# Deepmountain Campaign, The Journal of Nicholas Bakerson



## edwinb (Sep 6, 2007)

Editted on 6-September-07, as I reread it I catch things I don't much care for or would like to improve.

Our campaign is about 5 sessions in now, and is moderate fantasy 3.5 D&D.  We play here on the Island of Oahu, every saturday.  The DM maintains a cannonical log, I thought I would add this a differerent perspective.


Information: Adam's saturday afternoon campaign, 3.5 D&D

Cast of Characters-
DM-Adam Badgley
Nicholas Bakerson ( 3rd level cleric of Pelor) Edwin
Nalbir (3rd level Dwarven Knight) Mike
Morand (3rd level Dwarven Scout) Todd
Renfas (2md level Gnome Wizard) Chris
Bofrim (3rd level Dwarven Fighter/Pirate) James
Knuckes (2nd level Dwarven Monk/Brawler) retired/npced
Korer (3rd level Elf Druid) Andrew
Fajer (2nd level Human Rogue) deceased/ Tom

Day 8

Today has been a long and bloody day and it is barely noon.

I write this now, sprawled on the cold stone floor of the wizard's tower. Blood stains my tunic, and bits of cloth and flesh are embedded in my mace.   I should clean it.  I can almost  hear the Knight chastise me for not tending to my arms.  More may join it soon, so I shall leave it for now. 

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The morning came peacefully, the sun cresting the horizon like a long forgotten friend.  I rose and faced the sunrise, chanting lauds to Pelor.  I sensed his power and grace suffuse me, but my heart felt heavy.  The night had seen the death of a friend I had known for far too short a time, and the death of my master Ivan.  Ivan had been a good man, but good had not been enough.  The northmen had taken him during a raid, and the wounds he had sustained were beyond healing.  

I said a prayer for the soul of Ivan then, commending him to the care of Pelor.  A sense of anger began to replace the loss in my heart.  With trembling hands,  I took a fine tipped iron spike and carved “Ivan beloved of Pelor” into the haft of my mace.    

Nalbir approached me quietly.   He cocked his head and waited for me to speak “I’m ready Nalbir, shall we see to the town?”.

“Aye, its best done quick, if the children tales are accurate.  If there are any left holding out in the inn, they will need our aid as soon as we can give it”.

“Thank you Nalbir.  Without your help, I believe they would be lost.”

He seemed a bit embarrassed “And what sort of Knight would I be to run away from those needing help, Nicholas?  Buckle on your mace and let’s be off”.

I slipped on the Mithral chain shirt that had belonged to Fajer.  I think he would be amused that I wore in remembrance of him, his humor was decidedly cynical.  My cross bow and a score of bolts went over my shoulder, and my mace slid through the worn leather loop in my belt.  

Armed with steel and grim faces we lowered the skiff and set out for the docks.  We left the Dwarven Ale Maid anchored just shy of the lighthouse and rowed our way into the harbor.  Our party fell silent as we slid past broken boats and men floating in the water.  We saw a half-dozen longboats, broken like the toys of an angry child.  Several upended bows pointed to the sky. What force could have done this?

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As our boat approached the dock a trio of tall-blonde warriors stepped quickly down the stone surface to greet us.  Northmen, grim and vicious men. 

 “Give me a moment to talk with them, so we can at least get on the dock” I half-whispered to Nalbir in Dwarven as the wild men approached our boat.  


“Be quick about it” he hissed.

“You are Demetrious?” an imposing warrior barked at us, through a greasy yellow beard.

I struggled to make out his strangely accented words and fumbled for a response.  Luckily Bofrim thought quickly and spat out “We’ve just come from his ship”.

“Jarl speaks not runtlings” the warrior snarled at Bofrim, as he fingered his sword hilt.

I stepped from the boat then, mustering what bravado I thought one of Demetrious’ agents would possess.  “We have done business with Demetrious, why do you ask?” I sneered (the only business we had done Demetrious  was when Bofrim and Nalbir  had separated his head from neck.

“You bring slave now, much work, need woman.  How many slaves on boat?” demanded Jarl.  The two northmen behind Jarl grinned maliciously and pantomimed the work they had in mind for the slaves.

“You seem to be ill positioned to receive the slaves at the moment? How can Demetrious be assured you will be able to assure payment, and that Vigor will be satisfied ?” I responded with a snort.   

“Jarl no care about Vigor, you tell Demetrious bring slaves now. “ Jarl repeated.

I am a poor liar, and actor, whether by lack of training or by the simple honesty instilled or cuffed into me by my father.  I could sense doubts rising in Jarl’s mind to my claims.

“Very well, we shall return to the ship, but first show me your camp, so that I may see where to offload the slaves.  Out of curiosity why have you not procured your own slaves from the town. Surely Jarl is strong enough to take what he wants?” I asked.

He looked a bit sour then and scowled, “Road to town is blocked - we wait here.”

“Blocked? By what? “ he had confused me thoroughly now.


“Jarl say blocked, he mean blocked! Go now before Jarl angry” he moved to place a hand on my chest, as if to push me into the boat.  Knuckles sprang forward then and grasped his wrist and moved him back a pace.  Jarl’s face turned crimson and his neck corded as he struggled to resist Knuckles.  There may be stronger dwarves or men than Knuckles, I have yet to meet them though.

Bofrim shook his war-axe free from his belt, and cocked it at Jarl, “I’m thinking there’s ale in your camp, and you’ll be serving me a tankard of it in a moment”. He grinned and spat at the northman’s feet.

At that Jarl broke free from Knuckles grasp, sprang back and drew his sword.  Spittle flew from his lips as he swung wildly at Bofrim.  His cohorts brandished their weapons and it was time to fight!

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Bofrim and Nalbir shouldered past me and hacked down Jarl in a whirl of Dwarven axes.  One of Jarl’s companions turned to shout over his shoulder and the camp exploded with Northmen unsheathing sword and putting arrow to bowstring.

Renfas leapt forward then,  running toward Bofrim.  He chanted arcane words of power, his small Gnome voice suddenly charged with lightning, with a touch it appeared some force transferred between them. In a flash Bofrim seemed to stretch and stand towering, a monstrous dwarf, taller than a large man.  

Bofrim took a moment to consider his waraxe, its haft now like a small tree-trunk, he rumbled out a laugh, and charged with a vicious grin at the massing northmen.

Renfas piped out with his normal high voice again “That should help a bit!”.

I nodded, shook my mace free and ran to join the battle.  

The rest of our party followed behind Bofrim as he broke the northmen before him.  You may say I exaggerate but I tell you truly, he struck one northman so hard his head pulped into a fine red mist, fine blonde hair wafting down to rest on the dock.

As the northmen fell before us I shouted for them to drop their arms, and guaranteed their safety!  There was no need for them to die this day.   I am sure they understood me, but my offer only seemed to make them fight harder, and they fought till the last fell in a ragged heap on the dock.

Nalbir saluted the dead, and cleaned the blood from his axe.

Bofrim catching his breath began to diminish before us, and in a moment was a dwarf-sized dwarf again.  “Good spell that one, Renfas, right handy it was” as he clapped the Gnome on the back.

The Gnome swollen with pride began to recite the intricacies of the spell, and the careful selection he had made, then began a discourse on the flaming concoctions he would like to employ.  Nalbir looking wary at the mention of flaming pots turned to the Gnome “I think the spell is the safer- or perhaps more Wizardly choice, Renfas”.

I tended to our parties wounds, calling for the blessings of Pelor to heal torn and battered flesh.  Knuckles and Bofrim pocketed a few gems taken from the northmen, and we readied our self for the trek into the town.


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The dock area is actually a bit of a marsh, and the trail is an elevated stone road that allows movement without slogging through the marsh. The road is just wide enough to move one wagon with little room for error on either side. 

As we advanced up the road we were accosted by lizardmen from the (Blackfeather tribe). Renfas remembered reading of them in one of his masters Naturalism Texts, and we attempted to engage them in discourse. We soon learned that this tribe had been paid to block all comers from coming up the path to the town by some mysterious human woman. We tried to negotiate passage, but they refused. I attempted my best to explain our strong desire to check on the families I had known since childhood but they still resisted. 

Attempting to rush past them they engaged us in combat, and fought till we had killed them all. Gathering ourselves up us moved towards the town and were again blocked by lizardfolk. Renfas was a bit nervous of them at this time and wanted to fight, Knuckles in a fit of rage jumped from the path into the marsh and was swept out to sea, while attempting to choke the lizardmen. We dispatched them and moved up just to the edge of town. Morand, who joined us from the boat as we neared the town, told us Knuckles had been fished out of the water, half drowned but alive if worse for wear.


The town had been razed, save for the wizards tower and the inn all of the wooden structures had been burned. I fear for the people in our small town, I am panged by some guilt that my wanderlust took me away from home, to Trailsend. Would I have made a difference? Perhaps not but maybe I can seek some justice for the people and there is some small hope we may find some survivors forted up in the inn.

As I sit in this tower surveying the town below. The town where I grew, and lived with its good people I am almost overcome with remorse.

We fought and vanquished nearly a score of hobgoblins to take it. I had not see a hobgoblin before today nor am I keen to see them again. Vile and murderous they seem to live to for
war and fighting.

We attempted to bluff our way past, mentioning Captain Demetrious but they seemed to be unimpressed, I think we may come to find that Demetrious is a bit player in the conflict that is being waged in our land. Nalbir, realizing our bluff was not working, attempted to
brush past the Hobgoblin's leader but he drew his longsword and we were quickly in the thick of fighting. 

Nalbir and I held the center as well as we could but were quickly surrounded. Morand the scout who had joined us just as we approached the town made good use of his crossbow and was able to kill several of the Hobgoblins as he sprinted about the fight. Renfas too made some judicious shots, and with a few lucky swings of my mace I managed to finish off some he had wounded. 

Just as the battle drew to a close a wolf, seemingly intelligent sped up to our party, I would have slaughtered the wolf then but Pelor seemed to tell me to wait, and not a few seconds later the wolves master joined us.

Truthfully I do not know what to think of him, Elf and druid, he seems impulsive, Korer he called him self. Though it is petty of me to grumble about the quality of my allies, in these needful times. I find myself only trusting the arms of proven companions, and more suspicious than I can recall. 

Korer told us he had picked up the trail of the goblins and had followed their tracks to the edge of town.  At that point he had observed us engaging in combat with the Hobgoblins.  He made up his mind then to help us.  He shared that he had in own words an almost irrational hatred of goblonoids for the manner in which they trespassed and despoiled nature. I have yet to see a druid arraigned in black before, but I am not well traveled and he is truly an odd-sort. He seems to be unaccustomed to fighting in a group such as us, and he may well prove to be a liability, though I am happy to have another about with some healing skills.

I wonder if roaming the woods for long periods without the company of men, can make one seem strange.  Perhaps conversation is a skill and art that takes constant practice.

Morand managed to unbolt the door for us, and we fought the last of the hobgoblins inside.   There was another touchy moment as Korer’s wolf appeared to momentarily charge Nalbir, though Korer made him heel quickly.  Korer called on his druidic power summoning both drifts of leaves and what he called an air elemental to fight for him. Apparently he had hoped to set the leaves afire before Nalbir charged into them.  I imagine Nalbir would have had some harsh words for the Druid if his beard had been singed. We could have used the laugh, I think but perhaps it would have not been as amusing to our Knight.

Renfas kept an eye on some goblin camps further into the town as we fought, and he called out a warning that they were assembling to fight. After defeating the final hobgoblin we dragged their corpses inside and barred the door. If I were more industrious and cruel I would fashion some catapult to fling the hobgoblins heads at the goblins camps. Let them fear what is coming for them.

After some searching, and Renfas using his arcane powers we were able to locate his master’s hidden chamber. Renfas seems unconcerned for his master, but the reactions of Gnomes are hard for me to decipher. Inside as predicted was another volume of Dwarven lore, perhaps even more concise than the first we had found. Nalbir will have to digest the findings but it will surely lead us further on his quest.

Barely 10 minutes after our fight with the hobgoblins. Goblins are readying to fight us outside, I want to check the Inn but we are in no condition for another fight just yet. Nalbir believes that we can hold the tower and should try to fight to the inn in the morning. Going back to the ship could be dangerous and there is no telling how many lizard men we may have to fight through to get back. I hope that the slaughter of the hobgoblins gives the goblins pause and perhaps we can negotiate with the beasts tomorrow. Truly though I have no heart to negotiate. If they were part of those who razed the town by the grace of Pelor we will send them all to
hel. 

Good news!  Morand has spotted smoke coming from the Inn's chimneys, and reports the windows are shuttered with iron! There may yet be some of my fellow townspeople alive!


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## edwinb (Sep 7, 2007)

Todd who plays Morand has written a bit of back-story for his character. I enjoyed how he explained exactly how his character would have aquired the skills of a scout.


*Morand's Personal History*

Morand's clan made their living trading amongst small villages and camps. When Morand was but a child the clan had their most successful year ever and were overburdened with goods and slow to make their way back to Trailsend where they wintered. The first heavy snows came early that year and further delayed their progress. 

Their bounty and presence attracted the attention of an orc raiding party. They fought valiantly and with great courage but were overwhelmed. What was a defeat became a slaughter as the last man fell and the orc's began killing the women, children and feeble of the clan. Morand escaped, running into the woods. Cold, alone, frightened and with desperate pleas to The Great God Moradin for salvation, he would have died that winter except that within days he stumbled across a small band of dwarfs that had fallen into savage barbarianism. They treated him roughly, but they allowed him to survive and live amongst them. 

He grew tall and lanky by dwarf standards. His barbarous companions taught him to use both ranged weapons and traps to hunt game. As a gift for his contribution to the party he was given a rusty, dull, old and chipped dwarven battleaxe. As soon as he was of age he left the savages and struck off on his own, moving quickly, silently and living off the land, his range, speed and lethality with the crossbow improved. Practicing daily with his battleaxe he imagined over and over taking revenge on the orcs who had so cruelly butchered his family. 

His ranging took him further and further until at last one day he reached Trailsend and found that he alone was the sole survivor of the trading party that had been ambushed that cruel winter so many years ago. Distraught, he held onto the stories that his father had told him around the campfire. That Clan Morand had been sworn and stalwart defenders of Realm Norgirn. They had fought valiantly and with great courage against the coming darkness alongside the great Fardann at Farak. These things were the stuff of legend and myth by this time, but Morand felt something stir within him. He saw the townsfolk as cowards living in shabby squalor, the illiterate barbarians of the wild as lost and beyond saving and he longed to restore dwarven race to it's former glory. 

Viewed by the elders of Townsend with suspicion and disdain as being tainted by the wilds and unable to return to the barbarians who had imparted their cunning and survivalist instincts in him, Morand was set apart. Using his faith in The Great God Moradin as a shield in these foresaken times he let his rage against the orcs build. He now wanted to expunge every evil that had befallen the land and robbed his family of their true lineage as warriors. As an outcast orphan raised by savages he was unable to gain an audience for these views with the elders or townspeople who seemed content to live in their mundane existence in relative peace. 

Morand soon became bored and disillusioned with townlife and in his frustration he fell into long periods of dark moods, until a group of adventurers entered into town and found a tome that described what Morand already saw as his fate. To battle tirelessly and until his last breath against the forces that had plunged the once mighty dwarven kingdom into darkness.

The Great God Moradin had indeed forged a weapon for Morand, not of metal but in spirit.


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