose output was essential to the military strength and financial wealth of the Sommlending. It was a heavily forested and mountainous region, rich in all sorts of ores and precious metals. For that reason, Ruanon drew more than its fair share of bandit attacks or Giak raids. The Border Rangers usually handled these threats, occasionally calling on assistance from the Kai Lords.

The capitol city of Ruanon was ruled by Baron Oren Vanalund, fifth in line to the throne of Sommerlund. He was an immensely fat man, red-cheeked and puffing, who spendt much of his time drinking large quantities of wine and consuming huge amounts of red meat. Baron Vanalund had his hands full overseeing the province as well as sorting through the numerous suitors bidding for the hand of his daughter, Madelon. In contrast to her piggish father, Madelon was a great beauty, with pale skin, silky golden hair, and sky-blue eyes. She was a shy girl, only 15 or 16, who seemed nonplussed by the dozens of men attempting to court her – many of them twice or three times her age.

Asking around, Kell discovered that Bellhold was a few days’ journey to the west, in a valley nestled in the Durncrag Mountains. Bellhold was locally famous for the purity of the copper that was mined there, as well as the high quality of the church bells that it crafted.

Without further ado, the Company of the Red Kestrel set off, little knowing the strangeness that awaited them.


----------



## Joshua Randall (Jul 23, 2003)

*In Which the Kestrels Alight in Bellhold*

*[Warning: spoilers ahead for Of Sound Mind, a module by EN World’s own Kevin “Piratecat” Kulp.]*

The adventuring company known as the Red Kestrels arrived in Bellhold by way of the single road that led there from Ruanon. That is to say, the Kestrels arrived in Bellhold after passing by the outlying farms; which is to explain that they stopped to assist the elderly farmer Othic with some recalcitrant horses.

The keen-eyed Kell, in corralling the horses, noticed that each animal bore a kind of scar or sore on its forehead, just between the eyes, as though some thorn had pricked them there. However, he could discern nothing further so this little mystery went unsolved for the nonce. 

In gratitude for the Kestrels’ assistance, farmer Othic provided them with a hearty meal of lamb stew and as they ate, explained the history of Bellhold: how it had, some 49 years ago, been enslaved by Choth, a Nadziran sorcerer fond of _shapechanging_ into the form of a dragon. The townsfolk had nicknamed him Copperdeath in reference to his fondness for that metal and his propensity for random slaughter.

But, praise be to Kai, the town was freed from its enslavement thanks to the efforts of those famed adventurers Ahlissa Songsword, Thrommel Redstone, and their other less well known companions. Brogun’s ears perked up at the mention of Thrommel’s name, for it was that same dwarf who had been sent by the church of Kirabá to proselytize the region. Alas, Othic informed them that Thrommel had died during the final battle with Copperdeath – indeed, all the adventurers were now dead, Ahlissa having passed away some ten years previously. Though, of course, her son Tokket still maintained the Bell and Clapper, Bellhold’s finest inn and alehouse.

Thanking Othic for the information, the Kestrels determined to head for this Bell and Clapper, as it came with such a good recommendation. Othic himself declined their invitation to join them for evening drinks, instead promising to meet the adventurers on the morrow for breakfast, at which time he admitted he would not be reluctant to indulge in a morning tipple. 

With that, Brogun, Kednor, and Kell walked the remainder of the way into Bellhold. It was a pleasant journey in the early summer evening, the temperature a bit brisk this close to the mountains but far from unpleasantly so. Through the clear air the travelers could hear the sound of bells being tested at their foundries and see the smoke from two forges near the river. (This provoked a scowl from Kell, whose concern for the pristineness of nature was well known.) Towards the center of town could be made out a church to Kai, its whitewashed walls and steeple shining warmly in the setting sun. Atop the steeple was fitted a mighty copper bell that locals called the Wyrmcall in mocking reference to the deceased Copperdeath.

As the party was determined to take a room for a night, it was decided to head immediately for the Bell and Clapper before further exploring the town. Brogun and Kednor ventured inside, but Kell’s attention was taken by an unkempt man standing on a crate near the church, gesticulating wildly and haranguing the crowd. The Herbalish scout headed over to hear what this fellow had to say.

“He’s waiting for us! Waiting to devour us all!” raved the lunatic, whom Kell learned (from the curious onlookers) was named Erwin. “But I won’t go back, you see. Never never never never never!” The man subsided into titters and furious whispering. 

As the crowd dispersed, Kell approached Erwin and greeted him. On the pretense that he was a traveler from distant Bautar, Kell convinced the madman that the customary greeting in that country was to grab an interlocutor’s head firmly and rub one’s hands across it while searching for healed-over scabs. [* It’s amazing what you can accomplish with the Bluff skill when you roll a natural 20.*] However, Kell discovered nothing physically wrong with Erwin, so he decided to escort the poor man into the nearby church.

Meanwhile, the two dwarves had negotiated lodging for themselves and their companion, and had fallen into conversation with Tokket Songsword, descendent of the legendary Ahlissa. The garrulous fellow rambled on and on about Bellhold – its history as well as its current goings on – and in between the bits of irrelevant gossip (including a comment on the fact that Lady Philippa was wearing much fuller skirts this season, which had caused a imitative change in the local fashion; a dissertation on the strange prophesies of the local wise-woman, Utrish; and a proud observation that the Wyrmcall bell in the church tower was so loud it had stopped the heart and shattered the bottle carried by an unfortunate drunk who fell asleep underneath it) Tokket conveyed two pieces of useful information.

The first was that everyone in the town was suffering strange nightmares and sleeplessness. This had been going on for weeks, and had gotten so bad that most of the merchants, well-to-do, and those in the divine service of Kai had decamped for Ruanon, which in this single instance was more somnambulant than Bellhold. Kednor arched an eyebrow upon hearing this and glanced at his master, but Brogun was too intrigued by the second piece of information he had received from Tokket.

For it turned out that the innkeeper was the possessor of several artifacts from the battle against Copperdeath: weapons, armor, some teeth and claws, and most interesting of all, a diary kept by the belated Thrommel Redstone. In most diplomatic fashion, Brogun convinced Tokket that as a fellow dwarf and servant of the Father of Battle, it should be his right to peruse the tome, which might, after all, be of use in the church’s current investigation into whether Thrommel was worthy of sainthood.

Kednor began to explain that the dwarven religion did not ascribe to saints, as they believed that to do so would needlessly dilute the faith into tiny factions, but his ecumenical observation was cut short by Kell’s entrance. This in turn sparked a renewed round of questioning on the part of Tokket, answering on the part of Kell, and then additional questioning on the part of Kell (addressing Brogun and Kednor) and answering (to questions put to him by same), as well as further questioning and answering of, by, and for each one to the other.

Brogun revealed what he had learned from Thrommel’s diary. Apparently something had happened to the ill-fated adventurers of yesteryear: their minds were somehow affected by Choth, and they were forced to work in the mines alongside the rest of the enslaved populace. At last, Thrommel, Ahlissa, and the others threw off the enchantment and went to confront Copperdeath – where, as an addendum to the diary written by Ms. Songsword made clear, the dwarven warrior-priest died in battle.

It was now Kell’s turn to report his findings, which he did, explaining what Erwin had been ranting about in the town square. Mere moments later, the insightful Kestrels deduced that some similar mental effect was taking hold of the town, although by all accounts the original perpetrator of said effect was well and truly dead. Before any grisly speculation could begin on the nature and powers of undead Nadziranim, however, the shouts of a town crier from outside drew the adventurers into the plaza.

There, upon a hastily raised platform, stood three personages of import: the town’s mayor, Hob Waterman, a short, balding man who was constantly wiping the sweat from his brow; the owner of the main mine and foundry, Lucius Krekket, a tall, dark man with a constant scowl on his face, who would occasionally whisper something to the mayor; and Lady Philippa Krekket, whose exact relation to Sommlending nobility was a matter of some confusion (and hence whose right to the title “Lady” was in some doubt) but whose homespun beauty and trend-setting fashion consciousness endeared her to the rustic citizens of quaint Bellhold.

As things transpired, the mayor was reassuring the assembled populace that despite the nagging headaches and unpleasant dreams, there was nothing to be worried about. After all, Utrish the wise woman (a few cries of “witch!” were drowned out by the exasperated crowd) had foreseen that within a week, the nightmares would cease. What was most important until then was for production at Krekket’s mine and foundry to continue unabated, for Bellhold’s livelihood depended upon its reliable quotas of copper ore, copper bells, copper jewelry, copper flatware, and assorted copper sundries.

“But what of the missing children?” someone in the crowd demanded. Mayor Waterman assured the concerned citizen that the local Heroes of the Bell were _at that very moment_ no doubt searching for the wayward urchins. And of course no one had seen the Heroes of the Bell in a few days – did the townsfolk really expect the missing children to be hiding in Tokket’s pantry?

Have successfully defused and deflected this question, the mayor once again urged the folk of Bellhold to remain calm and continue their work to supply the Lastlands with high-value copper-wrought manufactured goods. With that, the sullen but mostly satisfied crowd began to disperse. The mayor moved off down the street and engaged himself in quiet conversation with Lucius Krekket.

Kell slipped into the shadows and eavesdropped upon the conversation.

“… should have told people our production is down twenty percent this week alone…”

“… the best I could, Lucius. These people are voters–er, citizens–not indentured servants. Besides, we’re still…”

“… afford any more slowdowns, and — What? Yes, Philippa, the moon is looking particularly lovely tonight. — I may need to go to triple shifts, as long as no one is getting any sleep anyway, so that…”

“… however you see fit, Lucius, and leave running the town to me.”

By this time the two men (and one distracted and bored woman) were outside the mayor’s office and home (which were one and the same), so they bid each other good night. Kell waited until the Krekkets were safely out of sight, and Mayor Waterman was safely indoors, before circling back to the Bell and Clapper to report on what he heard. Which, upon further examination, was not much, nor was it in any way sinister.

Brogun, ever a dwarf of action, desired to visit Utrish the wise woman at once, despite the lateness of the hour. He assured a dubious Kell that witches were known to keep strange hours anyway and, ordering Kednor to accompany them in order to ascertain Utrish’s moral proclivities, led the way out of town. Upon being questioned as to how he knew where to go, Brogun responded that the talkative Tokket had kindly sketched a quite detailed map of the town, conveniently enough marked with numbered indicators corresponding to a list of salient features thereabouts.

*[DM’s note: A moment of hilarity ensued when Kell’s player stated that after visiting Utrish, the party should next visit Tom Church, who must be someone important. After staring at him blankly for a full twenty seconds (while he stammered out the name “Tom Church” twice more) I realized that my sloppy handwriting was to blame: I had marked on the map the Town Church, in case the characters wanted to know where it stood in relation to the Bell and Clapper.]*

The Company of the Red Kestrel soon found itself outside a rude cottage in the woods east of town. The trees, branches, and bushes nearby were a veritable sea of fetishes, arcane insignia, and crude wards against dark powers. The cottage’s door stood ajar, and Kell thought he made out a banging from behind the building, as of a window shutter hastily closed.

Brogun pushed open the door of the cottage with his toe and rushed inside, where he was set upon by a snarling, biting, clawing mass of furred fury that almost confirmed a critical hit to his eyes. Kednor stepped up and pulled the angry housecat off his master’s face, then placated the feline with a saucer of milk (the bottle having been left carelessly on the table alongside a still-warm mug of Jala). Kell gave the cottage a cursory inspection and pronounced it empty of other inhabitants. However, throwing open the rear window shutter, he pointed at the robed form of an aged crone attempting to hurry away into the woods, her progress hampered by her age, the darkness, and the thick underbrush.

Double-moving each round allowed the adventurers to overtake and surround their target, who could not move without provoking a conversation of opportunity. “Leave me alone, you cretins,” she spat, “or I shall place a hex upon you all!”

Several failed Diplomacy checks later, Utrish was in a nasty mood. She harrumphed that yes, she could sometimes see the future and that no, she wouldn’t show the Kestrels her oracular powers now. Yes, the nightmares would end in a week. And if they really must know, the nightmares would end because there would be no one left in town to dream, so there. Utrish then withdrew some small vials from inside her tattered garments and flung them to the ground, saying, “Take my potions and leave me alone. I’ve had enough of this gods-forsaken town.”

None of the adventurers noticed the terror in Utrish’s eyes as she hobbled away from Bellhold as fast as her arthritic legs could carry her.


----------



## Joshua Randall (Jul 25, 2003)

*"Something is seriously wrong with this town." - Brogun the Insightful*

After returning to the inn of the Bell and Clapper, the Kestrels reflected upon what they had learned from Utrish. The more they thought about it, the more worried they became, until they reached the conclusion that “no one in Bellhold would be left to dream” meant “everyone in Bellhold would be dead.” As heroic adventurers, they could not allow this to happen, and resolved to continue their investigations on the morrow.

That night, each of the adventurers had a horrible nightmare.

They awoke with dull background headaches and a terrible sense of foreboding. Staggering down to the common room of the inn, the Kestrels stared into each other’s ashen faces. Each silently resolved not to speak of their dreams, so upsetting were the memories.

They had waited over an hour for Othic to meet them for breakfast when one of his stableboys burst into the Bell and Clapper. “Help! Help! Othic is dead!”

Springing to their feet, the Kestrels rushed out of town to examine this unexpected development. They found Othic’s body inside his own stable, face down in a pool of rapidly congealing blood. The only tracks Kell could locate were those of several horses that had apparently panicked and rushed outside.

Gingerly turning over Othic’s body with his foot, Kell suppressed a gag at what he found. The old man had been nearly bitten in half by something with an extremely large and toothy mouth. That in itself was troubling enough. What moved the scene from “typical grisly murder” to “surreal grisly murder” was the fact that Othic had a bit shoved deeply into his mouth and bridle strapped tightly to his face.

Kell knelt and examine the tracks more closely. Something was not right here. Instead of several different horses each leaving one set of tracks, there were one or two horses each leaving multiple sets of tracks. Indeed, it looked like Othic had died not so much from the bite (mortal though that wound may have eventually proven) as from being repeatedly trampled.

Upon the conveyance of this information, Brogun quickly deduced that Othic’s horses Blaze and Broadsword, whom the adventurers had met the previous day, must be the murderers. Kednor raised an eyebrow at this deduction and made a mental note to make sure Brogun stopped drinking before bedtime.

Dubious thought this assertion seemed, Brogun was determined not only to prove its truth, but to exact justice upon the perpetrators of the crime. He marched out of the stable and into the fields, where most of the horses could be seen grazing in a group nearby. Most, that is, save for two that were standing head-to-tail at the far end of the field in the shade of scraggly tree.

“There are the culprits!” Brogun pointed. “Kell – approach them and use your skill at handling animals to convince them to come quietly.”

Kell began to object, citing the extremely large bite taken out of Othic, but Brogun pointed out that the horses lacked the enormous, toothy maws necessary to inflict such a wound. In that case, wondered Kell, why was the dwarf so sure they were the murderers? Brogun had no answer for that, but his foot to Kell’s backside convinced the latter to approach the horses.

Apparently, however, Blaze and Broadsword were not in the mood for company. As Kell approached, the former attempted to dominate his mind and force him to dance, while the latter’s eyes rolled back in its head and its muzzle distorted into an enormous, toothy maw, very much like the one that had bitten Othic. Identical, in fact.

Kell fought off the imposition on his will, but had little time to reflect on what was happening before Broadsword tore a medium-sized chunk out of his side; the tearing of a larger chunk only being averted by Kell’s quick reflexes.

Brogun and Kednor came clanking across the field as fast as they could, and soon a furious melee was joined, man and dwarf against horse. The equines fought like savages. Broadsword ripped painful bites out of all the combatants while Blaze, frustrated that his mental commands were ineffective, resorted to aiming hoof-kicks at his enemies’ heads. At last, however, the Kestrels were victorious. 

An examination of over the bloody and broken bodies of the murderous horses once again revealed the scabbed over wounds on each one’s forehead. Kell dug inwards with his sharp poniard, finding that each horse had a three inch long sliver of bluish crystal embedded in its head. Minor divinations revealed no auras upon these slivers, however, so the baffled adventurers shrugged and chalked it up to yet another mystery to be solved at a later date.

= = =

After burying the horses and Othic, the Kestrels spent the remainder of the day conducting further investigations into the strange happenings in Bellhold. 

Mayor Waterman was informed of Othic’s death and Utrish’s departure. The politician was aghast at both developments, and admitted that the brave face he had put on for the local voters – er, citizens – was mostly a façade. He strongly urged the Kestrels to undertake whatever searches they thought best.

Kell made a quick circumnavigation of the outlying farms, looking for any more animals or people with crystal slivers in their foreheads. However, despite convincing everyone he met to submit to the supposed Bautarian head-grabbing-and-rubbing greeting, Kell did not discover anything out of the ordinary. He did speak to the parents of the missing children and learned that the kids had last been seen playing in the woods near the river.

Meanwhile, Brogun and Kednor bullied their way into Lucius Krekket’s mine. The owner was not pleased to see the two, and ungraciously declined their offer to use their dwarven stonecunning to inspect his mine for unsafe passages. And, despite probing and less than polite questioning, Krekket proved to be neither evil nor dishonest. Frustrated, the dwarves departed.

Reuniting in town, the Kestrels next set off for the spot where the missing children had last been seen. Keel had little difficultly locating the children’s tracks, as well as the tracks of some other type of humanoid. It appeared that the children had been taken unawares as they frolicked in youthful innocence, carried up the mountain and towards [cue ominous music] the abandoned mine of Copperdeath.

With all signs pointing to a foray into the conveniently located dungeon – that is, the nexus of so many of Bellhold’s problems – the Kestrels set off. Kell discovered yet another set of tracks, this one made a few days ago by about four people wearing hiking boots: probably the aforementioned Heroes of the Bell, the local adventuring troop that was also searching for the missing children. It was resolved to join up with this other group and combine resources, so Kell pursued their spoor. Their tracks led around the back of Steeple Mountain where it joined an old game trail that wound its way upwards.

Near the mountain’s peak, the trail ended outside a sealed off entrance into the abandoned mine – where a knotted rope dangling downwards testified to the recent passage of the Heroes of the Bell. Traversing this rope proved surprisingly difficult until Brogun and Kednor agreed to remove their armor, after which time it became remarkably easy.

Inside the mineshaft, the air was cold and damp. All around, water glistened on the walls and dripped in the distance. Standing still, the adventurers could hear quiet scrabbling noises as of hundreds of tiny creatures moving across the stones – but as soon as they moved, the noises stopped. The hair rose on the backs of their necks as Brogun invoked a _light_ spell and led the way into the mine.

An outer room held only broken mining equipment and puddles of blue-green water. Up ahead, the mining tunnel proceed through an archway with a curious carving of a draconic face upon the lintel. Underneath the archway could be made out _a pile of humanoid heads_ that seemed to move slightly of their own accord. Swallowing loudly,  Brogun stepped up to examine—

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeoooooooooooooooo!”

The dwarven priest leaped two feet in the air. Each of the heads opened its decaying mouth and screamed, an ear-splitting wail. Frantically, Brogun swatted at the heads with his axe until he silenced them. Large beetles, their snacking disturbed, scurried across the floor and disappeared in cracks near the walls.

Brogun stood, panting, the blood pounding loudly in his ears. He motioned his cowering friends forward (Kednor, shame-faced, promised not to cover his eyes next time) and examined the heads.

All but one of them were badly decayed and nearly unrecognizable – clearly not human (or dwarf), but of some indeterminate creature. The last head, however, clearly *was* human; it was that of a youngish woman with blonde hair, and was only a few days old. One of the Heroes of the Bell? Brogun shivered.

Onwards. A room to the left held several pools of water as well as a less pleasant pool of that notorious adventurers’ bane, green slime. A carved message on a rock near the slime bore a note indicating that this particular patch was the final resting place of one of the Heroes of the Bell. 

The Company of the Red Kestrel burned the slime in belated revenge.

They also discovered an old mining office; inside it, a desk held crumbling papers and copper knick-knacks (including a tarnished mirror). All items were pocketed for possible later use.

Next, to the right: an abandoned barracks for the miners. Outside this room the Kestrels could smell a horrific stench, as of a charnel-house, while inside it a veritable swarm of beetles crawled and munched on the sack-like mounds of flesh heaped on each bed. The beetles scattered away from Brogun’s _light_, allowing further examination – not that anyone was anxious to make it – of the de-boned corpses. They appeared to be the deliquescing bodies of troglodytes.

Kednor and Brogun exchanged glances: in his diary, Thrommel Redstone had written of being forced to work alongside trogs during his mental enslavement by Copperdeath.

“If these are their skins,” wondered Kell, “then what happened to their bones?”

Brogun said nothing, but he clenched the haft of his waraxe more tightly.

Suspecting undead, the Kestrels were not surprised when a series of side tunnels held six troglodyte zombies. Brogun _turned_ some, and the others fell to axe, hammer, and sword. Further into the mine, a closed door barred the way. From beyond it came a horrible smell, so bad that it left Kell weakened.

As the Herbalish scout shakily examined the door, a whispery voice from the other side hissed a warning. “Have you come to slay me as you slew the rest of my warriors? Then open the door and meet your doom!”

That was all the inducement Brogun needed to put his shoulder to the door, and the Kestrels began a running pursuit of the green-skinned figure that eluded them through the winding mining tunnels. The adventurers took a few wrong turns before Kell’s sense of direction was able to guide them to the northeast.

It was a large chamber, obviously of great importance. Across the eastern wall, a huge carven stone dragon reared up, its eyes a pair of glowing gemstones that stared at the massive copper offering bowl set upon a stone dais in front of it. Several stone benches were arrayed throughout the room facing the idol, as in a temple, except that instead of live worshippers, each bench held an intact troglodyte skeleton.

The Kestrels gaped about them, but their reverie was interrupted by the same whispery voice they had pursued. “Come, then. See how you like my *Bonetangle*!”

From a corner to their right, many bones clattered upon the floor, and the shape of something _wrong_ heaved its bulk into view.


----------



## Joshua Randall (Jul 28, 2003)

*Bonetangles, Bimbos, and Bad Guys*

The Bonetangle lurched towards the Company of the Red Kestrel. Its four skeletal heads swiveled in unison to take in its prey, while its six legs made clicking noises as it clattered across the floor. The thing appears to be hunched over, its forearms low to the ground, ready to grab anyone within reach and shove them inside its freakishly distended ribcage where sharp bony shards could grind them to bits.

Brogun and Kednor smashed the painstakingly crafted construct to bits with one blow apiece.

Meanwhile, Tamalruk the troglodyte shaman was in the middle of casting a spell when two perfectly round holes appeared in his torso, the exit wounds of the _magic missiles_ that had struck him in the back. Kell grunted in surprise as his own mundane arrows struck Tamalruk’s lifeless corpse.

“Who’s there?” the Herbalish scout demanded, quickly knocking another arrow and aiming down the passage whence the _magic missiles_ had come.

A figure emerged into the light: a human, Vassagonian by the looks of him, in filthy clothing. His face was smudged with dirt, his hands and arms covered in grime.

“I am Otieno,” the man said simply. “I journeyed many miles through these mines before stumbling upon this fight.” He glanced down at Tamalruk. “I trust I didn’t slay the wrong person?”

Kell was suspicious. How was it that Otieno had conveniently arrived just as the fight had started? And why hadn’t the Kestrels come across Otieno in Bellhold prior to his entrance into the mines? For that matter, how had Otieno emerged from a portion of the mines which, to Kell’s knowledge, went nowhere?

In the end, it was decided that these were mysteries not meant to be solved. It was enough that Otieno had arrived when he had and joined the adventure. The Kestrels were glad to have an arcanist join them (for Otieno was, indeed, a sorcerer), and filled him in as best they could about recent events.

“Now…” mused Brogun, “about the gemstones in that carving….”

Without waiting to consult his fellows regarding his intentions, Brogun quaffed a potion of _levitation_, ascended to a spot directly opposite the carved stone dragon’s head, unsheathed a dagger, and began prying at one of the eyes.

In the everyone-saw-this-coming category, the dragon idol animated (amidst much scraping of stone upon stone) and swatted at Brogun with one huge claw. The Kestrels sprang into action, Brogun and Kednor hewing at the construct with axe and hammer, while Kell and Otieno circled the edge of the room and rained missile fire upon it.

Unfortunately, however, the bulk of the blows that met the dragon’s stony hide were harmlessly turned aside or, at the best, chipped out tiny fragments, and Kell’s arrows proved entirely ineffective. Otieno fared better with his _magic missiles_ and _acid arrows_ – until, that is, the enraged dragon charged the sorcerer and ground him underfoot. But by that time the thing was sufficiently weakened that repeated blows from Brogun and Kednor were enough to smash it into inert rock.

After an application of healing magic, Otieno was back on his feet. Brogun completed his extraction of the gemstone eyes, and the Kestrels examined the opening revealed when the dragon had stepped away from its perch. Beyond, another large room held an enormous copper tub of some sort, its bottom scraped raw by the repeated motions of a giant draconic tongue. Perhaps this had been the lair of Copperdeath himself? In which case there must be a great pile of treasure about – but lengthy searching turned up nothing.

“Where is Kell?” someone asked, looking around. The party’s scout was missing.

He was, in fact, scouting ahead. Kell had taken the other exit from the room, a tunnel that quickly turned vertical, requiring him to make use of his climbing skills to reach its top. It opened onto a natural cave with a pleasant lake of water fed by a roaring waterfall that crashed down from high overhead. Kell craned his head back to take in this sight: for the waterfall was magicked so that it appeared in a shifting spectrum of colors, cycling through the rainbow.

It was then that Kell heard the beautiful singing, barely audible above the roaring of the cataract. Peering around for the source of the song, he located the singer standing amidst the water’s spray. She was breathtakingly gorgeous, her skin the finest alabaster, her eyes as sapphires, her only garments the foaming water and her hair that shone like black silk.

“I am Velea,” she spoke, looking deeply into Kell’s eyes. “Long have I waited for a champion to come and free me from my imprisonment.”

= = =

When Kell returned to his companions, he could hardly wait to tell them of the beautiful maiden whom it was their obligation to rescue. Now it was Otieno’s turn to be suspicious: Who had imprisoned this Velea, and for what reason? Where did the waterfall and its magical effects originate? And most importantly from a purely hypothetical point of view, would the Kestrels be invited to join her garment-less frolics?

Kell assured his friends that all their questions would be answered in time, if only they would journey with him up the tunnel. Though Otieno seemed dubious, the two dwarves were eager to make Velea’s acquaintance, so it was decided that they would rig up a system of ropes to enable passage upwards, while keeping a close watch on their starry-eyed scout.

As soon as the Kestrels emerged from their climb, they heard the sounds of a beautiful song. Of course Kell had been right about Velea: she truly was stunning, and the adventurers would be glad to do anything for her.

All, that is, save for Kednor, who, acting on a hunch, studied the woman with his moral compass. He was horrified to find that she radiated a strong aura of evil (pointing due south), a fact that the paladin tried to convey to his friends. They ignored him.

“What troubles you, my dwarven champion?” crooned Velea as she approached the edge of the pool where Kednor stood, brooding.

“Nothing any longer,” he replied after crushing her skull with a well-placed hammer-blow.

The enchantment broken, Kell, Otieno, and Brogun shook the cobwebs out of their heads in time to assist Kednor in his fight against Velea’s fiendish dire rat pets. They quickly dispatched these creatures and searched the pool, discovering the remains of the missing Heroes of the Bell and their equipment, to which they helped themselves.

Then began the long journey upwards along the winding passageway that circled the waterfall. The noise made discussion problematic while the spray that coated everything made forward progress nearly impossible. Twice, one of the dwarves slipped off the walkway, dragging the party with him over the side. It was finally decided that the less graceful members of the group should remove their armor before proceeding. That did the trick, and the Kestrels were able to progress.

At irregular intervals, huge spiderwebs were strung across the falls, built to catch any fish (or other unfortunate creatures) that tumbled into them. But the adventurers wisely avoided the spiders that had built these webs, preferring to save their strength for whatever awaited them at the top.

After an exhausting climb, the Kestrels reached a sort of observation room where they rested for the night. As they slept, a whispering voice plagued their dreams. It sounded like Tamalruk – no, it was Mayor Waterman – no, it was each dreamer’s father, and he was coming to punish them —

All awakened with a start, sweating and shaking. Brogun could barely quiet the voice in his head long enough to prepare his mind for spells, while Otieno kept staring off into the distance. It was clear to everyone that they must find the source of this mental assault before they succumbed.

They walked, trancelike, through the rest of their explorations: the passageway lined with lifelike copper statues in poses of horror; the dust-covered laboratory with giant, dragon-sized dissection equipment; the strange stone house with what could only be a handle on its roof; and finally the ramp leading up to a blank wall, behind which rough voices could be heard.

Kell practically sleepwalked up the ramp and put his ear to the wall – or would have, had his head not passed through space where the wall should have been. He arrested his near-fall with a start and looked in surprise at what lay beyond the illusion.

A huge cave lay spread below him, its floor twenty feet beneath where Kell was perched. In the corner to his right was a cage made of copper, two children enclosed within it: a girl, whimpering, pressed against the back part of the prison, and a boy, his hands tightly gripping the bars and his eyes locked on a scene taking place at the center of the room. Kell followed the boy’s gaze and saw, some sixty feet away, a stone altar upon which another boy lay spread-eagled, his arms and legs held by squat creatures with greyish skin; another creature of the same type, but wearing a golden circlet upon its brow, stood nearby.

Looking down on the boy was a figure clad in the sickly green robes and glassy mask of the Cener druids: he held a hammer in one hand and in his other could just be made out a sliver of blue crystal.

“Now, boy,” the druid rasped, “your suffering is at an end. Either you will gain The Power, or you will die. Either way, boy, your miserable life will be better.”

The Cener carefully positioned the crystal sliver. “Hold him still, you oafs!” he snapped at the creatures beside him. They looked uncertainly at their leader, who scowled and said, “Do as Caligraf commands.”

The boy on the altar struggled feebly while the one in the cage nearby began jumping up and down in fear and excitement. Caligraf raised the hammer in one arm even as Kell raised his arm to withdraw an arrow from his quiver, his other hand snatching at his bow. The druid’s arm reached the apex of its preparatory arc at the very instant Kell’s fingers released the straining bowstring....


----------



## Single Malt (Jul 29, 2003)

*Count me in*

enRedKestrelSH.readers++;


----------



## Joshua Randall (Aug 8, 2003)

*The Battle of Choth’s Lair*

Caligraf of Mogaruith considered the glittering fragment of crystal as he grasped it in his left hand. It was smaller than his littlest finger, but Caligraf suspected that driving it into the forehead of the squirming child beneath him would render the child docile and easily controlled – as well as giving him unknown mental powers. That this knowledge had been gained only after weeks of messy experimentation upon animals was of no consequence to Caligraf. He was a Cener Druid, of the same order that had unleashed the Great Plague upon Magnamund seven and a half thousand years ago. (1)  Perhaps the Cener had failed then, but they would not fail now. Mad visions of himself as the leader of an army of mentally dominated thralls filled Caligraf’s head. A self-satisfied smirk played over his features, mere instants before a shaft of wood tipped with steel tore into his hand, spraying blood across the sacrifice’s face.

“Aaaaagggghhh!” Caligraf screamed in surprise and pain, jerking his hand away and instinctively clutching it to his chest. The druid whirled to face the back wall of the great cavern, eyes wide. There! His assailant, with an expression of hatred and determination upon his face (2), was already fitting another arrow to his bow. But how? How could the archer’s head and torso be protruding out of the solid rock itself?

Caligraf blinked the tears out of his eyes and stared again. Because it was *not* solid rock – an illusion of some sort – his mind raced, straining to recall arcane teachings. Of course. _Illusory wall_. How simple.

But the druid had little time to think on this discovery, for another arrow streaked through the arrow, narrowly missing him. At last, Caligraf found the will to act. With barely a glace, he brought the hammer down full force, crushing the skull of the Bellhold youth on the altar. Then, turning to Akratt, the Cener spat out a warning. “The wall behind is an illusion!”

Caligraf watched in satisfaction at the Giaks’ reactions. The two who had been holding down the boy released their grasp on what was now a corpse and knelt behind the altar, picking up their own bows and training them on the far wall. Akratt’s sword rasped free of its scabbard as he adopted a defensive stance. The Giak leader might be spineless in a verbal altercation, but Caligraf knew he was a fierce combatant.

In other parts of the cavern there was more activity. Sprelt, the tribe’s sorcerer, climbed halfway up the wall, his hands and feet made magically sticky. At the entrance to the cavern, opposite the illusory wall, a Giak called Prukk slunk into the shadows at the edge of the room and began moving stealthily forward. Additional Giak warriors began streaming out of their makeshift barracks, weapons at the ready.

The mysterious archer seemed to have allies as well. From behind his shoulder, a _magic missile_ flew unerringly towards Sprelt, snuffing out the diminutive Giak’s life and leaving him hanging on the wall until the expiration of his _spider climb_. The sounds of mailed feet on stone indicated that more heavily armored foes were about to enter the fray. And yet another arrow took Caligraf in the leg. He swore, and hobbled away, undergoing the transformation as he moved. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Giak archers returning fire, one arrow striking its target.

By the time Caligraf reached down to pick up his weapon, it was with the claw of a mighty bear, rather than the hand of his human form. He looked upon the _spiked_ greatclub with glee and roared with bloodlust. (3) At this signal, Caligraf’s Doomhound bounded towards the attackers and leapt at them, but could not jump high enough to reach them where they stood atop what appeared to be a stone ramp behind the illusion.

To Caligraf’s left, all four of the recently arrived Giaks dropped in their tracks and began snoring loudly. The druid-bear snarled in anger and viciously kicked the nearest one awake.

From atop the ramp, two dwarves in plate armor leapt down upon his Doomwolf, axe and hammer striking as they fell. The beast yelped once before it was chopped and crushed to death. His eyes narrowed in hate, Caligraf studied these foes. The dwarf on the right looked familiar, and he wore the holy symbol of Kirabá. Snarling out a curse, Caligraf quickly mouthed the words of a protective spell, one that he knew it had been wise to prepare. (4)

Akratt leapt forward and struck at the other dwarf, but his sword was turned aside on the heavy armor. More arrows crisscrossed in the air, one striking Caligraf, two others striking the partially concealed enemy sorcerer. A different kind of arrow, this one composed of magical acid, splashed on the floor near Caligraf, melting a hole into the stone. He frowned, wondering if he had warded himself against the wrong type of energy.

As if in answer, a cacophony of sound screamed out nearby. The _sleep_ing Giaks staggered up, blood streaming from their ears, while the one that Caligraf had awakened was knocked off his feet. But the druid was unaffected, the sound waves washing over him harmlessly. He moved forward undeterred.

Ah yes! Prukk had almost made it behind the nasty little dwarf. Soon the Giak rogue would deliver a painful – no! How could he have been seen? For the Herbalish archer had pointed his bow strait down and fired it into the top of Prukk’s head, killing him instantly. (5)

By this time the disoriented Giak warriors were on their feet; they charged into battle. One met his maker on the end of a dwarven waraxe; another successfully flanked the other dwarf, allowing Akratt to deliver a devastating sneak attack.

Caligraf at last reached his target. Stepping over the Giak bodies, he swung his greatclub in a tremendous sideways arc, and felt the satisfying crunch as it punched through the war-priest’s platemail, literally lifting the dwarf off his feet and sending him crashing to the ground. “Rrrrrooooooaaaarrrgggghhhh!” The druid-bear’s roar of pleasure became a scream of pain as arrows both mundane and magical tore into his body, both striking with terrible force. (6)  Shaking, Caligraf began to withdraw, clawing clumsily for a sprig of Laumspur.

Too late. As the Cener tried to make it behind cover of the altar, he felt another arrow bury itself in his back, and the acid continued to burn him. He sank to his knees, kept conscious only by his rage. The Laumspur scattered on the cave floor in front of him, just out of reach. (7)

Caligraf could not know that moments after he was struck down, two Giak darts pierced Otieno’s lung, dropping the sorcerer and forcing Kell to withdraw and attempt to revive him. Nor could the Cener druid watch as Akratt paired off with another Giak warrior to repeatedly flank and sneak attack Kednor, until the dwarf finally shattered Akratt’s longsword with a well-timed sunder. Thereafter, Brogun joined his cohort in beating back the Giak warriors, who eventually joined the archers in a hasty retreat.

The druid felt his racing pulse begin to slow, and knew that his death was imminent. An evil soul would journey to the Plane of Darkness, doomed to serve Naar for an eternity of pain. But the soul of this Cener was already promised to another – and its work in the moral realm was not yet complete.




*Notes:*

(1) In 2514 MS, the Cener Druids completed work on a biologically engineered virus and released it upon Magnamund. The resulting plague decimated the population, hitting the Elder Magi and Drodarin races especially hard. It tooks desperate counter-measures by the Herbalish Druids to save Magnamund.

(2) Kell had taken Cener as his favored enemy.

(3) As a multiclassed barbarian/druid, Caligraf could wild shape into a bear and then enter a rage, giving him Str 23. Combined with a greatclub with the _spikes_ spell cast upon it: attack +12, damage 1d10+11.

(4) Ever since his first encounter with Brogun and the dwarf’s propensity for _soundburst_, Caligraf had kept _protection from energy: sonic_ on hand.

(5) Sneak attack plus critical hit. Not to mention beating Prukk’s Hide and Move Silently checks. *sigh*

(6) This crit for Kell’s arrow (against a favored enemy, no less) and another crit by Otieno’s _acid arrow_ took Caligraf from alive but wounded to nearly dead in one round. And yes, that’s three confirmed criticals in a row for the PCs.

(7) Caligraf, at exactly zero hit point, was screwed. He couldn’t take a standard action (for example, to retrieve the healing herbs) without dropping to negative, but if he did nothing, he would drop to negative anyway when he came out of his barbarian rage. So much for my villain! At least for now....


----------



## Elder-Basilisk (Aug 10, 2003)

Readercount=readercount+1

And am I right to think that you've had a few more players join the group?


----------



## Joshua Randall (Aug 10, 2003)

Elder-Basilisk said:
			
		

> And am I right to think that you've had a few more players join the group?



At the time of these updates, there were three players (Brogun+Kednor, Kell, Otieno). Otieno's player was a friend of Kell's player who was visiting from his home in Africa! Now that's dedication to D&D.

Unfortunately, Otieno's player had to go back home, so we're down to two players again. But I enjoy the campaign even so, because with fewer players, I can focus intently on what they and their characters want to do, rather than having to serve many different agendas.


----------



## Joshua Randall (Aug 25, 2003)

*The Dragonstone*

“Otieno is dead.”

Kell spoke the words in a flat voice, all emotion drained from him in the battle’s aftermath. His head ached dully.

The Herbalish scout moved past the dwarven warriors towards another corpse up ahead – that of Caligraf. Kell knelt by the body of this Cener, one of the hated enemies of his people. Gingerly, almost reluctantly, he heaved the corpse onto its back. Then, with a shudder of revulsion, Kell put a hand to the glassy green mask that covered Caligraf’s features. For an instant, the substance of the mask felt hideously alive, writhing under his touch like so many worms.

Kell jerked his hand back as though it had been burned. But the only pain was from the blisters that were beginning to form on his fingers where they had repeatedly pulled the bowstring. Steeling himself, Kell once again grasped the Cener’s mask and pulled it free. Beneath the mask, Caligraf had a narrow, pinched face, with high cheekbones and a hawklike nose. Numerous pockmarks and brown blotches marred the visage, making Caligraf look far older than his probable thirty years.

_Curious_, thought Kell to himself; _I feel nothing – no sense of triumph at the death of this enemy._ But the Herbalish were not given to pointless speculation, least of all upon something as transient as emotion. Kell gingerly stowed the mask in his pack, then stood.

Brogun and Kednor had freed a pair of children – one cowering, the other capering madly – from the cage in one corner of the room. Alas, the third child upon the altar was beyond all help, his skull shattered by Caligraf’s hammer at the beginning of the battle.

From the seemingly deranged child named Doric, the adventurers learned that someone only referred to as *he* yet awaited them, and that *he* would “swallow us all!” Doric seemed strangely pleased by that possibility.

“We are exhausted, our bodies tired, and my master’s spells are spent,” spoke Kednor. “Nevertheless, I feel compelled to journey onwards into yonder cavern.” Wordlessly, the others agreed.

As they advanced, a hush came over the group. Even Doric ceased his chattering. Kell could see why, for before them rose the vast bulk of a skeletal dragon – or more precisely, the mummified corpse of a dragon, for it was inert and dead. The tips of the thing’s wings nearly brushed the walls on either side, spanning some forty feet. Its body, nearly sixty feet long, was still covered in sapphire-colored scales. Even from this distance, one could tell that those scales would turn aside mundane weapons as easily as a suit of plate armor would turn aside a pebble. Kell swallowed nervously: he was scared, despite the fact that the dragon was already dead.

_Thank you for saving me from the Giaks,_ purred a voice directly in Kell’s mind. _Now if you will be so kind as to retrieve me from inside this… body… we can see about returning your companion to life._

“How did you know Otieno was dead?” Kell demanded, aloud.

_I know many things, human. Many more things than your pathetically limited mind can safely comprehend. I have delved the forbidden depths of Right-Handed magic, and I have studied the forgotten secrets of the Shianti. Your people’s herbcraft is feeble compared to the powers of the Nadziranim! Where were you when we made the nations of the Hammerlands tremble before the might of Naar? You are _nothing_. GROVEL BEFORE ME, WEAKLING!_

Kell staggered back under the mental assault, clutching his head. A firm hand guided him away from the dragon’s corpse, and then an open palm struck him lightly across the cheek.

“Kell! Snap out of it!” ordered Brogun. “What is happening to you?” The dwarf peered concernedly at his friend.

“The voice,” whispered Kell, his own voice unsteady. He licked his lips and swallowed. “There is a voice from within the dragon. Somehow it knows my thoughts and it….”

Brogun’s eyes narrowed. “Inside the dragon’s corpse, you say? Then one of us must enter and confront it. Kell! Listen to me. You must do this. Kednor and I are too clumsy to climb inside.”

“No,” whispered Kell, “I beg you. Do not make me do this thing.”

“You must,” Brogun demanded. “Now go.”

Trembling in fear, Kell approached the head of the dragon. No voice spoke in his head this time, but the silence was more terrifying that its previous rants. Biting back his nausea, Kell laid aside his pack and his bow and drew his shortsword. With some last reserve of divine energy, Brogun enchanted the blade so that it glowed brightly, and all took some comfort in the divine light of Kirabá.

Kell knelt before Choth.

_Yes,_ purred the voice in his head. _Yes._

Sword held before him, Kell squirmed his way into the dragon’s gullet.

= = = = =

Hours later, Brogun and Kednor trudged down the mountainside. Doric alternately ran ahead of them and lagged behind, laughing insanely. The girl-child whimpered quietly on Brogun’s shoulder as the warrior-priest carried her. At Brogun’s side, Kednor carried the body of Otieno across his own broad shoulders.

“Master, there is something I do not understand.” Kednor’s baritone voice broke the silence that had prevailed among the companions since their departure from Choth’s lair. “Why do we carry this Dragonstone towards Bellhold when that is exactly what it wants us to do?”

Brogun grunted in annoyance. They had already discussed their plan, back in the cave where the battle had taken place, safely out of range (or so they hoped) of the Dragonstone’s mental intrusion. Kell had remembered one of the tales told by Tokket, the innkeeper of the Bell and Clapper: _the Wyrmcall bell in the church tower was so loud it had stopped the heart and shattered the bottle carried by an unfortunate drunk who fell asleep underneath it_. The scout believed that the Dragonstone would be susceptible to those same vibrations.

Painful experimentation had demonstrated that the Dragonstone was *not* vulnerable to anything else.

Brogun remembered what had happened when he had struck at the hunk of crystal with his waraxe – the stab of pain between his temples, as though with his axe blow he had struck himself. It took the stalwart dwarf fully ten minutes afterwards before he could stand.

“Master?” inquired Kednor. “What if this does not work?”

Brogun strode onwards.

= = = = =

It was nightfall. “We are nearly back to town,” Kell announced. He had ranged ahead of the others, the Dragonstone swaddled in cloths within his pack. It had remained uncharacteristically silent during the journey. “Just across the river, we enter Bellhold.”

Brogun looked deeply into the Kell’s eyes, trying to gauge his resolve. What he saw was only fear and doubt to mirror his own. But Brogun recalled the teachings of Kirabá, which tell us that the brave man is not brave because he feels no fear; he is brave because he acts in spite of his fear.

“We all know what must be done,” Brogun began, then stopped short. He did not wish to speak his thought aloud – did not wish even to *think* his thoughts – in the presence of the Dragonstone. “Be brave, Kell.” They clasped hands, then turned purposefully toward the river.

Kell waded across the frigid waters of the Xane River. Behind him trudged Brogun, his axe held above his head to keep it dry. Though the water came up to the dwarf’s chest, he seemed to exhibit no discomfort. Upon reaching the shore, Brogun place his axe reverently upon the ground, then forged back across the river to help Kednor carry Otieno’s body. A few more trips saw the children ferried safely across.

“Doric, take your sister and go home,” Brogun commanded. He would rather trust the girl’s life in her brother’s deranged hands than subject her to what was to come. Doric tittered and scampered off, dragging his sister behind him.

The Kestrels then stood in silence for a moment before setting off. Three abreast, they marched up the street, heading strait for the center of town.

As they passed the first row of houses, their heads began to ache anew. They shook their heads to clear them and continued.

Suddenly, from every house and street around them came the voice – but it was multiplied and spoke as many voices in unison.

_Stop what you are doing. Release me._

“Ignore it,” snapped Brogun; he was tired of the Dragonstone’s incessant, illusory threats.

_Then you shall have a real threat, half-man,_ the voice gloated.

From the surrounding streets and houses stepped the people of Bellhold: men and women, young and old, merchant and miner. They moved jerkily, as though unused to the functioning of their limbs. All their eyes glowed with sapphire light.

“Oh, sh*t,” said Brogun. “Run!”

Kell needed no additional prompting: with a burst of speed he shot past the line of dominated townsfolk, spun away from another pair just emerging from a side street, and raced for the church.

Brogun and Kednor broke into a trot; in their heavy armor, they could not run. A crowd of people surrounded them. The dwarves swept their weapons side to side, pulling their blows enough to avoid lethal strikes. Many pairs of hands grabbed at them, but none was strong enough to stop their forward progress.

Up ahead, Kell had gained the belltower and flung open the door. An under-priest lurched out of the darkness and Kell clubbed him senseless with the pommel of his sword before dashing up the stairs. Behind him, he could hear Brogun and Kednor grunting as they plowed their way through the ever-increasing crowd and forced shut the door.

Kell raced around and around the spiral stairs.

_You cannot succeed. Release me or die._

The voice came simultaneously from inside Kell’s head and from the hundreds of townsfolk gathered outside.

He forced his mind to ignore it. The stairs. Must count them. Two turns so far. Twelve steps in a turn. Two times twelve: twenty-four. Third turn now. Three times twelve: thirty—

Kell smashed into the door in front of him without seeing it. He stumbled back, dazed.

= = =

Below, Brogun put his back against the main door, bracing his feet against the nearest step. Kednor was about to use his warhammer to bar the door when an axe bit into the wood from the other side. The paladin dragged his master away just before several more axes chopped through the wood where Brogun had been leaning. In seconds the door was completely gone and the crowd surged forwards, murder in their sapphire eyes.

= = =

Kell frantically pushed at the portal blocking his way. But it was of stout oak and locked as well.

_What will you do now, human? This path is fruitless. Give up your hopeless quest and release me._

Kell sagged against the wall. The voice was right – this *was* hopeless. Even if he somehow got past this second door, he’d still have to face a whole town’s worth of people. He’d be cut to shreds in no time – just like Kednor and Brogun, who were probably already dead.

“No!” Kell shouted. “You cannot defeat me with despair!” Leaping up, he fished lockpicks out of his pouch and set to work.

= = =

Axes, pitchforks, and lit torches chopped, pierced, and burned Brogun and Kednor. The dwarves retreated up the narrow stairs. They had the advantage of higher ground and of holding a choke-point, but their restrained blows were making little headway against the mob.

“Screw this,” announced Brogun. He turned his axe in his hand so that the blade was properly positioned and swept it back and forth before him.

= = =

The lock clicked open and Kell thrust open the door immediately. More stairs. One turn. Two turns. Three turns.

After a fourth turn the stairs ended. On the ceiling above, a trapdoor gave entrance onto the Wyrmcall bell itself.

_And what will you do if this door is locked? You left your lockpicks below._ The voice chortled in Kell’s head and echoed dimly from the base of the tower.

For a moment, he hesitated. If the trapdoor was indeed locked – but that was what the Dragonstone *wanted* him to think. Kell pushed on the trapdoor above his head. It opened easily and he climbed up onto the platform. The great Wyrmcall was suspended from a massive oaken frame, its fine burnished copper reflecting the moonlight. Beside the bell, a coil of rope was attached to the crossbar: by lowering this line into the belltower, one could then pull on the rope to ring the bell.

Kell ripped off his pack and dumped its contents onto the platform. The Dragonstone rolled free of its bundle and came to rest just beneath the Wyrmcall.

_You fool,_ the voice was exasperated, _do you honestly believe you can destroy me with a bell? Pick me up and carry me back into town._

Kell ignored the voice. He wrapped the bell’s rope several times around his waist and tied it in a simple knot, then grasped the trailing line and looked downwards. Many levels below, his two friends fought a desperate defensive action, buying time to do what must be done: to destroy the Dragonstone.

Kell took a deep breath and jumped through the open trapdoor.


----------



## Elder-Basilisk (Aug 25, 2003)

Gutsy move. I hope it pans out but I guess I'll have to wait until the next installment to find out.


----------



## Joshua Randall (Aug 27, 2003)

Kell sails through the air. Unfortunately, he didn't tie the rope tight enough, so he plummets to his death many feet below. Meanwhile, the dominated townsfolk overwhelm Brogun and Kednor and turn them into ground sausage. The Dragonstone fully dominates Bellhold and, in time, all of Magnamund.

The End.



Obviously, this is a joke. What makes it extra funny (to me, anyway) is that the Lone Wolf game books have some truly gnarly "you're dead" paragraphs. For example:

_Your knees shatter on impact and you drop like a stone into the darkness of the shaft, but the pain and shock soon fades into unconsciousness. As you hit the surface of an underground river, hundreds of feet below, you are unable to save yourself from death by drowning.

Your mission and your life end here._


Tune in next time when I write an *actual* update.


----------



## (contact) (Aug 30, 2003)

Tricksy updater.


----------



## Joshua Randall (Sep 17, 2003)

*"Hear the tolling of the bells…"*

*“Hear the tolling of the bells… What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!”*


_NNNNNOOOOOOOOO!!!!!_

A tremendous rolling *BONG* boomed forth from the Wyrmcall. Kell jerked to a painful stop at the end of the bell rope, then began swinging his body wildly to and fro in an effort to toll the bell. Absently, he noticed that his hands were bleeding heavily where they had slid down the rope.

*BONG* The Wyrmcall boomed forth again. Kell felt a stab of pain through his temples along with an overwhelming mental command to _STOP!_ He laughed: his momentum was now carrying him back and forth. He could not stop.

Below, Brogun was screaming something incoherent in Dwarvish. The mass of townsfolk continued to push the dwarves up the stairs.


*BONG*

*BONG*

*BONG*

Kell’s mind was going. He closed his eyes. Nothing existed now except the sound of the bell.

= = =

It was utterly still, like a blanket of quiet had been placed over Bellhold. 

In the east, the light of Magnamund’s sun broke over the foothills of the Durncrag mountains. As the rays reached the top of the church tower in Bellhold, they illuminated the many fragments of crystal that had been the Dragonstone.

A light wind blew up from the south, spreading the crystal dust across the tower’s platform. They glinted in the dawn sun. Then a sudden strong gust scattered the remains of Choth the Nadziran, known as Copperdeath, to the four winds.

= = =

*DM’s note:* Here endeth the adventure _Of Sound Mind_, with the Company of the Red Kestrel battered but triumphant. As I am way behind in my story-telling, I will summarize some of the key events of the campaign thereafter.

Otieno was _raised_ by grateful priests of Kai upon their return to Bellhold. He chose to remain with the Company (as an NPC) for the time being.

Brogun received word from Zaccarias Zabar, the dwarven master-smith, that the waraxe he had commissioned was ready for pickup in the Durenese city of Ryme.

Kell met with superiors in the Herbalish druidical order. They were alarmed to learn of the presence of the Cener druid, Caligraf, in Bellhold, but satisfied that he had been eliminated. The Herbalish questioned Kell regarding his efforts in locating the missing Shard of Gareth, a fragment of the sacred First Tree. Kell sheepishly admitted he had made no progress, and resolved to accompany Brogun to Durenor, where the Shard had been lost.

So the party set off to the east, taking advantage of a huge rules blunder to make the trip a short one. (Somehow, I thought that _wind walk_ was a 3rd-level cleric spell instead of a 6th-level cleric spell, and I allowed Brogun to cast it multiple times to speed their journey. Only several sessions later did I realize my mistake.)

Arriving in Durenor, they found the entire country in a state of barely suppressed panic. A series of bizarre and grisly murders had rocked the capitol city of Hammerdal, prompting the Knights of the White Mountain to clamp down on traffic in and out of their nation. Roving military patrols were a common sight, and everyone had to carry papers identifying themselves.

Brogun, who was officially barred from entering Durenor by a previous proclamation of Eluchir the Truthspeaker, snuck into the country long enough to retrieve his _+1 waraxe_ from Zabar and to meet with Narakh in Hammerdal. (Again, the PCs made good use of _wind walk_ to avoid the roving patrols.)

Meanwhile, Kell spoke with several Knights of the White Mountain guarding the entrance to the Tunnel of Tarnalin. He learned that animals in the nearby forest were behaving strangely and resolved to investigate.

Reuniting with Brogun, Kednor, and Otieno, Kell led the way into the forest. The group encountered a kakarmi, a shy semi-intelligent forest-dwelling creature no bigger than a raccoon. The kakarmi, after being coaxed out of hiding by Kell, informed the party that someone named Ilthian, who lived “at the center of the forest,” was gathering animals to her.

The Company of the Red Kestrel advanced into the forest, battling a group of plant creatures (advanced twig blights and needlefolk, courtesy of the newly-acquired _Monster Manual II_ plus the 3.5 rules for monster advancement). Later that night, they were approached by the very person they were seeking out: Ilthian. She turned out to be a dryad of surpassing beauty (naturally). In her left hand, she carried what appeared to be an intricately carved shortspear.

The Shard of Gareth was within their grasp.


Edit: changed the font to something other than the dreaded Times New Roman.


----------



## Joshua Randall (Sep 22, 2003)

*The Cener Strike Back*

Ilthian explained that some humble kakarmi had found the Shard of Gareth lying carelessly abandoned at the edge of the forest, near the road to Hammerdal. Hearing this, Kell glared at Brogun, who looked at the ground and scuffled his feet in embarrassment.

Clearing her throat to recapture the adventurers’ attention, the dryad sternly reprimanded them for their unnecessary slaughter of the plant-creatures. “But they attacked us!” protested Brogun. “Only because you were trespassing in their territory,” responded Ilthian. “You could have fled from them.”

“And we thank you for the valuable lesson, fair Ilthian,” interjected Kell. “Now. Are you aware that the Shard of Gareth is a holy relic of the Herbalish faith?”

Ilthian insisted that the Shard belonged to nature, and that as a creature of nature herself, she intended to keep it. Kell pressed his point, but the dryad was unyielding.

The back-and-forth conversation prevented the debaters from noticing the two Cener rangers sneaking up on them. The party was surprised and subjected to a volley of poisoned arrows, one of which struck Ilthian, dropping her immediately. Moments later an _entangle_ spell engulfed the area, and the already thick underbrush began wrapping around feet and ankles.

The Company of the Red Kestrel was caught completely unprepared. Brogun had depleted his spells earlier in the day, and Otieno was reduced to attempting to cast _ray of frost_ – an effort that failed anyway because of the entanglement. Kednor began trudging through the underbrush, relying on his armor to protect him from the continued arrow fire.

Kell crouched down near Ilthian and closed his hand around the Shard of Gareth. Instantly, he became overwhelmed with a sense of one-ness with the forest. In a lifetime of nature worship, Kell had never felt so close to this ultimate fusion.

He had also never felt a burning pain quite like that brought on by the two arrows that struck his midsection – or more precisely, by the poison coating the arrows that coursed its way into Kell’s bloodstream. The Herbalish scout suddenly found himself incredibly weak; the weight of his pack nearly bore him to the earth.

The Cener continued their relentless assault. More arrows struck Otieno, who quickly succumbed to the strength-draining poison. Brogun was struck as well, but his dwarven constitution allowed him to fight off the debilitating effects. He joined Kednor is trudging through the entangling area. The two made little progress, however.

Safely outside the area of the spell, one of the Cener unfurled and read a scroll of _freedom of movement_. Thus augmented, he dashed forward, easily evading Kednor’s clumsy attempt to stop him, and plowed into Kell. 

Brogun finally burst out of the entanglement and charged the other Cener. The archer tried to drop his bow and draw a hand-weapon, but Brogun was too fast for him. With one mighty blow the dwarven cleric decapitated his foe.

Several dozen yards away, the first Cener grappled with Kell. The two struggled together for several seconds, but in his weakened state, Kell could not prevent the Cener from wrestling the Shard away from him.

With a sneer, the Cener kicked Kell in the face, then sped off through the forest.

Kell and Otieno lay completely helpless on the ground, their strength completely drained by the poison. Ilthian was likewise incapacitated. Brogun and Kednor, though unpoisoned, were unable to follow the fleeing Cener – their clumsy tracking efforts foiled by his _pass without trace_

The Shard of Gareth was now in the hands of their enemies.


----------



## Joshua Randall (Sep 24, 2003)

*Rogue's Gallery Update - Roark and Arla*

Did you know there is a Rogue's Gallery thread that goes along with this story hour? Check it out - I've added stat blocks for some nasty villains, Roark of Amory and his cohort, Arla.

These villains haven't appeared in the campaign yet, but the Company of the Red Kestrel is aware of Roark's existence, and Brogun in particular has expressed a desire to seek him out.

I might be a bad person, but I'm secretly hoping that the PCs *do* encounter my villains, so I can use Roark to kick someone's ass!


----------



## Joshua Randall (Sep 30, 2003)

I've added another NPC to the Rogue's Gallery thread. This time it's someone who will be helpful to the Kestrels. But they'd better not piss her off: she's potentially deadly in a fight.


----------



## Joshua Randall (Sep 30, 2003)

*Interlude: Nasir*

Nasir al-Faraj turned his head and spat. He watched the spittle descend in a perfect arc from his position atop his horse to the dusty plain below.

Taking the spear from those so-called Kestrels has been easier than he’d thought. Of course, that idiot Heysek had to go and get himself killed, but Nasir didn’t mind. He’d never liked Heysek much, anyway. Besides, this way Nasir could claim to have done it all himself. The boss would be happy with him – might even grant him a boon.

Nasir scowled. He should’ve been there in Bellhold. What a foul up: everyone dead or driven off; the Dragonstone destroyed; the Kestrels triumphant. But not so triumphant now – not when Nasir had plucked the prize from that Herbalish scout’s hands like picking a flower.

The whole damn organization was nuts for this spear. Nasir contemplated it for the hundredth time. It was pretty to look at, he had to admit, but so light that it seemed unfit as a weapon. And Nasir couldn’t figure out why the tree-creature had been so enamored of it; dryads were normally pacifists.

He spat again. The horse puffed out its flanks, then sighed, the air rustling its lips. Nasir sneered and dug in his heels: time to make haste.

= = =

Nasir’s horse died outside of Kadan. One minute he was riding along; the next, the stupid animal had collapsed to the ground, sending its rider sprawling away in alarm. Nasir berated the creature for several minutes before realizing it was dead. “Pestilence take your soul!” he cursed.

He had to walk – walk! – into Kadan carrying the spear, wrapped in his horse blanket. Always had to be on guard in these Cloeasian cities. But no one seemed to care about a single badly sunburned ranger keeping to the shade of the buildings while working his way through the city.

About half a day outside of Vakar, at the unnamed oasis that served as a meeting place for those on the road to Casiorn, Nasir came upon a roadside archery contest. He handily beat the bumbling farmers and hunters who were taking part, but declined the prize – some dumb bow – instead opting for one of the contest organizer’s horses. Mounting up, Nasir galloped westwards.

= = =

It was dry. Dry as a gods-damned bone. The whole place was called the  _Dry Main_. So why the hell did Nasir have to wake up every morning surrounded by scrub-brush and tangly grasses? He couldn’t figure that out. Maybe that Herbalish scout had put some kind of curse on him during the battle.

Nasir shrugged. At least the horse would have something to eat.

= = =

Finally: Casiorn. Nasir hated the city. _Emerald of the desert, my ass_, he thought to himself. _More like costume jewelry._

The hulking Sharnazim at the gate gave him some lip, and started to make real trouble when he foolishly tried to bribe them. Stupid, stupid, stupid. The Sharnazim were all religious fanatics and ascetics. They made perfect guards: single-minded to the point of obsession. Fortunately for Nasir, however, they weren’t too interested in a lengthy discussion – not when half of Magnamund was lined up outside the gates, waiting to get in for the games.

Finding the boss wasn’t easy in a city as big as Casiorn. It actually took Nasir two-and-a-half days before he could safely make contact. Of course, the boss wasn’t exactly advertising his presence; not with the chance that the Kestrels would find out. Nasir assured the boss that he hadn’t been followed, but the boss laughed and told him _your feeble herbcraft is hardly enough to deter a determined tracker_.

Nasir shrugged. He didn’t care. The boss needed him around, and that was enough. He’d cool his heels in this stinking city for as long as it took. He hoped the Kestrels did show up. Because this time he wouldn’t be charged with taking something from them.

This time he’d kill them.


----------



## Joshua Randall (Oct 13, 2003)

*The Chase*

It took the Company of the Red Kestrel an entire day to recover from the Cener ambush that had deprived them of the Shard of Gareth. Brogun called upon the power of Kirabá time and time again to undo the debilitating effects of the poison on Kell, Otieno, and Ilthian the dryad.

The latter was exceptionally distraught over the loss of the Shard. She withdrew into her tree and refused to re-emerge despite Kell’s entreaties.

“We shall recover the Shard and return it to the forest,” Kell promised. “You have my word on that, Ilthian.”

But the dryad did not believe him. “You will use its powers for your personal aggrandizement,” she said sadly from within her oak.

Kell sighed. At times, his patience with the creatures of nature was sorely tested. In any case, he had days and days of hard work ahead. Tracking the Cener ranger who had carried off the Shard would not be easy, for that foe was not only experienced in woodcraft in his own right, but could periodically obliterate his trail with magic. There was no time to lose.

= = =

The Herbalish turned to his companions. “I was going to ask you to make the hard choice to abandon your heavy armor and weapons in the interest of speed,” Kell began.

Brogun, panting slightly, said nothing. He contemplated the teachings of Kirabá.

_“A true warrior’s faith is his armor, his devotion his shield.”_ Kednor intoned the words in his rumbling baritone. But Brogun was not sure he agreed. He would rather have a suit of plate between himself and the enemy than rely on faith and devotion.

Seeing the look of consternation on his companion’s face, Kell chuckled. “Fortunately for your dwarven pride, there is no need for such drastic measures. See these? Hoofprints. Our quarry is mounted.”

“Then we will never catch up to him,” Brogun groaned.

“We will not,” Kell agreed. “Indeed, he will pull away from us more and more each day. However, in our advantage is the fact that he has not been using _pass without trace_ to lose us.”

“Why not?” queried Brogun.

Kell shrugged. “I cannot say. Perhaps he has been saving his magic for other uses. Perhaps he underestimates my tracking skills.”

Brogun huffed. “How could anyone do _that_?”

Otieno, who had listened to the proceedings in silence, broke in. “Or perhaps he rushes towards a destination and does not care that we follow.”

Brogun spat on the ground, provoking a wince from Kell.

Otieno continued. “Since exiting the forest, we have headed towards the Rymerift. There are only two crossings: at Port Bax and at Ryme. As his trail had led south of west, we can deduce that he intends the latter.”

“Unless he plans to use a boat to cross,” Kell pointed out.

“I have heard,” Otieno mused, “that those well attuned to magic can cause distant places to appear to their inner sight.” The Vakeros sorcerer looked pointedly at Brogun. “Distant places or - people.”

The dwarf frowned. Clearing his throat, he said, “Kirabá has yet to grant me such a boon.”

“Perhaps if you had focused your energies upon serving your god instead of learning how to chop things into smaller pieces, you would be able to cast this spell,” said Kell.

Brogun growled. “And perhaps if you had kept a better grip on the Shard of Gareth—“

“Enough.” Kednor’s deep voice cut short the argument. “The trail leads towards the Rymerift, correct?”

Kell nodded.

“Then we follow it.”

“And when we reach the water?” Kell queried.

Kednor slowly turned to look at Brogun, then returned his gaze to the ranger. “Then you shall see what faith in Kirabá makes possible.”

= = =

Upon the banks of the Rymerift, Kednor knelt and prayed to his god. When he arose, he touched each of his companions in turn. Then, leading the way, Brogun strode across the rushing water as if it were solid ground.

Once they had reached the opposite shore, Kell knelt immediately to look for tracks. After studying the earth for several minutes, he looked up, pointed southwards, and set off at a slow jog.

= = = 

Kell finally lost the trail on the road outside Kadan, near the body of a half-eaten equine.

Kell grimaced. “He rode his horse to death.”

“I thought you said he was a druid,” Brogun said. “Don’t druids care for animals?”

Kednor scowled. “Not the Cener.”

= = =

The rolling, wooded countryside of southern Durenor had given way to the arid, scrubby hills and low mountains of Cloeasia. During the daytime, the temperature reached 80 degrees or more, and the dwarves at last consented to remove their heavy armor. Remove, but not abandon, for each now carried his mail in a bundle upon his back rather than wearing it.

Traffic upon the road was sparse. On one occasion, the Kestrels overtook a merchant caravan bound for Ferufezan. The dour mercenaries who guarded the train of camels and wagons shook their heads negatively when questioned, and motioned the adventurers away.

Unexpectedly, it was Otieno who persisted in questioning the wary soldiers-for-hire. The Vassagonian sorcerer smiled at the men, spoke to them in their native language, and offered them water - the traditional hospitality of the desert regions. At last, after hours of gradually less strained conversation, Otieno returned to his companions.

“A lone rider, his horse in a lather, passed by four days ago. He asked about the road between Lujar and Vakar.”

Kell’s eyes gleamed at the news, and he clapped Otieno on the back. “Well done!”

The sorcerer bowed theatrically.

= = =

Without Brogun’s ability to _create food and water_, they would have been dead. But the dwarven cleric was able to bring forth a limitless supply of nourishing, if bland, edibles. And it was the water more than anything else that sustained them.

On Kell’s advice, they began traveling by night. It was simply too hot during the day to do more than seek what little shade was provided by the scraggly toa trees that grew in sparse patches near the road. This was high summer at the edge of the Dry Main, and only fools or heroes dared travel during it.

At Vakar, Otieno’s knowledge of local customs was once again essential. A half-day spent in that town’s simple house of worship provided yet another lead: their quarry had passed through some ten days prior, bound for Casiorn.

“By Kirabá’s beard!” Brogun swore. “I weary of this chase.”

“You thought the adventuring life would be more glamorous, eh, Brogun?” Kell teased.

“No,” the dwarf said slowly, “but I thought it would be less… exhausting.”

= = =

It was at the oasis near Casiorn that the Company of the Red Kestrel came across the same traveling archery contest in which Nasir had taken part. For the Kestrels, Kell was the obvious choice to compete.

The first part of the contest was easy: firing arrows at a moderately distant target, attempting to achieve a minimum score in order to advance. Kell breezed through that portion of the event, as did one other: a tall man with rugged features, a hunter from the Bone Hills to the north, who bore a longbow of orange toa-wood.

The hunter nodded his head and spoke in a gruff voice. “Altan.”

“Kell,” replied the ranger. He had observed this stranger, and seen that the man’s skill with his chosen weapon was formidable. It would be a difficult contest.

Kell grinned.


----------



## Joshua Randall (Oct 20, 2003)

*Casiorn*

The Silver Bow of Duadon was carved from the rare wood of the silver oaks that grow in central Magnamund. The Silver Bow’s complete lack of markings make it impossible to determine its age, and it seems to resist normal wear and tear. It is an equisitely crafted weapon, so well made that its accuracy is noticeably better than normal. When its string is drawn, the bow seems to hum slightly in an almost subliminal fashion.

This weapon is presently borne by the Herbalish scout known as Kell, of the Company of the Red Kestrel.

= = =

The City-State of Casiorn rises out of the Dry Main like a vision within a mirage. Everywhere one looks, one sees gleaming gold and silver domes, pristine white minarets, lush stands of trees. For High-Mayor Kordas, whose personal fortune is rumored to exceed one million Gold Crowns, spares no expense in the maintenance and beautification of his city.

Casiorn also houses a famed arena, known colloquially as The Veins, after the red striations that run through the marble from which it is built. This arena is the site of a neverending panoply of games, ranging from gladiatorial combat to spell duels to great battles pitting savage beasts against condemned criminals. Travelers from across Magnamund come to observe, bet on, or even participate in the games — for it is said that even a slave can earn his freedom and his fame on the burning, blood-soaked sands.

But away from the High-Mayor’s palace and The Veins; outside the ring of carefully planned streets, piazzas, and fountained parks; away from the center of the city, Casiorn sprawls groaning under the burning sun.

Beggars, their flesh rotting from Limbdeath, accost those who travel the streets on foot. Gangs of fatherless children act out the law of the jungle upon a desert stage, proving again and again that makeshift weapons kill as readily as those crafted of steel. Holy men, seers, and lunatics jostle for space along the busy thoroughfares, screaming imprecations at each other from opposite corners. Alchemists and quacks compete to see who can sell liquid remedies the fastest, with skullcapped magi looking on through heavy-lidded eyes.

Everywhere the smell of incense burns cloying in one’s nostrils, but the stench of the garbage heaped in piles and alleys is worse. Above all there is the noise: the calls to prayer, the imprecations of disappointed beggars, the haggling, the squabbles, and the clink of money changing hands.

This is Casiorn, Emerald of the Desert.


----------



## Joshua Randall (Nov 21, 2003)

*Random Urban Encounter #17*

The Kestrels gained entrance to Casiorn and found their senses assaulted by the sights, sounds, and smells of the city. They didn’t quite where to begin, so they headed towards the center of the city and a large marketplace… just in time to run into a manticore that had escaped from its transporting cage.

Leaping into action, the Company handily defeated this beast, hampered as it was by still being chained to its cage. Immediately afterwards, an excited boy scampered up to the party. His clothes, although dirty, were of better than average quality, and he wore an oversized athletic training belt cinched tightly around his waist.

“Wow! That was great!” the youngster gushed. “You must be mighty adventurers! You’ve got to come help Akevi and the gladiators. Everyone keeps dying! Even the Golden Shambler died!” The boy absently touched the training belt as he said this.

“Slow down there, youngster,” Brogun admonished. “I am Brogun Rhumenheim, Priest of Kirabá. What is your name?” The dwarf grinned, trying to look friendly; Kell winced.

The boy took a step back, then seemed to rally his courage. “I’m Short Fang!” he announced, striking an exaggerated pose as he did so.

= = =

[Note: the following is based on a Dungeon magazine adventure, “Pandemonium in the Veins”.]

[Also note that, because I am so far behind in this story, I will give an extremely brief account of what has happened. The players actually spent many sessions embroiled in this adventure, and to write them up in full detail was too daunting of a task for me.]

Short Fang led the Company of the Red Kestrel to the Casiorn arena. There, the party made the acquaintance of several notables:

Muammar Hafiz, the arena’s commissioner, was a fat, oily man, always huffing and puffing, and spraying spittle when he talked. His bejeweled fingers and turbaned head seemed to indicate that The Veins were a profitable enterprise. After testing the adventurers’ battle prowess and vetting them as gladiators, Hafiz proceeded to ignore them.

Volpone Venazzi, a big brute of a man, was the leader of one of the gladiatorial stables, known as Sand Net. Volpone wore gleaming, bronze-colored plate armor and carried a huge sword strapped to his back, and a spiked mace at his belt. He glowered at the Kestrels.

Only Akevi Vemyr treated them with courtesy. She invited the adventurers to join her stable to replace some gladiators who had recently died under mysterious circumstances. Indeed, Akevi offered the Kestrels a substantial sum of money if they could determine who or what was behind the deaths.

= = =

Over the course of several days, the Kestrels established themselves as a gladiatorial team to be reckoned with. They defeated many foes, hoping to make a name for themselves and secure an invitation to the High-Mayor’s palace. For Kell had learned that the Shard of Gareth was indeed in Casiorn - and the Kestrels were determined to reclaim it.

Meanwhile, the Kestrels began to uncover signs that someone was poisoning the gladiators. It seemed that a performance-enhancing drug was sweeping through both stables (although hitting Akevi’s hardest), leading to addiction, gradual weakness when not drugged, and eventual death. But who was behind this? Some signs pointed to Hafiz, although it seemed nonsensical that he would ruin his own business. Other hints seemed to indicate that Volpone was behind the deaths; he had detected as evil, and insulted the Kestrels at every turn, but those facts in and of themselves didn’t make him the culprit.

All that was certain was that someone at the arena was ordering vast quantities of fararja leaf, an herb with a strong mint-like smell. The Kestrels had detected this smell on the breaths of some gladiators they fought, concluding that faraja leaves must be an ingredient in the mysterious and lethal drug.

= = =

Other problems arose as well. One day, the Kestrels were summoned to a meeting at a seedy inn, where they were greeted by Dothar, a Knight of the White Mountain whom they had met in Durenor. Dothar said that he had been ordered by Eluchir the Truthspeaker to recover the Shard of Gareth, and was prepared to give the party 10,000 Gold Crowns to use in that endeavor. Brogun wanted to use the money to purchase the Shard from High-Mayor Kordas, but Kell was unconvinced. The Herbalish didn’t like the fact that the Knights of the White Mountain were now calling themselves the Knights of Truth; he felt it smacked of totalitarianism.

Furthermore, Kell had been approached by another druid nicknamed Oakarms. This fellow, part of a heretical sect called the Redeemers, told Kell some of the powers of the Shard: that it would cause plants to grow uncontrollably and that it could enhance the powers of those attuned to nature. Oakarms speculated that the Shard had lain dormant in its shrine atop the White Mountain in Durenor because that aerie was so cold and bleak that the Shard’s powers could not function. In any event, Oakarms hinted that the Redeemers wanted to claim the Shard for themselves, to use its powers for good: for the Redeemers believed that nature’s purpose was to promote goodness.

But Kell also met up with Almar, a high druid of the Herbalish, who came to Casiorn specifically to see that the Shard of Gareth made its way into Herbalish hands. “Pay no attention to Oakarms’ teleological sophistry,” Almar thundered. “Nature has no purpose. The Shard must be returned to the sacred First Tree.”

The confused ranger didn’t know what to make of these competing claims. Certainly, the Knights of the White Mountain had faithfully guarded the Shard for centuries. But then why had Eluchir asked a lone knight to bring it to Hammerdal? And could the renamed Knights of Truth be trusted? What of the Redeemers? It did sound like the Shard could be a powerful force for good… if it could be controlled. Should Kell obey the wishes of Almar, his nominal superior?

Kell’s head ached.

= = =

The Kestrels were summoned to yet another meeting with Dothar. The Knight was fed up with waiting - he wanted results. Brogun explained that after only a few more battles, the group would be famous enough to secure an invitation to the High-Mayor’s upcoming banquet.

“You’d better hope so,” replied Dothar, “because you are not the only ones with an interest in this relic.”

Kell remained conspicuously silent.

On their way back from this meeting, the Kestrels passed through a sleazy part of town.

“Psst! Kestrels!” came a guttural, accented voice. The speaker was a short, extremely sunburned man with an elaborate mustache, wearing a turban.

“Who are you?” Brogun demanded.

The mustachioed stranger sneered. “Let us just say that I have information about a certain… item.” Intrigued, the Kestrels agreed to hear what the man had to say.

“For 500 Crowns, I will tell you the… item’s… whereabouts.”

“We already know that,” said Kell dismissively. The man looked strangely familiar to him - where had they seen him before?

“Ah,” continued the stranger, “you know it is in the High-Mayor’s palace. But do you know where? Or how it is guarded? Or what it can do?”

The ever impatient Brogun tossed a large sack of gold on the ground. “Tell us,” the dwarf grunted.

As the stranger reached for the money, Kell suddenly remembered who he was: one of the Cener assassins who had assaulted them in the forest outside Durenor and stolen the Shard! The Herbalish scout quickly knocked and arrow to his bow and let fly and point-blank range —

— and missed, as the Cener reacted with preternatural speed. “Foolish Kestrels!” he hissed, snatching up the gold and leaping a full fifteen feet up the wall of a nearby building, then began to climb towards the roof.

Kednor whipped out a throwing hammer and tossed it upwards, where it crunched satisfyingly into the Cener’s back. At nearly the same instant, Otieno finished the words of a spell, unleashing a _scorching ray_ that struck their fleeing enemy right in the back, burning him horribly.

Kell shouldered his bow and began to climb as well. “Surround the building!” he yelled. “Don’t let him escape!”

Each of the dwarves ran to one side of the building, while Otieno took up position in an adjacent alleyway and readied another spell. As the sorcerer craned his neck upwards, he caught a glimpse of the Cener bounding across the gap overhead. Arcane energy streaked out from Otieno’s fingers, blasting into his target, who completed his leap by falling heavily onto the roof of the next building.

Kell saw Otieno’s _magic missiles_ strike home, saw his quarry pitch headlong into the dust and grit that lined the flat roof across the alley. Racing toward the gap, Kell propelled himself off the edge of the roof.


----------



## Joshua Randall (Nov 24, 2003)

*When In Doubt, Sow Confusion*

Kell saw Otieno’s _magic missiles_ strike home, saw his quarry pitch headlong into the dust and grit that lined the flat roof across the alley. Racing toward the gap, Kell propelled himself off the edge of the roof —

— and slammed painfully into the side of the nearby building. Kell scrabbled for a handhold, but couldn’t hang on, and fell some thirty feet to the cobblestoned street below, where he lay broken and bleeding.

[DM’s note: It was only 10 feet across the alley, which should have been an easy Jump check for Kell — except that he rolled low and blew it, even with his bonuses. He then needed to succeed on a Reflex save to grab onto the edge of the building, but he failed that roll too.]

Hearing the commotion, Brogun rounded the corner in time to see Kell crumple to the ground and pass out from the pain of his fall (or technically, from the sudden stop at the end of the fall). The dwarven cleric healed his companion, who immediately wanted to go after the assassin.

But when the Kestrels reached the top of the building where the man had seemingly been struck down by Otieno’s _magic missiles_, they found only some dried blood and a discarded, empty bottle of Laumspur.

Kell fumed. “We had him! We had him, but we let him get away,” he snapped at no one in particular. The others coughed softly to themselves and looked away. Otieno opened his mouth, then shut it and shook his head negatively in response to a quizzical look from Kell.

The ranger wanted to abandon their gladiating, and even set aside their quest for the Shard of Gareth, in favor of pursuing the “despicable Cener.”

Brogun spoke slowly. “No. We have given Akevi our word that we will determine the cause of her gladiators’ deaths. And we have sworn to retrieve the Shard.” He stared up at Kell. “Have you forgotten your vow to Ilthian, the dryad?”

The Herbalish actually screamed in frustration, his voice ringing out through the surrounding slums: “We shall track you wherever you go, Cener. Know that!”

= = =

That evening, the Company discovered another indication of their foe’s prowess. Earlier, Brogun had protected a chest with a _glyph of warding_ and stored some spare gear and money within it. Upon opening it, he discovered a neatly written message.

_Kestrels — I desired only to conduct a pleasant business transaction, but you had to resort to violence. So be it. — Nasir al-Faraj_

“At least we know his name now,” Otieno pointed out, trying to look on the bright side. [Although inexplicably, the party would fail to act on this information until it was almost too late.]

= = =

Nasir prowled through the bazaar, unconsciously jingling the fat coin-purse at his side. He absently peeled flakes of skin from his sunburnt face, flicking them to the ground, where they were immediately devoured by starving gutter dogs.

The Kestrels had taken him by surprise. He was not used to that. Normally surprise was *his* ally.

Nasir nodded to himself. _She will be again_, he thought to himself.

After several hours of searching and inquiring, he located a merchant who could procure for him that which he required: several potions with which to augment his defensive capabilities. A substantial bribe, paid for by the money Nasir had taken from the Kestrels, induced the merchant also to acquire something special: a _brooch of shielding_. With those protective devices, plus his own ability to cast _resist energy_, Nasir felt confident he would survive yet another engagement with the so-called Kestrels.

They, on the other hand, would not.

= = =

Some signs of their investigation into the drug-making operation pointed the Kestrels toward Volpone Venazzi, the brutish gladiator and boss of the Sand Net stable. They decided to trail him to his home one night. After an almost comical amount of bumbling around, Kell (using his _ring of the chameleon_ to disguise himself) created a diversion and lured Volpone away. The (lawful good!) dwarves then broke into his house and ransacked it, locating several medals that Volpone had won in the arena, as well as some incriminating-looking papers. Pocketing everything, Brogun and Kednor fled the area.

Kell led Volpone on a merry chase through the city before using stealth to slip away and return to the arena, with the brutish gladiator none the wiser. After the Kestrels re-organized themselves, they headed to Akevi’s quarters to show her the documents.

It turned out that Volpone kept extremely detailed financial records which indicated that he had been systematically skimming money off the top of his stable’s profits. If word of this were to get out, the gladiators in his stable would likely riot and demand their back pay, while Commissioner Hafiz would have Volpone arrested.

“Assuming that fat slimeball isn’t in on it,” Akevi muttered under her breath.

Brogun cleared his throat. “We could blackmail him,” he ventured.

“Who?” Akevi exclaimed in alarm.

“Volpone.”

The room grew so quiet that one could hear the crinkling of the papers as Akevi nervously laid them on her table.

Brogun pressed on. “We tell Volpone that unless he divulges his role in the gladiators’ deaths, we’ll go public with his embezzlement scheme.”

Akevi leapt to her feet and managed to stammer out a warning. “You’d create a total… total…”

“Clusterf--k?” Brogun offered, grinning. He began to warm to the idea. “In the confusion, we can also search Hafiz’s office, and check out that alchemist’s laboratory for good measure. Then we’ll challenge Volpone to a match and finish him off, which should solve everything.”

Abruptly, Kednor’s voice rose above his master’s. “I shall not go along with these criminal acts,” he boomed out. “This is the path to damnation.”


[DM's note: the players took me by surprise, and I had to ad-lib huge portions of the game. Using Kednor to enforce alignment restrictions was my was of reganing control while simultaneously deflecting their attention from my lack of preparation. Hamfisted? Yes. But it worked.]


----------



## Joshua Randall (Dec 8, 2003)

*The Dreadwood Wyvern, Part I*

Kednor put his foot down, figuratively and literally. “We serve a higher power, Brogun. Order. Discipline. Strength. Those are our watchwords. Not anarchy and deceit.” The cohort glared at his master, eyes flashing.

“And all our efforts to play by the rules have failed.” Brogun was undeterred. He stood chest-to-chest with Kednor, their faces only inches apart. Traces of white spittle began to build up in the corner of Brogun’s mouth as he ranted. “Breaking into Volpone’s house was the smartest thing we’ve done since we got here. Now we *know* that he’s involved in the drug —”

“We do *not* know that!” shouted Kednor. “All that we know is that Volpone is cheating his gladiators. This crime is not the same as poisoning them with drugs. Furthermore, we gained that knowledge through theft, making us no better than him.”

“Nonsense!” Brogun roared in righteous fury. “We *are* better than him. It is our obligation to stop him, by any means necessary.”

Kednor took two paces backward and spat on the ground at Brogun’s feet. “Those words are the words of immorality. There can be no compromise where Goodness is concerned. Our methods must be as pure as our motives.”

Brogun, panting, wiped his mouth with the back of his shaking hand. “Very well, Kednor. We shall do things your way.”

_For now_, he thought to himself.

= = =

A chastened Brogun returned the documents to Volpone. Or at least most of the documents. The dwarf retained certain key papers that implicated the gladiator, hoping they would prove useful at a later date.

[And the DM began considering imposing penalties for this breach of alignment….]

The Kestrels’ next breakthrough in their investigation came when they traced the faraja leaves to a supplier in the local bazaar. An herbalist named Fra Lorenzo confirmed that he had sold “many shipments” of the strong-smelling plant to Paramezzus Nod, the alchemist who served the Veins as a healer.

The adventurers’ visit to Paramezzus, however, was a disaster. The alchemist refused to let them into his laboratory, and when someone mentioned his son, he began raving and howling. “My son was a god. A god! And she cut him down like a pig. Damn you! Damn your souls to Naar! Get out! Guards!”

Fortunately, Brogun was able to talk his way out of an awkward confrontation with Veins security. But he could not talk the group’s way out of an “impromptu” match pressed upon them by Commissioner Hafiz.

“Oh yes, a most excellent opportunity,” the fat man chortled. “I have been waiting for you to be ready to face one of our most celebrated creatures.”

Kell coughed softly. “What, uh, kind of creature?”

Hafiz laughed, his paroxysms of humor shaking the man’s rolls of flesh. “You shall see, yes? Very soon, you shall see.”

= = =

Brogun, Kednor, Otieno, and Kell stood on one side of the arena, protected from the blazing sun by multiple applications of _endure elements_. Kell strung his bow and withdrew two arrows from a quiver, fitting one to the string and holding the other vertically between the fourth and fifth fingers of his shooting hand. Otieno took several paces away from the rest of the group and readied a spell: he intended to blast whomever appeared before they could orient themselves. The two dwarves hefted their weapons and stood shoulder-to-shoulder, their philosophical differences forgotten for the moment.

In his luxury box, Commissioner Hafiz heaved himself to his feet and addressed the crowd, his voice augmented by magic. “Ladies and gentlemen, people of Casiorn, esteemed guests and worthy visitors,” he began.

_Get on with it_, Kell thought to himself.

Hafiz was continuing his introduction. “… know them as Brogun’s Bears!” Scattered applause rippled through the crowd. “Today,” Hafiz whispered, his voice distinctly audible, sounding disconcertingly close, “they face their greatest challenge. A creature so horrible, it once ate twenty men in a night! A creature so fearsome it took an entire day to subdue! I present — the Dreadwood Wyvern!”

On cue, hidden chains beneath the arena floor were cranked, drawing aside a massive trapdoor on the opposite side of the arena. Sand poured down into the opening, and for a moment, there was neither motion nor sound.

Then, with a rush, something burst forth from the aperture. It was a mottled mixture of brown and blue, its hide a mess of warts and bumps. A pair of wings, ugly but functional, jutted from the creature’s back, and they flapped powerfully, bearing it aloft.

The first impression was one of size and bulk: the thing was easily twenty feet long, its wingspan probably half-again that much. Its tail arched up over its back, and ended in a wicked-looking stinger that visibly glistened with venom. Two stubby legs trailed below its body, these appendages ending in thick talons, each the size and shape of a shovel head.

As the Dreadwood Wyvern heaved itself into flight, its head swiveled to take in the creatures arrayed before it: four tasty morsels of flesh. The thing opened its jaws and let loose a deep-throated growl, the sound a mixture of a lion’s roar and a bull alligator’s cough.

In the stands, the crowd’s roar echoed in bloodthirsty appreciation.


----------



## Joshua Randall (Dec 10, 2003)

*The Dreadwood Wyvern, Part II*

Otieno narrowed his eyes and targeted a _scorching ray_ at the beast. The blistering hot stream of fire streaked outward, but the Dreadwood Wyvern twisted in mid-flight, evading the spell, which splashed harmlessly against the invisible force-barrier that protected the audience from wayward magic. Kell’s nonmagical ranged assault fared no better, one of his arrows missing completely and a second bouncing off the wyvern’s tough hide.

Meanwhile, Brogun incanted a spell of summoning, drawing upon divine power to bring forth a holy ally to aid in the battle. A gleaming creature appeared in mid-air next to the Dreadwood Wyvern — a strange combination of horse and eagle, its hair and feathers both gleaming white. Yet even as the celestial hippogriff opened its beak to slash at its target, the wyvern plowed into it. The draconic creature’s mighty claws tore into the hippogriff, rending it horribly, white celestial blood raining down upon the sand. The Dreadwood Wyvern then clamped its jaws down upon the hippogriff’s back and neck, chomping through sinew and bone — and then through nothing, as the shattered summonee disappeared back to the heavens.

_By Kirabá’s beard!_ Brogun thought in alarm.

Several paces away on the sand, Otieno pointed a finger at the wyvern. _These don’t miss._ A pair of _magic missiles_ darted through the air, catching the creature just under its right wing. It growled in pain and dove towards the one who had hurt it.

“Otieno!” Kell shouted, snapping off a shot as he raced towards his companion.* The arrow took the Dreadwood Wyvern in the cheek, and it opened its mouth wide in fury. Even as Kell dashed in front of Otieno, the wyvern snatched at the Herbalish with both claws, tearing through his leather armor, furrowing the flesh beneath. Kell was driven to his knees. He threw up his hands to ward off a further blow, then felt something sharp and hot slide into his upper back.

Kell had been poisoned before, in the fight with Nasir and the other Cener. While that had been painful, it was like a soothing balm compared to the effects of the wyvern’s sting. Every muscle in the ranger’s body clenched spasmodically. “Oh gods, it hurts!” Kell cried out, tears running down his face.**

Meanwhile, Brogun had taken the opportunity to enhance Kednor’s strength with a spell. “When that thing comes near, pound it,” the cleric stated emphatically. Kednor merely grunted in annoyance: as if such a plan weren’t obvious. The problem was that the wyvern showed no intention of remaining on the ground long enough to be vulnerable. As soon as it had stung Kell, it beat its powerful wings once more, rising in the air to hover in place. 

The Dreadwood Wyvern threw back its head and shrieked in momentary triumph. If a dumb beast could be said to be playing to the crowd, this one was doing so. In the stands, people surged to their feet, a few shaking their fists in anger, but the majority cheering for the monster. Muammar Hafiz grinned broadly: it looked as though the wyvern would solve the problem of the meddlesome adventurers quite nicely. Yes, quite nicely indeed.

Back on the sands, Kell sobbed in agony. He looked over at Brogun in an unspoken plea for help. The dwarf frowned and shook his head sadly.*** So the ranger did the only thing he could: he knocked arrows to his bow and continued firing at the wyvern circling above. Otieno blasted it with another pair of _missiles_, then grabbed Kell by the shoulder. “Move!” the sorcerer shouted. “We must take cover.” They staggered over the sand and took refuge under the luxury box that jutted out in an overhang. Kell withdrew a potion of Laumspur and quaffed it, feeling some of the wounds on his torso close. But the horrible fire within his veins continued to rage as the poison worked its way through his system.

Seeing the archer disappear from view, the wyvern turned its attention to the heavily armored short ones. It climbed through the air, attaining some height, then turned on its side, folded in its wings, and dove. Below, Kednor stood his ground, his warhammer held low and to the side, ready to sweep upwards and connect in what the paladin hoped would be a devastating power attack. He stepped forward, and the two combatants crashed together. Kednor swung his hammer up and then down, clipped the Dreadwood Wyvern in the side of the face on the upswing, but missed completely with his second stroke.

The monster tore into its target with jaw, talons, and wing buffets. Its claws punched through Kednor’s armor; its teeth clamped around his head. The wyvern grappled its prey and lifted him into the air, then squeezed its talons. Blood streamed out of dwarven armor, and though Kednor struggled vigorously, even his enhanced strength was no match for the Dreadwood Wyvern’s grappling.

Brogun rushed forward to aid his cohort, but was too late to land a blow on the wyvern as it took to the air. Cursing, the cleric attempted a spell of _blindness_ upon the beast, to no avail.

From under the overhang, Kell steadied himself and took up his bow once more. He gritted his teeth against the poison and took aim. One arrow, then another, shot upwards to strike the wyvern, even as Otieno zapped it again with _magic missiles_.

The Dreadwood Wyvern had had enough. It decided to put an end to the archers cowering below. First, it squeezed its claws one last time into the dwarf, then dropped him to the sand below. Kednor landed awkwardly — for a moment, the others thought he was dead; but the stolid warrior clambered to his feet, wiping the blood from his eyes. As this was happening, the wyvern flew down towards Kell and Otieno, alighting on the sand in front of them. It slashed at the ranger with its claws, but miraculously missed, merely shredding the Veins banners that hung from the luxury box above.

Kell took a deep breath and fitted another arrow to his bow. He knew he would only get one shot at this. From beyond the wyvern, Kell could hear the sounds of mailed boots upon the sand as one of the dwarves charged forward. To his side, Otieno attempted to cast on the defensive, but the Dreadwood Wyvern swiped out a single talon, smashing the sorcerer into the wall behind.

His feet pounding the sand, Kednor tore across the arena floor. As he did so, he called upon the holy power of Kirabá to smite this enemy. At last the dwarf reached the Dreadwood Wyvern and swung his hammer in a tremendous overhand blow, slamming it into the creature’s spine. Just as the wyvern turned its head to confront this new threat, Kell released his arrow — and the shaft flew true, striking the great beast in the left eye.****

With a mighty groan, the Dreadwood Wyvern crashed to the blood-soaked sand.


* Flavor text only; Kell doesn’t actually have the Shot on the Run feat.
** You’d be crying too if you took 11 points of Con damage.
*** Brogun could not yet cast _neutralize poison_, and hadn’t prepared _delay poison_.
**** Sneak attack thanks to Kednor flanking the wyvern.


----------



## Ruined (Dec 10, 2003)

Very cool arena combat! I believe I'm seeing wyverns used more and more these days. Maybe it's the new version of their poison save as opposed to the Save or Die days of 1e and 2e.  Or it could be the cool Wyvern you had to fight in the beginning of Vagrant Story...


----------



## Joshua Randall (Dec 10, 2003)

Thanks, RuinedOne. The Dreadwood Wyvern is taken from a Dungeon magazine adventure (Pandemonium in the Veins). I did advance it to 10 HD however. 

As for the wyvern's poison, I'd say that _Injury, Fortitude DC 17, initial and secondary damage 2d6 Con_ is pretty much save or die for many characters. It's an average of 7 Con damage, twice. So if your Con is 14 or lower and you fail the first save, you're probably dead (especially since the second Fort save will be made with your newly depleted Con modifier).

In my campaign, Kell's player is beginning to hate poison. "Great Fortitude is looking better and better all the time," he said. "You could always let your druid friends _reincarnate_ you as a dwarf," Brogun's player smirked in reply. Hee hee.


----------



## Joshua Randall (Dec 24, 2003)

*Brief Interlude: Dellarocca and Zabar*

_Greetings Zaccarias. Assume you are ready. Will scry, then translocate to your forge. -- Dellarocca_

Zaccarias Zabar, dwarven artificer, creator of numerous works of magic including the blade Fulmine, interrupted a hammer blow in mid swing as he received the _sending_. He fumed for a moment, then mentally formed a reply.

_Now not a good time. Axim demanding--_

But even as Zabar completed this thought, there was a subtle shimmering in the air.

Michael Dellarocca of the Company of the Red Kestrel stepped out of nothingness into existence. He was clad as usual in an audacious deep blue cloak, the gilded rapier shining at his hip. Upon the first finger of his left hand, Dellarocca wore a plain band of brass.

Zabar eyed it greedily. _Strange_, he thought, _it doesn’t look like much_.

Seeing his gaze, Dellarocca smiled. “Yes, this is it.” Without further fanfare, the wizard plucked the ring off his hand and held it forth. “Now where is my item?”

The dwarf sighed and grumbled. With a few arcane gestures, he willed a mahogany chest, inlaid with platinum, to open. Another minor spell brought forth a metal object, some three feet long. Crafted of the finest Durenese iron, it was set with silver from Ruanon. It shone dully in the reflected firelight from the forge.

Dellarocca beamed as the scepter moved silently across the room. He reached out and grasped it. “At last,” the mage crooned, turning the thing over in his hand, examining it from all angles. The craftsmanship was flawless.

“It functions properly?”

Zabar grunted. “You may test it if you like,” he snarled. “But not here!” the dwarf quickly added.

Dellarocca placed the brass ring into Zabar’s outstretched palm. “Our transaction is now complete,” the wizard pronounced formally. He turned away, preparing to cast another _teleport_. Then, as if a thought had suddenly struck him, Dellarocca looked back over his shoulder at the artificer, who was even now slipping the ring onto a grimy finger.

“Zaccarias. Be careful. He is… intractable.” And with that, Dellarocca disappeared.

The fires roared in the forge as Zabar held up his hand and spoke a single word of power.


----------



## Silver Moon (Dec 24, 2003)

Joshua Randall said:
			
		

> Here endeth the adventure _Of Sound Mind_, with the Company of the Red Kestrel battered but triumphant.



Very well done and a fun read.  

I had planned to be running that module with the Silver Moon Adventurers, but made the mistake of mentioning that at a party and a loudmouth replied with "Oh yeah, that's the one where...." followed by three major spoilers, stated right in front of two of my players.  So I ran "Beast of Burden" instead.   

BTW, I've also enjoyed the Notes that you put at the end of the chapters - it's great for context.   Keep up the good work.


----------



## Joshua Randall (Jan 5, 2004)

Thanks for the kind words, Silver Moon. As things stand now, I am still several updates behind the actual campaign. The gap is closing quickly, however.

I have some grand plans for my campaign that will be revealed in due course... stay tuned!


----------



## Joshua Randall (Jan 8, 2004)

*Confrontations*

“This is what happens when you play by the book!” Brogun thundered. The Company stood in Akevi’s office, gathered around the corpse of Kell, who had succumbed to the Dread Wyvern’s poison moments after the beast had fallen.

Kednor stopped in mid-action, one side of his bloodstained armor hanging open. “You should not blame Kell’s death on anyone but the wyvern,” the paladin stated.

“Wrong!” roared Brogun. “It is because we confronted Paramezzus that Commissioner Hafiz set us to fight the wyvern. He was obviously trying to silence us before we could shut down the drug ring. And now Kell is dead!”

Kednor shook his head sadly. “Again, you rush to judgment. We do not know that Hafiz is involved, and our evidence implicating Paramezzus is circumstantial only.”

Brogun began to splutter in outrage, but Kednor cut him off.

“In any case, we should continue our investigation until we have incontrovertible proof of someone’s guilt. That Kell has fallen is… regrettable, but he knew the risks when he took up the life of adventure. All of us — even you, Brogun — have had a taste of death.”

The war-priest opened his mouth to speak, only to be interrupted yet again.

“I will not compromise my principles,” Kednor emphasized. “Not for you, nor for anyone.”

= = =

Fortunately, Akevi knew a local priest who owed her a favor. Kell returned to life that very afternoon, feeling weakened by otherwise intact.* The group determined to relocate to an inn far from the arena, choosing one called the Drunken Minotaur as being suitably seedy and off the beaten path.

* I told the players when the campaign began that I would allow each PC, cohort, or NPC ally one quick’n’easy return from the dead. Kednor died (and was _raised_) off-stage. Brogun died fighting the Ministry of Winds but was _raised_ via a _limited wish_ cast by Loi-Kymar, Guildmaster of the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star. Otieno died in the fight with Caligraf in Choth’s lair; he was returned to life by a nameless priest in between adventures. Finally, Kell died thanks to the Dreadwood Wyvern’s poison. His inexpensive _raising_ was the last time the players would have it so easy.

While recuperating that evening, the Company talked strategy. They decided that since all signs pointed to Paramezzus, another conversation with the alchemist was in order. This time, however, the more charismatic Kestrels (i.e., not Brogun) would do the talking.

In the event, it proved not to matter.

= = =

Before the Kestrels could confront Paramezzus, they received help from an unexpected source: Rufilius ‘Short Fang’ Syreme, the young boy who worshipped the gladiators as heroes and fancied himself on that path to glory. Short Fang accosted the Company just outside their inn.

“How did you find us here” Kell asked in alarm, visions of the assassin Nasir al-Faraj filling his head.

“Aww, it was nothing,” Short Fang said dismissively. “I just asked about a couple of dwarves in heavy armor.”

Kell glanced reprovingly at Brogun and Kednor, who shrugged apologetically.

“Now that I’ve found you,” the boy continued, “here you go.” He thrust out his hand, clutching a small bag of what appeared to be dried herbs.

Otieno took the proffered item and sniffed it gingerly. “Where did you get this?”

“From the Golden Shambler’s training belt,” Short Fang answered. “I was putting it on this morning and that thing fell out. What is it?”

“Dru—“ Brogun began, but Otieno cut him off. “A charm of some sort, meant to improve the Shambler’s battle prowess, no doubt.”

Short Fang sighed. “I guess it didn’t work.”

= = =

The adventurers hastened to the bizarre, where they once again spoke with Fra Lorenzo the herbalist. He confirmed that the poultice bag contained some sort of drug, definitely containing faraja leaves. “I will need a fresh sample to determine if this is, in fact, what has been killing the gladiators,” said Lorenzo.

“And I know where to get one,” Brogun announced with determination. “Paramezzus.”

Half an hour later, the Company of the Red Kestrel stood outside the alchemist’s door, believing themselves ready for whatever might happen. They knocked at the door, and when the crook-backed old man opened it, Otieno held forth the poultice. “We were wondering if you would sell us some of this,” he lied.

Paramezzus’s eyes narrowed, and he opened his mouth to speak. “You fools,” he hissed. “May Naar take your souls!”

The alchemist disappeared, leaving behind a cloud of acrid black smoke. From the arena above, cheers and shouts turned to screams of terror.


----------



## Elder-Basilisk (Jan 9, 2004)

Now what could that be....


----------



## Joshua Randall (Jan 9, 2004)

Nothing good, that's for sure!

I realize that I didn't do a very good job in the story of explaining the ramifications of Paramezzus's speech and action. First, Paramezzus referenced Naar. In the world of Magnamund, Naar is the ultimate god of all that is dark and evil. So anyone who worships him is by implication extremely wicked.

Second, Paramezzus disappeared - and this wasn't just turning invisible; it was a _teleportation_ effect (mechanically, it was triggered by a _contingency_ spell off the phrase "May Naar take your souls!"). In my version of Magnamund, access to teleportation magic is extremely tightly controlled. The PCs were only aware of two wizards who knew the spell: Loi-Kymar, Guildmaster of Toran, and Dellarocca, the patron of the Company of the Red Kestrel.

Apparently, however, knowledge of the _teleport_ spell has leaked out. That should be a worrying thought for everyone.


----------

