# A Toe in the Water: anyone want a new Eberron story hour? (updated 2006-05-25) (POLL CLOSES AT 4:30am EDT, 26 May)



## Redwald (May 12, 2006)

_I recovered this thread, originally started on 27 April 2006, from Google's cache and am reposting taking into account some advice from Piratecat and others -- namely, making the entries shorter.

*I still want to know what you think!*  Previously, this poll only received seven votes._

Sagiro's Story Hour is what got me wanting to play D&D again after about a nine-year haitus, and the recent triumphant return of that story hour after a long dormancy has got me all fired up to see what people think of my own.

It's an Eberron campaign that began at 1st level last summer. There are four players plus a DM (Sidereal Knight, you know him from around here). The others knew each other from before, but I was a n00b recruited off the boards.

From the beginning I had delusions of writing up the campaign as a story hour for EN World, because Sagiro just rocks my socks. Rather than pretend to his greatness, I thought I'd post a writeup of a literal "day in the life" of the campaign. Please use the poll options to let me know what you think.

Dramatis Personae:
Cardea Ashalana, a female elven paladin
Cullen Silverhollow, a male halfling druid (with Dragan, his dog animal companion)
Kamiel Dekker, a male human bard/wizard (my character)
Teague d'Lyrandar, a male half-elven rogue, dragonmarked, House Lyrandar

All of the PCs are good-aligned.

The overarching story is that the party has been called upon to find the parts of a mysterious relic recovered from the continent of Xen'drik over two centuries ago. Approximately a hundred fifty years ago, the statue was the centerpiece of some sort of vile activity surrounding a noble named Count Fenalik (of Greenvale, near Wroat, in Breland), who met his downfall at the hands of the Crown of Ghalifar, who seized his estate and scattered the shattered statue all over Khorvaire.

As we join the story below, the party has just recovered the first part of the statue from the ruins of Count Fenalik's manor, the only statue piece that was not auctioned off by the Ghalifar government. They have returned to Sharn, the City of Towers, to rendezvous with their mentor, the man who set them on their mission (and who immediately thereafter experienced an attempt on his life). The PCs have just hit character level 2.

I have notes covering all of our sessions (and in fact, after the first few I've been using a laptop to play stenographer, and I've sometimes been able to record sessions in absurd levels of detail). We also keep an private wiki to track persons, places, and things, and this has been really helpful.

The only things I haven't figured out yet are 1) how to write combat well (I manage to record just about every die roll in my session notes, but that ain't necessarily good readin') and 2) do people want to read my stuff?

I'll begin the narrative in my next post.


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## Redwald (May 12, 2006)

*A Trip to Trustworthy Cleg's*

*1 Eyre 998*

This morning, it's Teague and Kamiel who are up early for a change.

The sun finds both awake as it begins to break through the window of the party's cramped quadruple-room at the Ten Tier Inn.  In fact, Teague notices that Kamiel seems hardly to have slept at all—he's surrounded on his bed by a virtual sea of parchment scraps, all scribbled upon with strange symbols and occasional fragments of conventional language.  As Teague awakens, Kamiel is staring, as if hypnotized, into the spellshard he recovered from the wizard who assailed the adventurers two nights before.

Teague might have asked what was going on, but he has work of his own to do.  The book he recovered from the library, the journal of a scholar's travels to Xed'ef'kar, needs to be copied and then returned to the University.

After a while, Cardea emerges from her trance, and Cullen stirs as well.  Their morning ablutions are swift, and they move with a purpose.  Before long they are bound for the Northgate message station to see if Blue has left them a response.  Assuming that Kamiel and Teague don't want to be bothered—and in Cardea's case, not wanting to give Teague an excuse to hold onto their “borrowed” University property for any longer than necessary—they head out the door.

Cardea and Cullen's crosstown travel to the message station is uneventful save for an all-too-common concomitant of urban life: while riding one of Sharn's ubiquitous open-air lifts down the interior of one of its towers to a passage level, she suffers a pickpocket attempt.  The miserable creature who has attempted to rob her in these cramped quarters is a sniveling goblin, who recoils pathetically at Cardea's stern and withering gaze.

It barks its protestation.  “No kill!  No kill!”

Cardea has not even placed a hand on the pommel of her sword.  The thing whips its head back and forth, blundering into the knees and thighs of the taller folks surrounding it.

Cullen and Dragan look on with some amusement as the creature backs its way through the crowded lift, towards the side nearest the adjacent tower.  The face is only an arm's-length away.

The goblin reaches the rear of the lift, yelps “no kill!” one last time, and then, startlingly, leaps right off the lift.  It is evident from the creature's agility that this was not the act of terror it may have seemed, but one of calculated escape.  The goblin has timed its jump just right; it grasps the bannister of the balcony of some residence or hotel as it passed.  It pivots around the crossbeam of the balustrade like a gymnast, carried by its inertia, and lands neatly on its feet on the far side.

Cardea's gaze has not broken, nor has her dispassionate composure.  The would-be thief grasps the widely-spaced rails of the balcony and thrusts its head between, making a horrible grimace clearly intended for her.  Whether this is intended as a taunt, a gloat, or something else is difficult to discern.

In no time, obstacles break the line of sight between Cardea and her encounter with the foul guttersnipe is over.

Shortly afterwards, the duo arrive at the Northgate message station.  After a brief wait in the queue, Cullen asks the desk clerk if any message has been left for “C. Silverhollow”.

There has.

[bq]

C. Silverhollow—

A mutual acquiantance will meet you tonight.

—Blue

[/bq]

Back at the inn, Teague has finished transcribing the scholar's journal.  He snaps the book shut and regards his pile of papers with satisfaction.

Kamiel does not stir.

No longer scribbling on parchment detritus—which on closer inspection appears to have been discarded from the inn's business office—he now sits upright in bed, leaning back against the wall, eyes closed, the spellshard in his lap with his hands resting upon it.  He doesn't seem to be asleep.

Teague had noticed the excitement with which Kamiel had seized the slain wizard's spellshard two nights ago, but Kamiel was no wizard.  Neither could anyone _become_ a wizard in a mere two days—it takes much training even for the most natural of talents.  Sorcerors are another matter, but sorcerors don't meditate over spellshards.  Odd.

“I'm taking the journal back to the library.  If Cardea comes back before I do, be sure and let her know.”

Kamiel gives no indication of having heard.

“Okay?”

Still nothing.

Teague shrugs and heads out of the room to fulfill his errand.

In the early evening, the party is reassembled in the room.  They're all standing around Kamiel's bed, where he remains in the position Teague last left him.

There is a difference, however.  Now, Kamiel's lips are moving, as if in recitation of some silent opus.  Were anyone reading them, they'd see the occasional Common words sprinkled among seeming gibberish.

“..._detect magic_..._acid splash_..._resistance_..._feather fall_..._true strike_...”

The rest of the group is tired of waiting.  It's time to head off to Trustworthy Cleg's.

Cardea clears her throat and speaks firmly, but politely.  “Kamiel, it's time to make our rendezvous with Blue's representative.  If we must, we'll leave without you.  Are you ready?”

Kamiel's eyes pop open.  He looks around the room at this companions, and then answers.

“Yes.” His face splits into a grin.  His new friends may not understand it yet, but that's all right—he does.  His parents would be terribly proud, though they'd wonder at the circuitous route he has taken to get here.  At long last, he has set himself to a task equal to his intellect—he has become a wizard.

Kamiel hops off the bed and moves with a speed surprising to his companions, who had grown accustomed to his sloth of the past couple of days.  He sweeps the parchment scraps into the chamber pot, wraps the spellshard in a piece of clothing, and slips it into his pack.

“Not _just_ a wizard, at that,” he thinks to himself as he picks up his leather greaves and straps them on.

Cardea summons a bit of patience since it's obvious Kamiel's finished whatever he was working on, and assists him with his armor so they can get moving more quickly.  In a moment, packs have been shouldered, weapons readied, and the room is empty, with only rumpled bedclothes and a lingering odor of sweat to betray its recent occupancy.

----

Trustworthy Cleg's Pawn Shop is in Middle Dura, in the western plateaus of Sharn.  It's in a business district that perversely has more activity at night than during the day.  As the daylight fades, the streets seemingly come to life around the party.

At one intersection, they encounter a fountain that is familiar to three of them—Cardea, Cullen, and Teague had asked for directions here when they were previously in town.  As they pause briefly to confirm their recollections with each other (and explain the significance to Kamiel), a brassy blonde in clothing entirely insufficient for the chill of the early spring evening flounces up to Teague and offers him some sort of slatternly service.  He extricates himself from the situation by hailing an ambulatory hat vendor, who is more than happy to have some business.  Teague trades a few silver for a new chapeau, successfully concealing the contents of his pouch from the hovering harlot.

She momentarily looks over the remainder of the group—the halfling on the dog is right out, as is the stern elf woman in scale mail.  “It'd take more money than she has just to pay for my time in getting her _out_ of that get-up,” she mutters.  Finally her gaze settles upon Kamiel.  He's more or less the right sort, but his eyes appear to be burning with something other than lust.

She doesn't let her crest remain fallen for long.  The group has barely begun to turn and move along down the thoroughfare before she swaggers off in the direction of her next putative trick.

After a bit more walking, they enter an area of wide passageways with various small shops and stores at foot level.  Near to their destination now, Cullen dismounts from his dog.  One of these shops is indeed Trustworthy Cleg's.  Cardea, Cullen, and Kamiel enter, along with Dragan, but Teague remains outside, to any passerby seemingly preoccupied with his flamboyant new headwear.

The pawn shop is packed with goods from floor to ceiling in a jumbled array of shelves variously mounted into the wall or free-standing on the floor.  Immediately inside the shop's door, just to the right, is a dark niche void of merchandise.  The niche is filled to overflowing with a towering half-ogre of dour expression—a conspicuous multi-purpose ruffian there to guard the shopkeeper and wares alike.  Kamiel can't help but wonder if the creature also serves as a “hitter” sent to track down and “punish” those who sell Cleg items he can't move for a sufficiently high markup.

Cleg himself sits at the back of the store on a high stool behind a counter.  He's quite a sight—an old half-orc, wrinkled, bald, hairy everywhere but the pate of his head, pasty skin festooned with ruddy moles, a snaggle tooth with an obvious cavity poking forth from his twisted mouth.  He wears a pair of spectacles, which seem to be held in place at the bridge of his crooked nose by a particularly large and disagreeable, if functional, wart.  He is adorned with a bright red vest.  The trio of adventurers notice to their unease that it's hard to tell whether he's wearing anything _else_.

They hastily look in other directions.

Mounted on the left-hand side wall is a massive tuba.  Kamiel watches as Cardea cocks her head at it for a moment, and steps towards it, her attention on the bell.  She then turns to see if Cullen is looking.  He is.  Head still cocked, she then smiles subtly.  Her meaning is plain.  “I wonder if the halfling will fit in the tuba.”

Kamiel smiles as Cullen turns on his heel, scowling.  Cardea's had enough of the halfling's wisecracks about “worshipping the undead”, and has gotten a bit of revenge.

The next most prominent item in the establishment appears to be a large stuffed tropical bird on the counter.  Cleg is perched near to it, suggesting that it is of some value to him.  “Guess he won't let that go cheap, though I wonder who'd want it,” Kamiel thinks.  That piques his curiosity, and he has an idea.

As is typical for such enterprises, there are weapons for sale here.  Cardea pulls a halberd off the wall, hefting it gingerly at first, and then with more confidence once it's clear the head of the instrument isn't about to tumble off the shaft and onto the floor.  Even in the cramped space, she is able to execute familiar drill maneuvers.

“Twenty!” bellows Cleg, much louder than necessary to be heard from any location in the small store.  Kamiel wonders if the old beast is hard of hearing.

Cardea is unfazed.  “Eight,” she says contemptuously.  The paladin twirls the weapon around with ease, in apparent disregard of any goods she might inadvertently whack.

“Pah!  Eight-_teen_,” Cleg retorts.  A stream of yellow saliva drips from his mouth where the snaggletooth juts.  The half-ogre has not moved, but is discernibly focused on Cardea in the event she gets belligerent.

Cullen, in the meantime, has happened upon a locked glass case on the right side of the store, with a number of weapons in it: a set of darts, a rapier, and a short sword.  All are exquisitely crafted and unmistakably masterwork items.

“These darts,” he calls out.  “How much for these darts?”

The air whistles as the halberd's blade cuts through it in a great arc parallel to the wall.  Cleg, mouth open to shout a quote at Cullen, jerks his head back towards Cardea, glowering.

“Five hundred!”

Cullen, though his gaze appears fixed on the darts, is actually watching Cleg with his peripheral vision, and pretends not to know to whom Cleg is speaking.

“You just told that lady eighteen a second ago!”

Cleg roars.  “Eighteen for the halberd!  Five hundred for the darts!  You want 'em or not, runt?”

“Ten,” Cardea responds to the first of Cleg's utterances.

Kamiel decides, with Cleg being double-teamed and aggravated, that now would be a good time to try an experiment.  He walks calmly out of the store, earning no more than a swift glance from the half-ogre.  His hands are visible and he hasn't even touched anything yet, so he doesn't rate much examination.

“Teague,” he says quietly as he emerges into the gloaming, “there's a blade under lock and key in there you might be interested in.”

“All right.  Someone needs to stay posted out here to keep an eye out for our contact.”

No sooner has Teague passed the threshold than Kamiel begins to cast.  It's not like casting a bardic spell, that much is certain.  You don't _perform_ a spell like this, not in the same way.  A bardic spell is about spontaneity, about letting the magic flow through you, improvising its exact course as you go.  Wizard magic is like playing a game of chess.  The magic is your opponent, and you must overmaster it.  You have syllables to articulate and patterns to trace in the air with your hands to guide your mind through its stratagem.

The leather armor is an annoyance in the back of his mind as he casts.  It could be a problem eventually, but the stiff material that guards his flesh is worth it, and is not a sufficient distraction to spoil the game.  He knows it.  The enemy is defeated.  There is no sloppiness, no carelessness.  He proceeds from origin to destination without wavering.  The channel opens, and the energy flows.  His eyes widen for a moment as he feels the rush of magic—familiar in a way from his dozens of bardic castings before, and yet different.  There's a distinct...flavor to this magic.  It's more pungent, more biting, in a way that is more demanding, more challenging, and yet also more pleasant.

An analogy falls into place in Kamiel's mind right before the magic engages.  “It's like a first drink of spirits after years of nothing stronger than wine.” He suddenly understands at a visceral level why wizards have such superior mastery of magic compared to bards.

_You could damn well get hooked on this stuff._

Kamiel struggles to mask his excitement as he turns to re-enter the shop with his newly enhanced sight.  Sure enough, it worked—some items in the shop radiate a palpable energy, hitherto invisible.

He walks up to Cullen, who is still agog at the safeguarded darts.

Everything in the case is glowing.  He peers steadily into it, intent on gleaning more about the items.

“You want those darts,” he says to Cullen matter-of-factly, not turning to face him.  Kamiel has seen Cullen cast _detect magic_ himself, and knows the halfling will understand his meaning.

Cullen turns to Kamiel.  “I can't _afford_ those darts.” Cullen notices that Teague is inside the shop, which means no one's got an eye outdoors.

A little perturbed, he hastens out to take up the watch, but hisses some intelligence he gathered while Kamiel was outside.  Like many halflings, Cullen is a pretty reliable judge of character, and typically knows when he is being fed a line of excrement.  He's had time enough to size up the shopkeeper.  “He wants five hundred for each of those.  He's firm, but it's no swindle.”

“Twelve, then!” Cleg growls.

The clink of coin tells Kamiel that Cardea has bargained Cleg down to a price she can live with.  “Halberds are nasty,” he thinks.  “If she was dangerous before, now she'll—”

More is revealed.  The short sword and rapier emit a faint dweomer of general sort; the darts' aura is no stronger but distinctly of the discipline of evocation.  Kamiel turns his gaze to Cleg's prized, if deceased, avian.

Cardea appears to have caught on to what Kamiel is doing, and deliberately spills some coins to keep Cleg distracted.  As their transaction concludes, he gets a read on the bird—it radiates moderate abjuration magic, giving it easily the most powerful aura in the store.  Interesting.  “That's more than just an ex-parrot,” he thinks.

He dismisses the spell, and the three remaining party members join Cullen outside.

“Those are fine weapons, but the price of even one would wipe out two shares of the proceeds from the wine we sold, and half of another,” Kamiel notes.  He fills them in on the auras he read.

“With that craftsmanship, the prices are only a little high.  With enchantment on top of that, they're probably a bargain,” Cullen observes.

“A bargain for people richer than us,” Teague mutters.

Cullen's attention is drawn down the passage.  “I think that's our contact,” he says.

A warforged is approaching.


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## Redwald (May 13, 2006)

*A Visit with Adric Meriko*

A warforged is approaching.  It is carrying a large bag made of sackcloth, tied closed with rope.

Cardea, Cullen, and Teague recognize it, or think they do.

The halfling addresses Kamiel in a low voice.  “That's Silent.  He—it—is an assistant to Blue.  This is who led us to him last time.”

Kamiel nods, registering his comprehension once he gets past the ambiguous-sounding identification.

The adventurers wait apprehensively as it steadily makes its way towards them without wavering.  It finally stops dead before Cullen.

The warforged immediately turns and moves down the street.  They follow as it turns into a major thoroughfare, heading north.

Cullen recalls that the previous rendezvous point with Adric was west and south of the pawn shop.  “It seems Blue has relocated.”

Silent nods.

After a moment, Kamiel quietly queries his companions.  “I take it this warforged is called ‘Silent’ because it does not speak,” he speculates.

“Correct,” Cardea replies.  “It was apparent from our previous engagement, however, that this being knows some sort of sign language.”

Beyond that, there is little conversation.  After the adventurers and their warforged guide have crossed a few skybridges, the buildings begin to get...weird.  On one end of a skybridge, there is a spiky-looking structure with spires made of densewood.  On the opposite end, there is a building that resembles nothing so much a lump, as if it were sculpted to evoke a candle that has burnt until it guttered.

Still following Silent, the party rounds a corner and heads down a ramp to a lower level.  One prominent building, 100 feet wide, made of soarwood, and with many windows, dominates the area.  There are many balconies on the upper storeys, and laundry is hanging from lines strung between it and opposing buildings.

Cardea finds the architecture to be reminiscent of the Hobgoblin Era in the North.

The company descends another level, crosses a plaza, and approaches a squat tower whose edifice appears to be carved entirely into _faces_.  Many races are represented, and the visages are of varying sizes.  Windows are set into eyes here, mouths there.  Silent leads his charges into a particularly large mouth at “ground” level which serves as an entrance.  It's difficult to see inside; the sun has long since set and the twilight is no more.  Kamiel shudders.  He finds something instinctively horrifying about walking into a huge, darkened mouth, as if setting foot in it would mean setting foot in oblivion.

Kamiel shakes off the feeling and follows his friends.  Inside, the tower is hollow, and a ramp spirals up the interior.  The face motif is not abandoned within; they ornament railings and door frames.  No other body parts are carved anywhere—nothing but faces.

The group proceeds up the ramp two levels, then Silent stops before a door that is indistinguishable from the many others in this bizarre place.  He knocks three times, pauses, raps out a complex pattern, pauses again, then knocks three more times.  The door unlocks.

Silent gently pushes it inwards and all enter the premises.  Cardea activates her _detect evil_ power; not just prudent on general principle, she rectifies an oversight made when she, Cullen, and Teague previously encountered Meriko.  Human, elf, half-elf, and halfling step into a comfortably spacious living area with ratty furnishings.  It is clearly the abode of a scholar; books and papers, some fire-damaged, array the room in stacks—some tidy, some betraying traces of recent consultation.

Silent proceeds forward into the kitchen as those behind him file into the room but remain standing near the door, which remains open.  Adric is indeed here, though everyone but Kamiel can tell that he's changed.  His head is shaven.  To Kamiel, he looks like he has been through a catastrophe.  His eyebrows are singed off, and bright red patches on his face and hands, not completely concealed by white cloth padding, tell of recent exposure to fire.  To the others, the man looks like he is beginning a long recovery.  He is sprawled on a poorly-upholstered divan abutting the opposite wall, next to the doorway Silent went through.  A long, low table with papers strewn atop it lies between him and the adventurers.

There is a third person in the room, who has has levelled a crossbow at the party.  It is a changeling, about Kamiel's height, but of slighter build, with pale gray eyes, and skin of a similar shade.  The being is clothed in a robe cinched about the waist.

“Kas, put down the weapon,” Adric says calmly.  “These are my guests, Cardea, Cullen, and Teague.  And this new one,” as he gestures at Kamiel, “he's a guest, too.  Please treat them appropriately.”

Kas puts the weapon away, walks to a crude hutch, and begins to populate a serving tray with cups.  In the meantime, Silent can be heard putting the sack down in the kitchen, and the sounds of meal preparation ensue.

Cardea perceives no evil from any of these people.  She communicates this with a glance to her companions.  Seeing no immediate threat, Kamiel permits the door to close.

Adric invites the group to be seated.  Each party member fetches a chair, places it along the table opposite Adric, and takes a seat.

Their host turns to look at Kamiel.

“And what of you?  How came you to join these good folks?”

“I am Kamiel,” the young man replies, “of Arcanix.  I was in Wroat and received a letter from a relative, who knew a certain Morlis ir'Corvan,” Kamiel explains.  “Apparently the old seer insisted I would be somehow involved in affairs of consequence surrounding this mysterious statue.  I thought it madness until I encountered Cardea here, and her friends, as Morlis predicted.  They have welcomed me into their company and we have lived and fought shoulder-to-shoulder for the past week and a half, though it seems longer.”

“Quite, quite,” Adric mumbles, distracted.  He appears to be looking at his guests' packs, as if attempting to discern whether the adventurers have the statue piece with them, and if so, which one.

Kas brings the tray of cups over and places it on a clear spot on the table.  The changeling does not serve anyone; the beverage has already been poured and five cups, each resting on a saucer, surround an ewer on the tray.  Adric waits expectantly as his guests help themselves.

“And you are?” Kamiel asks, smiling at Meriko's absent-mindedness.

“Oh, yes.  Oh, yes.  I am Adric Meriko.  I teach and do research in linguistics at Morgrave University.  Er, well, _taught_.  And _did_ research.  Now I am in hiding,” he says glumly.

Kamiel sets his cup down and offers his hand for a shake.  The scholar returns the gesture while smiling in a manner that is almost nervous in its distraction.

“I would not be alive it all were it not for Silent,” the scholar continues.  “He pulled me from my home as it burned at the hands of these unknown...villains.”

Cullen attempts to lift Adric's mood with some good news.  “As our message to you of a week ago said, our initial venture was a success,” he begins.

“You have the statue?  The first piece?” The scholar's eyes brighten.

Cullen sips his tea before continuing.  “Yes, the statue was broken into pieces just as your research indicated, and apparently long ago.”

“The piece of it we recovered was the left arm,” Teague adds.  “It was entangled in the roots of a very old oak, in some kind of sub-basement of the ruins of the Fenalik manor house, and guarded by a sort of...” He is at a loss.

“Evil apparition that despoiled the light,” Cardea states.

“We were not long out of the ruins of the Fenalik manor,” Cullen says, “when we were given this letter by the local landowner.” He takes out the letter from Eodard Grameci of Korranberg, which was in the possession of Loren d'Jorasco, and hands it to Adric.

Meriko spends a minute reading it in silence, then returns it to Cullen.

“I see.  I see.  Well, I've no idea who this person is.  This person or the one he claims is his grandfather.  But I think you were right in acting with discretion.  Did your companions tell you how those who seek this statue killed my friend Morlis, burned his home, burned mine, and nearly killed me?” He addresses his query to Kamiel.

“They did,” Kamiel answers.

“And you have the statue piece?  You have it with you?”

Kamiel looks at Cardea.  He's still not sure this man can be trusted.  She registers his concern, but proceeds.

“Yes,” she says, unshoulders her pack, carefully removes the stone arm, and proffers it—enough to invite inspection, yet not enough to suggest a transfer of ownership.

Adric seems nearly beside himself with excitement.  He bends forward, nearly bringing his face into contact with the statue.  He spends long minutes inspecting it in minutest detail, staring it up and down and along its length, several times bringing his hands nearly in contact with it, but never quite doing so.  Quiet vocalizations of elation issue from his throat every so often, but he never opens his mouth to speak.

Kamiel is fascinated by the man.  His years of bardic life taught him a little bit about reading people's motivations, and this man is emoting like a waterspout.  He expected to see avarice in the group's mysterious contact, but can discern none.  Adric Meriko's manner insinuates nothing but effusive—even overwhelming—intellectual curiosity.

Kamiel sits back and lets go of a little bit of his tension regarding this encounter.  There are far worse things than acute inquisitiveness.

Eventually Meriko breathes deeply in apparent relaxation.  Since the man is evidently done looking at it, Cardea places the item back in her pack.

Kamiel shares some of their other findings with the man.  “The statue arm betrays no aura of evil or magic.”

“Maybe it's only magical when the whole is joined together,” Cullen speculates.

Kamiel continues.  “Where it entwined with the roots of the tree, strange and unnatural flowers grew in the absence of sunlight.  The petals glistened like gemstones, but we didn't notice that until after we eliminated the...the presence in the room.”

“Fascinating,” Meriko observes.

“The letter from Grameci is just one of several leads we have on the statue parts and related items.  Just a moment...” He hastily fishes a bundle of parchment leaves out of his pack and flips through them.

“Here we go.  The statue wasn't auctioned off as a unit.  I suppose it had already been disassembled when the crown got a hold of it, and its representatives either didn't know or didn't care what they had.”

“Or perhaps they knew exactly what they were doing, and scattered it deliberately,” the scholar counters.

“Ah.” This gives Kamiel some pause, and he chews his lip for a second before returning to his notes.  “At any rate, the, uh, the head went to Arcanix, the torso to Flamekeep, the left leg to Korth, the right leg to Korranberg, and the right arm to Metrol.  Of course this was a hundred and fifty years ago.  Much might have changed, and while leads this stale are better than nothing, they _are_ pretty stale.”

“And a hundred and fifty years ago there was no Mournland,” Adric says, referring to the name of the land now surrounding Metrol.

The entire party shifts uncomfortably in their seats at the mere mention of the place.  They all know they haven't the might to survive, let alone fulfill their aims, in that dread place.

“That aside,” Kamiel continues, “we've learned that three sets of so-called miscellaneous documents were also auctioned off from the estate.  One set came here to Morgrave, another went to the University of Korth, and a third went to Korranberg, to the same person who obtained the right leg of the statue.  It's not clear if that's who still has it, though.  Maybe it changed hands to the grandfather of this Grameci who wrote the letter we just showed you.”

“Many gnomes in Korranberg.  In the whole nation of Zilargo, really, it being their homeland,” Adric muses.  “A century and a half and this ancestor, only as distant as a grandparent, is the one who obtained part of the statue.  I suggest you're expecting to find—or avoid—a gnome in Korranberg, not a human.”

“Assuming the letter is not very old, and that it came into the hands of the elder Grameci shortly after its arrival in Korranberg,” Kamiel says.

“It wasn't dated, but it doesn't _look_ very old,” offers Teague.

“According to Loren's daughter, it was delivered to the Jorasco chapter house several months ago,” Cullen adds.

Kamiel attempts to wrap up the conjectures he provoked.  “Thus, the parsimonious assumption is that it is no older than that.  The statue piece and documents could have changed hands at any time, though.  We just don't know.”

“Gnomes, then!” Meriko is manifestly prepared to educate his guests whether they're ready or not.  “You'll find the gnomes of Zilargo polite and welcoming.  But they are known for finding out information and using it to their advantage.  Mayhaps we're observing a bit of that with this letter, no?  Sometimes this practice is a defensive measure, for they are small creatures in a big, hostile world”—the scholar flicks his glance over at Cullen—“but sometimes it is done for gain.”

“Which could _also_ be the case here,” Kamiel says.

Adric shrugs to indicate his uncertainty, and continues.  “There is no overt police force among gnomes.  However, an organization called ‘the Trust’ keeps the peace from behind the scenes.”

The party takes a moment to absorb all this, girding themselves for their Korranberg venture.  They help themselves to more tea, and Kamiel attempts to sate his curiosity about another subject.

“You're a professor of linguistics, sir.  What was your area of focus?”

“My specialty was Xen'drik languages and hieroglyphs.  Kas is a student of mine.  Quite talented, quite talented.  Yes.”

“Then perhaps you can help us with a transcription we don't understand.”

“Indeed?” Adric is intrigued to be offered a problem well within his ken.

Cullen takes from his pack the copy he made of the hybrid scroll from the document lot at Morgrave University yesterday.

The scholar takes it eagerly.  “Oh, my.  Oh, my.  Yes, you've found this, too.  I encountered it myself when researching this most mysterious statue.”

He is, to the party's surprise, able to offer only a little more than they had already deduced.  Part of the document is in archaic Common, up to the point where it transcribes an inscription the author found on an obelisk at Xed'ef'kar.  The _Rite of Enactment_ is indeed in an old dialect of Giant called Xir'da.  That tongue was spoken at the height of the culture of the city of Xed'ef'kar.  However, there are two points in this rite that aren't in Giant at all, but an effort at transcribing a third, unknown language phonetically.  Kamiel, who can speak Giant, gleaned from the juxtaposition of glyphs that there were some phonemes that had to be crudely approximated, as they simply didn't exist in the Giant tongue.

The young arcanist brainstorms as his companions and the scholar look on indulgently.  A rite is a ritual or ceremony, and an enactment is a statutory or legislative practice.  Could this scroll reflect an event of no more import than the effectuation of law or regulation?  In some cultures, ancient languages are spoken during the investiture of religious or political figures, and can comprise part or the whole of the formality.  Such a scroll would be of historical and linguistic interest, certainly, but hardly the sort of matter which provokes portents of doom and acts of arson.

Alternatively, the Rite of Enactment could be as the party originally suspected—an invocation of some sort of power beyond the temporal.  Kamiel and Adric go back and forth over numerous hypotheses.  Do the phonemes make sense when read backwards?  No.  Was an attempt made to decipher the text using a common wizards' divination of comprehension?  Yes, and it failed.

Kamiel scratches his beard.  “That suggests to me,” he says slowly, “that the phonemes don't represent a mundane language at all.  Perhaps...perhaps it is a transcription of magical command words, or even an effort to record the sounds of a spell recitation.”

Meriko nods.  “Possibly!  Possibly!  Or perhaps it is a corruption, or merely an example of drift.  Take the name of the site of this statue's origin: ‘Xed'ef'kar’.  That rendering is today antiquated.  Recall how Grameci referred to it in his letter, which we presume is quite recent?  ‘Sedefkar’.  Same place.  Same _word_ even.  But different orthography and pronunciation.  Time does not stand still.  Nor do languages.”

Frustratingly, at this point, everyone seems to be stuck.  Kamiel feels sure that a _comprehend languages_ spell would not be rendered ineffective by linguistic drift.  He knows the incantation is capable of revealing the meaning of ancient languages, modern writings, and everything in between.  Still, his surety is impotent for the time being, as he himself does not possess the dweomer in question.

After a few moments of silence broken only by the sipping of tea and the tucking of the copied scroll back into Cullen's pack, Kamiel remembers another question they had.

“We believe we've identified the works that constituted the Fenalik document lot auctioned off to Morgrave.  Part was the Rite of Enactment scroll.  But there was also a travelogue in the library here, describing a scholar's journey to Xed'ef'kar, we think on the same expedition that produced the scroll.”

“Oh?” Adric arches an eyebrow in surprise.

“It was in the stacks, but hidden, tucked away spine-down behind other volumes several shelves away from where it should have been.  _You_ didn't happen to hide it like that, did you?” Kamiel asks.

“Certainly not!” The man's pride of scholarship appears to have been bruised.

“Okay, in that case”—Kamiel hastily moves on to spare the poor man's feelings—“in that case, I suspect our rivals have preceded us there.  I don't know if they got a hold of the scroll with the Rite of Enactment, though.  According to the librarian, you were the last person to sign it out for examination.”

Meriko is a bit alarmed.  “They're not supposed to tell you that!”

The party emits a few nervous coughs.

“Putting that aside, I suspect you're right.  I suspect you're right.  Other forces are one or more moves ahead of us in this race.”


----------



## Redwald (May 16, 2006)

*A Simple Plan*

After this despondent suggestion, the conversation turns to lighter matters for a while.  Adric explains that the neighborhood in which he now makes his residence is known as Hareth's Folly.  The buildings in the area were designed by an architect generally considered to be mad.  The earliest buildings were built in styles of contemporary kingdoms and cultures.  As time passed, though, they became more and more eclectic, even bizarre.  Some of the most notorious examples are structures in the shapes of trees or melted candles.  The party confirms that they passed two buildings of those very descriptions on their way to his abode.

Kamiel doesn't believe he's seen a changeling in its natural form before, and has a brief but polite discussion with Kas on the subject.  Changelings, he is told, pursue a number of different philosophies; some change their forms opportunistically (the “Becomers”), others develop a great facility at precisely adopting a form that passes for a specific race (the “Perfectors”), and yet another group, among whom Kas numbers, prefer not to conceal their natures, despite the problems this occasionally causes them—these are the “Reality Seekers”.

In due course the tea is finished.

“Might I interest you in a game of conquest?” The scholar refers to a lengthy chess-like diversion.

Alas, no; it is time for the adventurers to return to the Ten Tier Inn.

“We're bound for Korranberg as soon as we can muster the funds for transport,” Cardea says.

“I may be able to scare up something in that department,” Teague adds with a twinkle.

“Korranberg is near,” Kamiel picks up, “and has both another statue piece and another document lot.  And both may well be in the hands of this Eodard Grameci.  If he's one of our rivals, he may have tipped his hand.  Or,” he adds with a sigh, “we're walking into his trap.”

“I daresay there is no route before you that is without peril,” Adric avers.  “I must remain in hiding, but as you can see, I am ably assisted, and I can continue to communicate with you.”

“About our communications,” Kamiel says, “we have little notion of who our rivals are, what allies they have, and where they have eyes and ears.  I am concerned about our messages being intercepted, and our progress monitored by hostile parties via our own communiqués.  We should contrive some sort of cipher or code to guard the content of our epistles.”

“House Orien runs a secure operation, by all accounts,” Cullen notes.  “If our opponents have infiltrated them, what chance have we?”

Cardea and Teague seem more interested in leaving than waiting for a few hours while Kamiel and Adric construct a cryptographic protocol.

The scholar notes this tension, and offers a suggestion.  “Developing a truly private language is a daunting task even for experts in my field,” he cautions, “but nevertheless your point is well taken.  Let us make the scope of the problem manageable.  How about a means of transmitting a simple status, weal or woe?  This can accompany the messages we send each other, and if the message is ‘woe’, the receiving party will know to interpret the remainder of the text in a more critical light.”

Kamiel is impressed.  “Yes, that would strike a balance between overhead and risk.  And I must admit, if we develop anything complex, we'd both need to retain documentation as an aid for recovering the conventional meaning.  Doing so would itself pose threats.  If either of us is captured or our belongings ransacked, the value is lost.  Or, worse, one of us could be impersonated to the other.”

“Quite so, quite so.  So the task before us is to have a marker, say—a conventional expression that we can include in our future correspondence that would not itself be remarkable.”

Cardea is prepared for this challenge.  “May the ancestors guard your travels.”

“Capital!” Adric claps his hands together in satisfaction.  “A traditional Elven byword.  Thus, when conditions are favorable, or at least no worse than to be expected, given the sorts of places you'll be going, merely sign off your messages with this saying in Elven.”

“And when they are ill, use a different language,” Kamiel says, understanding.  “Draconic?  I speak that tongue, and I daresay it has an intuitive overtone for the context.”

“As you say!  Shall we make it thus?”

There is a mutter of assent from the fatigued adventurers.

Farewells are exchanged, and the party departs Adric Meriko's lonely residence and its strange neighborhood.

----

As the group is getting off a lift in the neighborhood of the Ten Tier Inn, a tall man entering the same conveyance bumps into Teague.  The rogue's perturbed countenance transmogrifies into a grin as he realizes he recognizes the offender—a fellow of House Lyrandar.  Not just any kinsman, at that, but an uncle.  Aran d'Lyrandar is a sea captain of the House.  The boisterous man insists on taking Teague and his friends to what he terms a “reputable establishment”.

The party is tired (though Teague seems to have new life about him), but not about to pass up an opportunity for gratis refreshment.  The man can tell they're weary, and assures them their destination does not lie far away.  More significantly, a sea-captain relative of Teague might be able to get them to Zilargo without rendering them all destitute.

Aran does in fact escort his nephew and company to a place that is no groggery or barrel house.  It is the Overripe Melon, a swanky outfit that is just on the affordable side of ritzy.

Much ale is consumed on the elder d'Lyrandar's tab.  The captain drinks copiously, but undeniably remains well within his limits.  All of the adventurers except Cardea imbibe a bit much.  Teague trades stories with his kinsman that grow steadily more indecorous until both are roaring their heads off.  Cullen and Kamiel, the two musicians, feel the urge to amuse the other patrons; the former by getting up on stage with the hired musicians providing the evening's entertainment for an impromptu performance, and the latter by summoning himself a lute from out of nowhere and strumming out changes from bawdy Aundarian folk tunes liberally interspersed with highly ornamented fills.  Neither of their muses are tolerated long, and both are sternly dissuaded in turn from their disruptions by the staff.  Kamiel, knowing his spell is about to expire, puckishly hurls the instrument into the air.  Before striking the rafters, it vanishes.

Aran seems unoffended by their exuberance, however, and after much conversation with Teague, only half-overheard by the others thanks to the general racket, extends an invitation.

“Korranberg, you say?  I happen to be sailing in the morning with my crew, and we're bound for Korranport in due course.  In the meantime, there's a trading vessel out in the Thunder that's long overdue.  A month, in fact.  And some trade through there has spotted what might just be a derelict.  Might be the same ship, might not.  Regardless, I'm taking my crew out there to claim what we may.”

“Isn't that piracy?” Cullen asks, incredulous.

Cardea tenses, alarmed that Cullen may have just delivered a mortal insult.  But Aran d'Lyrandar tosses his head back and laughs.  Kamiel knows enough of the law, and can recollect enough even while intoxicated, to explain.

“No, it's the law of the sea.  Abandoned vessels in neutral waters don't belong to anyone, and whoever happens upon them can do what they will, at their own risk.”

Cullen nods.

“’Course, I guess it's an open question as to whether this derelict really _is_ abandoned,” Kamiel continues.  “Could be it's just out there for the pleasure of its crew.  Or,” his voice lowers, barely audible above the noise of the tavern, “it might be abandoned under the law, but not uninhabited either.”

“You mean, inhabited by things that don't have or need or care about a legal claim to it,” Cullen says, catching on to Kamiel's tone.  “Things that can prevent others from salvaging it.  That don't need laws.  Or food to stay alive, or fresh water to drink.”

“Yup.” Kamiel drains another mug of ale.

“How many crew on your vessel?” Cardea asks briskly.

“Twenty-one to twenty-eight—depends on how many show up for the voyage tomorrow!” The captain laughs.  “There'll be room aplenty for you, no worries.  And a spot of work, too, to earn your room and board!”

“You mean helping out the ship's crew and such?  I'm not trained as a sailor, but I'm willing to learn,” Kamiel says.

The elder d'Lyrandar's only response is a crooked grin and gleaming eyes.

Cardea moves things along.  “Where shall we meet you?”

“Eight o'clock at berth thirty-seven.  We'll be sailing mid-morning,” the captain replies.

Given that it is approaching midnight, they all need to be up early, and the talk has turned dark thanks to Kamiel, goodbyes are exchanged.  Teague's uncle rises and heads toward the bar, probably to settle the tab, and the party makes its way out the door.

The route back to the inn is not difficult to retrace, even for the tipsy.  Teague, however, has considerably overindulged and requires assistance from Cardea and Kamiel to remain upright.  Traveling along one passage, down a lift, and along another, they reach their lodgings in minutes.  Each collapses into bed for what looks to be a last slumber for untold days on a surface that does not pitch or roll.


----------



## Redwald (May 19, 2006)

*The Ill-Fated Schemes of Kamiel*

*2 Eyre 998*

While Cullen and Teague sleep the slumber of the intoxicated, and Cardea trances, Kamiel's dreams are troubled.  Disturbed not by nightmares, but by a nagging feeling that he has overlooked something.

He is back in Greenvale swinging away with a miner's pick at the foundations of the Count Fenalik manor house.  Except, perversely, he is continuing to attempt to break rock when a man-sized passage into the cellars already exists to his right.  His companions are standing around, waiting for him to finish.  Why doesn't he just put the pick down and move through the existing entrance?  He is certain there is nothing on the other side.  All he needs to do is move over and step through.

Kamiel's mind grows more and more agitated, and his consciousness begins to grapple with the problem.  Then it hits him—the dream is a metaphor.  He's not been concerned with the manor house cellars lately.  What's been nagging him has been the strange language on the Rite of Enactment scroll.

He awakens.  Could it be that simple?  Adric Meriko said that a _comprehend languages_ spell had been attempted, and failed.  That meant that the mysterious language intermixed with the old dialect of Giant on the scroll wasn't a mundane language.  He and the scholar discussed the possibility of incantation or magical command words, but failed to realize the obvious experiment—_read magic_.

“Of course,” the young arcanist mutters quietly as he props himself up on one elbow.  If it's not mundane language, he reasons, it _must_ be magical—and he, of the group, is the only one with the power to decipher magical writings.

Moonlight illuminates the party's room at the Ten Tier Inn.  Kamiel gets out of bed and quietly moves over to Cullen's pack, lying on the floor beside the halfling.  Dragan, resting on the lower half of the bed, raises his head curiously, but doesn't regard Kamiel as a threat.  Cullen's pack is half-open from the usual rummaging that precedes bedding down for the evening, and the scroll protrudes from it.

Kamiel can't bring himself to disturb his friend, and rationalizes that the _contents_ of the copied scroll are a form of joint property, owned by the company in general.  He withdraws the parchment and unrolls it quietly and carefully; Cullen's tranquil repose is undisturbed.  The dog plops his head back down and smacks his lips.

Brimming with excitement over solving this mystery and eagerly anticipating the respect he'll earn from his companions, he casts the spell—a bit of old, familiar bardic magic.  The text before him sparkles in his sight, and the glyphs begin to swim.  Soon, the part of the scroll that is neither Common nor Giant will reshape itself to his eyes, and its meaning will instantly resolve in his mind.

Except it doesn't.  Kamiel's heart sinks as he realizes the spell has failed.  The magical energy within him disperses uselessly, along with his hopes.

He refurls the scroll and slips it back into Cullen's pack with dejection.  His thoughts are consumed by frustration.  “It _should_ have worked, damn it!  What kind of writing is neither magical nor non-magical?  What kind of writing is so impervious to comprehension?” He has no answers for his own questions.

Kamiel shuffles the short distance back to his own bed and crawls under the blanket.  If he dreams further, he has no recollection of it.

----

Dawn breaks at about six o'clock.  For those attuned to the heterodyne rhythms of the multiverse, there is a sense in which it is the brightest day in years.  Cardea emerges from trance and can feel the radiance of eternal daylight suffusing her.  The elven paladin has an instinctual knowledge that her holy power of _laying on hands_ will be ascendant.  A sage of the epicycles of the cosmos would say that the plane Irian is coterminous with Eberron.

She stands, taking but a moment to enjoy the sensation, and then rouses her companions.  “It is time to awaken.  We are expected at the docks anon.”

The are some groans at this, as her stirring compatriots were inebriated all too recently, but no overt complaint.  Dragan hops off the bed with alacrity; he doubtlessly has some business of his own to attend to that will brook no further delay.

In about an hour, the companions have cleaned and readied themselves, and Cullen and Kamiel have prepared their spells for the day.  Kamiel decides to re-memorize _detect magic_, the only spell from his new wizard repertoire he had cast the day before, but switches _feather fall_ for _mage armor_, reasoning that the former is less useful on a boat than it is in Sharn, the City of Towers.

Cullen settles the party's bill at the reception kiosk, and the group emerges into the daylight, moving briskly in the direction of the wharves.  Along the way, Kamiel reveals his disappointing findings of the night before.  Fortunately, Cullen is not angry with him for borrowing the scroll he so laboriously copied.  Kamiel finds his companions less disheartened by his failure than he was, too—perhaps they had already resigned themselves to the mystery.

The arcanist has ideas on other matters as well.  “We have no idea what we're going to be up against on this derelict ship, or in Korranberg for that matter.  Did anyone else find it remarkable that the three weapons Cleg had under glass in his shop happened to match up perfectly with our preferred weapons?  Except for Cardea, that is.  Those weapons were all very high quality and magical.  Fate seems to have put quite an opportunity before us.  Is it really wise to pass it by?”

“It is if we can't afford it,” Teague says.

“Well,” Kamiel counters, “we don't _just_ have our individual portions of the wine sale proceeds.  I think we forgot to take into account the letter of credit Cardea has, that we just came by.”

“And that,” Cardea recalls, “is for one hundred fifty gold.  That plus one share from the wine remains insufficient for even one weapon.  And we should regard the letter of credit as divided into four equal shares even if only one of us can carry it.”

Cullen piles on.  “Cleg's price of five hundred was firm.  There's no way all three of us will be able to arm ourselves even if he budges a bit.”

“Yes,” Kamiel admits, “but he's probably not working right now.  It's very early.  Perhaps we could just go knock over the place and leave what we think is a fair value for the weapons we need.”

Kamiel finds that their pace has suddenly halted, and four pairs of reproachful eyes are upon him.  Yes, even the dog's.

"Uhm,” he stammers, looking around, feeling very much on the spot.  Apparently his companions are not the only ones staring.  Some passerby, several yards away, has also stopped and is looking at the group with obvious concern.

Cullen can't seem to believe his ears.  “‘Knock over’?  You know what that _means_, don't you?”

Kamiel coughs nervously.  “Er, well, there are many, ah, expressions that have different meanings in various dialects of Common,” he blusters.  “I learned this from the bards of many lands whose acquaintance I have made.” He hastily looks over at Cardea, seeking sympathy, but naturally enough finds no comfort from the scrupulous paladin.  “For example,” he continues, shifting his attention to Teague, “in Thrane, ‘to knock up’ means ‘to awaken’.  In Aundair, by contrast, it means—”

“Enough!” Cardea interrupts, her face a mask of reproach.  It would seem she knows full well what it means in the Audairian dialect.

“Let's move on,” Teague says.  He has also noticed the man observing them.  “We've got a ship to catch.”

The party proceeds down the avenue, and the busybody gawker does likewise, continuing in the opposite direction.

Cardea softens after a moment and addresses Kamiel again.  “We'll just have to let it go.  I realize you just want to ensure that we can defend ourselves adequately.  In time, we may have sufficient funds to acquire those weapons lawfully.  That time is not now.”

“In our travels, we may find weapons that are better still,” Cullen adds on a cheery note.

Kamiel yields.  “All right.  I guess”—he pauses for a moment—“I guess I'm just a bit shaken up after seeing that...that _baboon_ club Cardea to the ground the other night.  She's the best protected of us all, we seem to be beset by enemies whose identities we don't even know, and our only friend is in hiding.”

“Despair not, or we are surely lost,” Cardea counsels.  “Our responsibilities are to the weal of all beings, not just to ourselves, and to uphold the laws that protect the weak from the depredations of the strong,” she asserts.  “If we abandon those responsibilities, then what right have we to recover, possess, and protect the item that is our charge from those who are as depraved as Fenalik?”

Kamiel nods his head.  “None.  You're right, of course.” The bardic wizard doesn't completely share Cardea's esteem for regulations, but has to grant that she is essentially correct.  Larceny is not qualitatively attenuated through partial compensation, except possibly in an emergency.  They appear to be in no imminent danger, though Kamiel dryly thinks to himself that what threatens them may not be evident until they're all lying in shallow graves.

Teague and Cullen, both in jaunty moods, steer the conversation to lighter topics and take the lead as the party move rapidly through the canyons between the towers of Sharn, bearing steadily southwest.

----

After crossing the area above the lower wards, the adventurers come to an outdoor lift at the cliffs above the shore—over a thousand feet below.

“This part of the city,” Teague notes, “is called Precarious.”

The magical lifts are ubiquitous here.  There are dozens of massive cargo lifts interspersed with smaller passenger conveyances.  Though it is still early morning, the docks are a hive of activity.  Most of the ships appear to be trading vessels, judging by the massive wooden crates that are winched into and out of them by heavy cranes of hardwood with iron fastenings.  The cranes transfer the crates to and from big flatbed carts, each pulled by some manner of beast—teams of oxen or horses.  A few are pulled by a lone dinosaur of a large herbivorous variety, probably purchased by the shipping companies from the Talenta Plains for precisely this sort of service.

The companions make their way aboard one of the passenger lifts, and Kamiel realizes that his decision not to prepare _feather fall_ for the day might have been premature.  As the simple wooden beam that functions as a gate is lowered into place by one of the passengers, Kamiel understands that his belief that he has no fear of heights has never been put to as severe a test.  The lift is open to the air, serves travelers and dock workers who are typically in a hurry, and has no stops.  It is mounted nearly flush to the cliff face.  A chill morning breeze blows in off the sea and whips through his hair.

Then it drops.


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## PieAndDragon (May 20, 2006)

Hey Redwald. 

The title of the thread indicates that it's a poll, when clearly its now an actual story hour


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## Redwald (May 20, 2006)

detomo said:
			
		

> Hey Redwald.
> 
> The title of the thread indicates that it's a poll, when clearly its now an actual story hour




It's still a poll from my point of view -- it just has an extensive sample to go with it.  

The poll is open until 26 May.  At that point, if feedback is sufficiently positive, I'll start a new story hour thread from the beginning (19 Therindor, where everybody had 0 XP).  Feedback on the original thread which was lost in the database crash was pretty positive, with the only critique being that I'd post 6,000+ word updates.  I've now tried to break the narrative up into roughly 2,000 word chunks, wherever I could find something that seemed to serve all right as an act break.

Right now I'm just reposting stuff I had already written late last year, months before even my previous thread on 27 April.  The reason for the poll is to see if people want me to write _new_ installments.


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## Sidereal Knight (May 21, 2006)

Redwald said:
			
		

> Right now I'm just reposting stuff I had already written late last year, months before even my previous thread on 27 April.  The reason for the poll is to see if people want me to write _new_ installments.




Post it and they will read.

(Besides, it helps keep me honest...  )


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## Redwald (May 23, 2006)

*All Aboard!*

Kamiel's eyes widen and various organs draw up into his body as the device hurtles downwards—to say “descends” would be an unwarranted understatement.

“I'd appreciate some truth in advertising,” he yells to his friends over the roar of the air rushing past.  “They call it a ‘lift’.  What they _should_ call it is a ‘plummet’!”

His companions look variously bemused and stoic as the ground rushes towards them.

Just when Kamiel thinks the braking magic has gone awry, their rate of descent slackens.  A little bit at first, then more so, until the lift comes to as gentle a stop as you'd please, a second _after_ a burly laborer disengages the gate.  The man steps down and off the lift just _before_ it's flush with the wooden decking at the bottom, getting a brief but measurable head start on the other passengers—clearly someone who feels he has no time to lose.  “Late for work?” Kamiel wonders.

The docks are crowded and noisy.  As the party makes its way down the boardwalk and pass the numbered berths, they hear sailors cursing in any of a dozen different languages.  Teamsters and longshoremen are moving cargo, flagging the crane operators, cracking whips at the draft animals, meandering about, or simply leaning against the support posts driven through the sandy ground underneath the boards.  The group does not have to push its way through the bustle, but it's a hectic trot to berth thirty-seven nonetheless.

Cullen and Kamiel have never been to sea, but they've heard enough stories to know that the ship before them is not entirely conventional.  The _Kingfisher's Victory_ looks a little odd—it is a substantial vessel, but has only three relatively small sails.  One is located in the rear third of the ship, and has fin-like protrusions.  Mounted on the stern frame is a large blue-white ring, its plane transverse to the surface of the water.  Most of the other ships are missing this feature, and instead have three or even four masts, each with complex rigging and numerous sails.

Cullen has heard of these.  He turns and notes Kamiel's expression.  “This is a wind galleon,” he states.

Teague smiles and nods.  He seems eager to board, and has spotted his kinsman.

Captain Aran is visible on the sterncastle, consulting with his crew.  Sailors are rushing about on the deck, where some passengers are evidently already aboard.  There are two groups of gnomes, one of four, the other of three.  A pair of human women are also present.

A hobgoblin stands alone on the forecastle, not quite sneering.  He is clad in an impressive suit of leather armor, studded with small metal spikes.  The goblinoid does not bear a weapon, but stands as if he's used to doing so.

Despite the creature's commanding posture, he does not appear to be part of the crew.  The sailors are all in uniform.  As one would expect of a House Lyrandar vessel's crew, half-elves comprise the majority, but it's a slim one—the remaining half the crew are humans along with a few gnomes, and one large half-orc.  The last is currently in conversation with the captain.

The adventurers approach the gangway and spot a young-looking deckhand checking people in.  Teague takes the lead and hands his identification papers to the crewman.  He reasons that he'll be expected thanks to his uncle, and that the House Lyrandar seal will grease the wheels for himself and his armed and armored companions.

The young man looks over Teague's papers for a moment.

“These three are  with me,” Teague says, indicating the others with a jerk of the thumb.

The deckhand nods, then invites the quartet aboard, advising them to check their weapons.  He perfunctorily glances at Cardea's, Cullen's, and Kamiel's papers and hastily returns them, already with an eye on the docks for more passengers or late crew arrivals.

Dragan steps along the gangplanks with uneasy glances at the water below, and vaults the last few feet to land on the ship's deck with a determined hop.

Once aboard, the party's attention returns to the captain, who remains in his position as an ever-changing array of sailors seeks audience with him.  At present, he's consulting with two crewmen.

“That one guy, the human, that's the navigator,” Teague says.  “The other, the big half-orc with the board checking things off of it, that's the cargo master.  You can tell by the vest he's wearing.  Let's go find the first mate.”

Teague hustles off with the rest of the group trailing, and in short order the half-elf they seek is found and inquiries are made.  “The quartermaster's probably below decks in the fore,” he replies.  “Check your weapons and have him show you to your cabins.  The ladder's that way.” He points towards the forecastle.

The adventurers make their way forward through the meandering passengers and hustling sailors, and reach a descending flight of somewhat steep wooden stairs.  Teague bounds down them with agility.

“I thought the first mate said _ladder_,” Cullen says as he climbs off of Dragan's back.

Teague is waiting on the deck at the bottom.  “‘Ladder’'s what you call it on a ship.”

The others join him on the lower deck, where they find a commons area and several cabin doors.  A uniformed gnome is present, wearing a quartermaster's badge.

“Yes, can I help you?” he prompts the party as they enter the commons and blink, adjusting their vision to relative dimness below.

“Weapons to check,” Teague replies.

The gnome leads the group down a short hall to a closet, and opens it.  There is a greatsword leaning in the back, next to an ugly axe.

“Hobgoblin's and half-orc's, I'll bet,” Teague whispers to his companions.

Kamiel is visibly apprehensive about divesting himself of all his weapons.

“There's no way they'll let us remain aboard with all of our weapons,” Teague explains quietly.  “If you've got a knife or small dagger, they'll let you keep that, as it's customary for cutting ropes and such.”

Kamiel sighs quietly.  He has no knife or dagger.

Meanwhile, the quartermaster has checked Cullen's cudgel, sling, and darts, and handed him a claim check for each.

Cardea is next, with her halberd, longsword, long bow, light mace, and spiked gauntlet.

Kamiel follows, checking his rapier, light mace, and sickle.

“Let's go box up the item for safekeeping,” Kamiel says to Cardea in a low voice.  The two locate a hall on the deck that is unoccupied for the moment.  The paladin pulls the statue arm out of her pack as Kamiel removes the ironwood box from his.

“One day I'll have a spell that can properly secure boxes like this,” Kamiel declares as Cardea gingerly sets the statue arm in the box.  She closes the lid, re-shoulders her pack, and picks up the box.

“I'm not sanguine about the security of that closet,” he continues.

“Can you suggest any alternatives?” she replies, clearly expecting an answer in the negative.

Kamiel can think of none, so he simply sighs with a worried expression on his face, and walks with Cardea back to the rest of the party, still with the gnome.

Teague has checked his light crossbow, but not his whip.  If the quartermaster has noticed the omission, he says nothing about it.  “Perhaps House Lyrandar is afforded a bit of privilege in this area,” Kamiel silently speculates.

The gnome shows the adventurers to their quarters, a set of three cabins in the stern area.  Each is a double, with a benchlike bed or seat affixed to opposite walls.  A shuttered mage light lamp is installed in each cabin for illumination.  The cabin doors latch to keep them from swinging with the seas, but have no locks.

The quartermaster offers Cardea the outermost cabin, which has a porthole with a starboard view.  The other two cabins are amidships.  Alas, there are no halfling-sized quarters, a fact for which the gnome's apology to Cullen seems sincere.  Teague and Kamiel elect to bunk together, ostensibly to compensate the halfling for his inconvenience.

“If the room's the wrong size, at least you can have a lot of it,” Kamiel reflects.

In truth, they're looking forward to an night's reprieve from the smell of dog.

Seeing that the arrangements appear satisfactory, the quartermaster prepares to excuse himself.  “If you care to observe the departure, you can come the main deck.  If you do, please watch and stay out of the way.”

“I think my friends will want to see this, but we'll want to get out of our armor first,” Teague responds.

“Very well, then,” the gnome says, and leaves them to their business.

The party gathers in Cardea's cabin as she sets the ironwood box down on the floor.  Daylight from the  porthole is the only source of light at present; the magical sources are shuttered.

Teague resumes educating his companions.  “This type of vessel has three decks,” he explains.  “The main deck, above, this deck—the cabin deck, and then a cargo deck below.  There are maybe twenty to twenty-five crew.  Probably divided into three watches, so the ship will run all day.  I'm not sure about much more than that.  I'm an air sailor.  My uncle calls me a ‘cloud-lover’.”

“Well, let's drop off our gear and head aloft,” Kamiel says, attempting a bit of nautical jargon, despite his lack of experience in anything larger than an inland fishing boat.  He's vaguely heard of wind galleons, but knows little about them.  “Judging by the paucity of sails, this is no ordinary sailing ship.  There also aren't enough crew for an oar-driven ship.  I'm interested in seeing this ship's means of propulsion in action.”

Teague grins.  “That you will.  You,” he turns to Cardea, “had better get out of that armor.  If you go overboard, you'll sink like a stone in that.”

Cardea was already well aware of the fact, but is in no mood to waste time reminding Teague of it.  “I understand,” she says, and with her arm half-extended toward the door, palm upward, she invites her companions to leave so she can do as instructed.

Kamiel snorts a quick laugh, forgetting for the moment his frustration with the Rite of Enactment scroll, and his nervousness about the weapon divestiture process.

After a few minutes, the party is in their civilian clothes, excepting Cullen, who was not in armor in the first place.  Dragan seems content where he is, curled up on one of the bunks in Cullen's cabin.

“Shall we?” Teague leads the way above decks, returning forward to retrace the way they came.

As the group emerges, the signs of impending departure are obvious.  The gangway has been removed, and the captain—still atop the sterncastle—no longer has a line of petitioners seeking an interview.  Instead, he is calling orders.

A pair of smaller ships has come alongside, and positioned themselves to either side of the bow.  Lines are thrown out to them.

Teague chooses a vantage point portside amidships, and leans casually against the rail, steadying himself with one hand.  Cardea grips the beam near him firmly with both hands.  Cullen and Kamiel flank the two, but leave their hands at their sides.

The half-orc cargo master is now on the forecastle, looking impatient in an imperious kind of way1.

The two groups of gnomes are above decks as well, and they do a double-take at Cardea, who is conspicuous, to say nothing of attractive, in her native Aerenal dress.  Kamiel smirks at the stares the elf is getting, but Cardea herself doesn't seem to be aware of it, and in fact seems quite distracted by her own anticipation.  It's not an entirely _positive_ anticipation, he notes.

Teague has picked up on her tension as well, and smiles in spite of himself.  “If you keep holding on that tightly, your hands will start to hurt,” he chides.

The ropes cast to the smaller vessels become taut; the _Kingfisher's Victory_ is being towed out into the sound.

After a minute the first mate, who is positioned at the forecastle, calls some orders, and the crew pulls the lines back aboard.  He turns to address Aran d'Lyrandar, and makes his report.  “We are clear, Captain!”

Captain Aran steps up, grasps the wheel in both hands, and braces himself slightly.  The feeling of expectation among the sailors is palpable, at least to Teague.  The rest of the party can discern only that the seas are calm.

The first mate gives more orders; the main sail and the two side sails are fully unfurled.  All three canvases are painted with kingfishers holding spears in their talons.

The captain adjusts the position of the wheel in his hands slightly, and concentrates for a moment.  The feeling among the crew builds.  Even Teague's companions and the other passengers are aware of it now.

“Taking on speed!” the Captain announces.

The ring at the stern of the ship starts to churn and flicker, and then...it is _gone_.

----

1 “In a Yul Brynner kind of way,” is how our DM put it.


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## Redwald (May 25, 2006)

Reminder: the poll closes in less than 12 hours!

Vote now, or...uh...reserve your right to say something later!


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## Redwald (May 25, 2006)

*Get Your Sea Legs*

The ship is abruptly propelled forward, leaping into motion.

Instantly, wind is blowing through the hair of the adventurers, and the wooden planks are trying to get out from underneath them.

Cardea tumbles to the deck.  Cullen and Kamiel hurriedly grab the railing to keep themselves upright.

Teague doesn't even flinch.  Grinning, he kneels and offers Cardea his free hand.

Cardea bears a dark expression.  The gnomes are laughing.  Actually, Kamiel notices, only _half_ of the gnomes are laughing at Cardea.  The other half, the more distant group, have found their source of amusement in the hobgoblin, who also took a spill.

The sailors are chuckling as well, more so at the hobgoblin, who hadn't even bothered to hold on to anything.

As Teague helps Cardea back to her feet, Cullen and Kamiel realize that their sudden lurch wasn't all the speed this vessel had to offer.  They are steadily accelerating.

The party's attention is drawn to the stern.  The ring has not completely disappeared, as it turns out.  It is stretched out behind the ship, somewhat like a wind sock.  Kamiel watches in fascination as the craft slowly but steadily rises _out_ of the water as it gains velocity.  Turning his attention to the sails, he can see that they're not filling with air—instead, they are used as control surfaces.

The wind starts to roar in their ears; from experience, Teague knows that this means they've reached a speed of ten to twelve miles per hour.  The captain is shouting orders.  Most of them seem to have to do with getting the positions of the sails tuned just right.  The ship subtly changes direction in response.

Looking over the railing and down, the adventurers can see that the ship has risen out of the sea and is gliding along the surface on runners.  The hull is completely clear of the water.

Still they are accelerating.  The roaring of air steadily increases in volume.  The ship is highly maneuverable, judging by the effects of the continued minute adjustments to the steering sails.  It is as if the craft is skating on the water.  The rails appear to be made of soarwood.

It dawns on Kamiel that Captain Aran possesses no minor status.  He is either highly esteemed within the House, wealthy, or both.  The man is not the boisterous character the adventurers drank with at the Overripe Melon last night—today, he's all business.

Finally the vessel reaches cruising speed, which Teague judges to be about twenty miles per hour.

After a hand signal from the captain, the first mate calls, “day watch aloft, mid watch and night watch below decks.” The sailors not on duty hasten down the ladders.

The day is pleasant but not exceptional.  The weather is bright at the moment, with the sun shining on the water.  There is a substantial amount of glare, and it is also pretty humid and warm.  The air from the front is more then enough to cool the skin; it dries the eyes and takes the breath away a bit if one faces directly into it.

After a few minutes it is clear that the off-duty personnel were not motivated solely by obedience to get quickly below.  The quartermaster comes by and suggests that the passengers head down as well, to the mess hall.  It's lunch time.

The party finds that the common area, which was a large open space when they last saw it, has filled with trestle tables and benches.  A little over a dozen sailors occupy most of the seating, with the other passengers clustered together, keeping a polite distance.

After an uneventful meal, the companions returns to the upper deck, where they are approached by a deckhand.  The young half-elf addresses Teague.  “The captain requests your company for dinner tonight.”

After a quick glance around at his fellows, Teague accepts on their behalf.

Cullen produces his lyre and tunes it up.  The other passengers are milling about above as well.  The hobgoblin is nowhere to be seen; it seems the creature has gone below.  Two of the gnomes in one group are playing a card game that also involves dice and markers of some kind.  The adventurers, however, keep to themselves, enjoying the weather and listening to Cullen's bucolic music.

In the afternoon, there is a shift change, and the first mate takes the helm.  The deckhand who communicated the dinner invitation returns.

“Dinner is in about an hour if you need to prepare.”

The party decides that they do, and head below to groom themselves for dinner with the captain.  At one point, they hear what sounds like a very sick hobgoblin from within one of the staterooms.

Teague grabs a cabin boy who is hurrying past.  “Bucket of water to him once every two hours.”

“Already on it, sir.” The boy hustles off.

As the sun sets, the company is taken to the captain's cabin.  His quarters are small, but three times the size of their own.  It has a fairly small bunk and a desk with a chair on gliders.  The room probably doubles as a boardroom for the officers, though none are present—just Captain Aran and a cabin boy.

Aran d'Lyrandar speaks.  “I apologize for not greeting you personally, but, well, departure.  Greetings, lady.  Gentlemen.  Nephew.” He bows slightly to each of the adventurers in turn.

Dinner is served.  The meal is superior to that at lunch, but Cardea waits to partake, keeping an eye on the setting sun outside one of the portholes.  She does not eat until the sun has completely disappeared below the horizon.

Of the group, only Kamiel is seasick, but barely so at that.  He is queasy and picks at the food, but feels in no danger of vomiting.  The captain makes small talk with Teague, to which Cullen adds an occasional contribution.  Cardea and Kamiel are quiet.

Before long, the meal is finished and the plates cleared by the cabin boy, who then steps out of the room.

“If you have any questions about the work I have for you,” the captain says, “now would be a good time to ask.”

The whole party seems prepared for this moment.

Cardea is first.  “Where exactly are we going and what is the nature of our duties?”

“We should be approaching the derelict a little after dawn.  I'd like you all to survey it and give me a rough assessment of its salvagability.  The ship is called the _Wave Lord_.  A couple of business associates and I sponsored her on an exploratory trading mission south.”

The elf's eyebrow arches at the direction.  “How far?”

The captain doesn't quite answer that.  “South and east.”

Cardea realizes that's either Argonessen or Seren.  “_That's madness!_” she cries.

The captain is utterly nonplussed by her outburst, and proceeds calmly.  “The barbarians of Seren are willing to trade with House Lyrandar for spices and other...nonesuch.  We are not so foolish as to approach the dragons.  This was the third expedition we had sponsored to this location with the same ship and crew.  We were firming up a long-term trade agreement at the point when she disappeared.  She wasn't a wind galleon like this,” he explains, gesturing at the surroundings.  “This is a fast ship, and maneuverable as anything on the water, but not so good in a storm.  No, she was a standard galleon, but the captain did have the gift of the winds.  She departed the fifth of Rhaan.  We expected her back early in Therindor if all went well.  We assume there may have been heavier storms than expected, or even possible problems.  Getting blown off course, or sustaining sail damage that slowed her return.  Accidents happen.  When I was a lad, we lost a sail because some idiot—” he cuts himself off and glances at Teague.  “Well, never mind.  You've heard that story.”

Kamiel exhales through pursed lips.  His stomach is still upset.  “Go on,” he says.

The captain sits back in his chair and continues.  “We were getting quite concerned.  Then one of the other Lyrandar ships spotted her.”

“Why didn't you—they—recover her at that time, then?” Cullen asks.

“That ship wasn't equipped.  We planned to do so.  She was—is—made of soarwood.” He pauses for a moment, then resumes.  “We would like you determine whether she is salvagable, and if not, recover some items.  The captain's logs, the navigator's rutters.  The primary financier of the mission has prepared some special gifts to be given to the chief and shaman of the tribe we were dealing with.  These were placed in a special case in the cargo hold.  We'd like those recovered if they're still aboard.  Most of the cargo that is still aboard, we'd like—but not if it's been damaged by wind, rain, or seas.”

“Why are you asking _us_ to do this?”

“Because we're expendable,” Kamiel says bitterly.

Teague defuses the arcanist's cynicism.  “No, sailors are a superstitious lot.  It's a dead ship.”

The captain continues.  “The air jockeys aren't quite as squeamish about waterborne vessels.  The other ship who sighted her did not report seeing any crew aboard or signs of life.  Usually if there is sickness aboard, the crew will raise the plague sign, or mark the decks to indicate danger.  None of that was evident.”

“No fire?” Teague asks.

“No signs of fire.”

“Any list?”

“She did seem to have taken on a bit of water.  And the masts were not present.”

“I may wish to use some leather armor if you have some available,” Cardea says.

The captain sits up just a little bit straighter.  “Absolutely.  I'd be remiss if I didn't offer you what resources we have.  We have some leather in your size,” he reassures her, then shifts his gaze to Cullen.  “And yours.”

“I'll have a look,” the halfling replies.

“Anything you find aboard other than the logs, rutters, the goods in the chest—” he cuts himself off.  “That chest.  It's large, with an ‘A’ on it.  Don't try to open it.  It's...secured.  Trapped,” he says bluntly.  “Anything else you can carry, salvage for yourselves.  We will of course want the ship ourselves.  We'll take her in tow if she's seaworthy enough.”

“Do we need to set up a morgue?” Teague asks.

“If there's a need, yes, probably.  Make the call when you're there.”

Cardea advances the next question.  “What if there is significant damage to the hull?”

“In that case we'll sink her, as she'll be a hazard to the sea lanes.”

“We'll require our weapons, of course,” Teague says.

The captain indicates his acknowledgement.  “We'll come up to about five hundred feet, drop a longboat, and a couple of crew will take you over.  Then the longboat will pull back some.  You can store gear in the longboat and call for it as needed, or carry it with you, as you like.”

The adventurers are quiet.

“Any more questions?” the captain asks.

Cullen quickly surveys his companions.  Cardea looks steeled for trouble, Teague looks intrigued but wary, and Kamiel looks ill.  “No.”

The party thanks the captain for the meal and says good night.  As they retire to their cabins, they find that they can hear no more noise from the hobgoblin's quarters.  No retching.  No snoring, either.  Maybe someone gave him a sleeping potion, or did him in.

Kamiel unshutters the mage light as he and Teague enter their cabin.  The arcanist spots a small, empty, clean bucket underneath the padded bench that doubles as his bunk.  A thin, hinged beam runs the length of the bench, which serves as a lip or a low rail depending which position it is locked into.  He fixes it into the latter orientation so the ship's motion doesn't roll him onto the deck, and slides the bucket out to rest squarely underneath where his head would be if he hung his face over the rail while prone.  “Just in case,” he thinks as he collapses onto the bunk.  “And the damn thing better not slide away in the night.”


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