# DMRob's as yet unnamed storyhour



## DMRob (Jan 22, 2009)

Greetings, one and all!  I am a long time lurker, and a very seldom poster, but recent events have changed that.  My gaming groups last game, a Scales of War path ended with a TPK in the 4th adventure.  Not due to my Amazing rolls, or poor choices on the PCs part, but mostly due to amazingly bad dice rolls.  near as we can tell, the good guys rolled less then 5 rolls that were greater then 11.  Afterwards, we worked out that I would continue as a DM witha new 4th Ed game, of my own creation.  

Normally, this would have been par for the course, but my players amazed me with the creativity and work they put into it, and I felt the need to share.  ill go into my basic assumptions and conventions about the world we are playing in, its a work in progress, but diverges from the main 4th Ed world in some ways.

1. Points of light is out.  The world is mostly explored, there are kingdoms, city states, country barons and the like.  There are still large tracts of 
un-settled land, and all manner of things lurk at the fringes, or in the shadows,  but I wanted the feel that Tlokien, Feist, and Eddings evoked with their quaint little villages, shires, and hamlets, that in my mind would never survive in the standard setting.

2.  I am a big fan of the re-skinning method of expanding my monster, item and power library.  I allowed my players to do that also, but so far, only one has taken me up on it, with his dwarven matchlock pistol (hand crossbow).  I use it liberally for the monsters they face, and will explain my changes if needed.

3. hmm.........that seems to be it for changes, time for background on the group.  I have seven players, a bit large, but we have fun, and thats all that matters in the end.  The party is pretty well balenced.  In no particular order, we have the following.

Rune, Warforged Artificer
Krag, Dwarven Tempest Fighter
Mark, Human Ranger (archer style)
Yanni, Elven Rgoue
Kouvrim, Dwarven Barbarian
Varian, Elven Paladin of Sehanine
Polyphony, Tiefling Bard

All of them are 5th level.  Yes, thats three playtest classes, so far, its been no problem.  ill go over what I told them of the races and geography now.  I am keeping it intntionally rough and vague, because this is all basically 3 weeks old, and I havent been able to flesh it out fully yet.  I dont have named for many things yet, thats what Random name generators and on the fly naming is for 

The players started in the North of the main continent.  This continent is split by a large mountain range that runs east west from coast to coast.  this range is the traditional dwarven home, and they have settled many Holds both above and below it, with samller hamlets in the sheltered valleys where they can grow some crops and herd animals.  the Dwarven poeople share this with the Warforged, who they created long ago as servents and soldiers. When the warforged developed self-awareness, the dwarves decided thatto continue to try to keep them in bondage would be as horrible as what the primordials did to them in eons past, and set them free, and offered to share their Holds with them.

The elves lay claim to many of the oldest growth and wildest forests in the North, and none can contest this.  Elven settlements lay deep withen the endless tracts of these deep woods, guarded by both the elves and the forests other denizens.

The Eladrin Lay claim to little in the North, instead holding small redoubts on isolated hilltops and secluded dales.  In these lay the portals that lead to their settlements in the Feywild, fantastic cities whose citizens have no problems welcoming trade and visitors.

Tieflings and Dragonborn are much as they are in the basic rulebook, their empires fallen, though they lay far to the east beyond a great chain of lakaes and landlocked seas.   Their scattered settlements seldom grow larger then the standard city. The two races hold thier history dearly, but have mostly let the animosity of the past go, lest they fall further from their old glories then they have already due to further hostilities.

Humans and Halflings by far have settled the North the most. Hlaflings have almost fully integrated themselves into human society, and noone seems to have noticed. Country lanes lead to small agrarian communities, which in turn feed into larger towns, which again in turn feed into the larger cities.  Hundreds of small country Barons or other nobles lay claim to whatever land they can, ruling it as they see fit.  

The Largest nations are two human, Lachdan and Innesval, have been at war for three generations.  Both kingdoms share the same dominant church, a triadic religion between Erathis, Pelor, and Ioun.  When the Arch Hierophant died, the hierophants from both these kingdoms was selected for consideration for the role.  After several years of bickering, the chruch was so factionalized, a decision could not be reached, and the respective leaders turned to their monarchs for support.  Sabres were rattled,  and though nobody remembers exactly how it began, war followed.  Slowly but surely, Lachdan has been pushed back from the riverlands that mark the border between to two, through several hundred miles farmland and rolling hills to within thirty miles of the capitol city, Kingsfalls.  Kingsfalls is set atop a unusually high rocky promontory that looks out over the rolling hills, from which a large natural spring fed river cascades down, forming a moderate sized lake and river that flows southward.

Of the south, I have not mentioned or worked out much for the players.  I have spoken of the Dhosian plains, home to nomadic hrosemen, horseelves, and horsehalf-elf tribes, who gather at great tent city in the north of the plains to sell their trade goods and lesser horses at al ltimes during the year.

They were directed to make 5th level charatcer with anything out of the 3 core books, Martial Power, Adventurers Vault, or any DDI source, that was a full playtest class, or a race that had afull write up.  Ill follow this post with their background stories and stats if I can find them on my computer.  I will also be posting the story journal one of my players has been working on, and which inspired me to do this in the first place.

If you got this far, Thanks for sticking with it, and I hope you Enjoy!

Rob


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## DMRob (Jan 22, 2009)

And thus begins the background stories.  All the players knew to start with was that by hook or crook, they were going to start out in jail cells, stripped of gear and manacled up.

Mark Fletherson, Human Ranger

Black and Golden Arrows

            “Black arrow you have never failed me, and yet I have always been able to  . . .”  A hard slap on the back of his head caused to boy to drop the scroll he had been surreptitiously been reading at the hut’s only table. 

            “Stop reading that dribble” the boy’s father admonished.

            “Pa, it is not dribble.  I was reading the part about the famous archer who . . .”

            “Lives in a fantasy world where all Orcs are evil, all Halflings are brave and all Elves are noble. “  The man retrieved the scroll from where it had fallen beneath the boy’s bench.  “Dribble and a waste of good daylight.”  He said as he rerolled the scroll and placed it on the mantel piece.  “The real world is not nearly so black and white, there are many more shades of grey, and other colors.   Which you would know already if you had spent your morning reading your lesson about mountain fauna instead of pouring over some useless dribble.”

            “Yes, Pa” the boy responded quietly, his eyes focused on the floor.

            The man sighed and sat down opposite of his son.  “At least you are reading.  But if you want your archery lesson this afternoon you must first finish Father Spivey’s scroll and be able to recite to me the five most common fauna located in the Cloud Peaks, how and when they can be found, and any healing properties they might have.”

            The boy looked at his father’s great bow leaning near the door, and then at his own smaller training bow nearby.  He could almost feel the rasp of the bow string against his fingers and the vibration run through his hand and arm as the arrow sailed towards the hay filled target.   He then looked at the five gold painted arrows hanging on the wall.  Golden arrows that proclaimed that his father was an archery champion five times over.  “Can I also go with you to the tournament tomorrow?”

            The man almost said ‘of course’ but then stopped himself and adopted a sterner expression.  “That depends on whether you have done your chores and whether you have finished your essay about the hibernation patterns of the black bear” he said.

            The boy searched beneath his stack of parchment and proudly produced an ink splotched and smeared document.  “I just finished it this morning.”

            His father took one look at the words scrawled in no particular order over the parchment and groaned at the prospect  of trying to read that jumble of symbols.  “At least he is writing.” the man consoled himself.





Five Years Later

            “Name” asked the man without looking up, quill poised to write.

            “Mark Fletcherson” replied the applicant, his pubescent voice unsuccessfully concealing his anxiety.  The man dutifully started to scratch the name on to the list of competitors.  He stopped as he started to write the second name.

            “Fletcherson?”  The man looked up and the youth.  Paused while he glanced at his face and archery gear and then asked.  “Are you Thomas Fletcherson’s boy?”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Well, what a surprise.”  The man wiped his hands on his worn jerkin and stood up extending his hand to the youth.  “A pleasure to meet you, Mark.  The name is Alfred Tanner.  How is your father?”   Mark accepted the handshake.  Behind the youth, the line of tournament competitors grumbled and shuffled their feet at the delay.  Alfred glared at them .  “Fletcherson.  Better get familiar with that name folks.” he shouted to the line of competitors.  “This young man’s father, Thomas Fletcherson, won this tournament countless times, and odds are that his son here is going to walk home with the Golden Arrow today.”

            Flushed with embarrassment at the unwanted attention, Mark quickly replied “Last I heard, Pa is well, and is still posted along the northern border.”

            “Ah, that would be Stoneridge Castel.  An absolute hellhole in the middle of a wasteland.  Let’m have it I say, but then nobody listens to me. “   Alfred sat back down picked up his quill and finished writing Mark’s name on the competitor’s roll.   “That will be two coppers to enter, son.”  Mark complied.  “Best of luck to you.”  Alfred said as Mark gratefully took his leave to hopefully lose himself in the crowd, but the newly made Great Bow on his shoulder would make that a difficult task.

            That evening, Mark placed the Golden Arrow on the wall near his bed.   He had won easily, once he had mastered his own nervousness.  Part of his victory was due to countless hours of practice under his father’s watchful eye.  But mostly, his victory was because there was no real competition.  The war effort had pressed almost every able body man into service.  Men who were every bit as skilled as Mark or even as skilled as his father, were now shooting at targets much more dangerous than a grass stuffed bullseye.   

            Mark, sat down at the hut’s only table, and rummaged through the stacks of scrolls and parchment that covered the table, stopping only when he found his father’s last letter.  Received more than a season ago.   He quickly scan the parchment again, for any indication of his father’s whereabouts.  But the terse message gave no clues.  Still, Mark took some comfort in its familiar lines and tone: 





            Son,    

I am fine.  Miss you every day.  Keep up with your studies.  Will write again when I can. 

Love  Pa.

            Keep up with your studies meant continue reading the endless pile of scrolls and parchments on plant lore, animal lore, and the healing arts that Mark dutifully plowed through several hours a day.  His father did not have to admonish Mark to continue his archery practices.  The bow was his passion.  He only wished that he could somehow tell his father of this first tournament victory.   

            Outside the wind blew through the trees and an owl hooted.  Mark was moving for his bow and quiver before his conscious brain even could register why.  “Too early”, he thought as his mind finally caught up to his reactions.  “Too early for the grey breasted owl to be hooting.”  Mark slung his quiver and opened the trap door to the root cellar.   He slid down the ladder.  A small tunnel off of the cellar would let him appear about 25 paces to the south of the hut.  A second owl hoot sounded as Mark closed and secured the trap door.  He wished his father was here.



Two Years Later

            Mark moved quietly through trees as he kept pace with the head of the enemy patrol.   Just around the next turn they would hit the ambush.  Stoley had instructed Mark to take at least two prisoners.   One as an example, and one to pry for information. 

            Suddenly, the patrol stopped.  The leader pulled some kind of map from his belt, opened it and began to study his surroundings.  The enemy scout came back to the leader, looked over his shoulder, and made some comments that the leader apparently found unhelpful.  With a glare, the leader silenced the scout.  The leader summoned his second in command and his centurion.  After a quick conference, the centurion ordered the troops to take a break.  The leader, his second in command, and the now chastised scout conferred in hushed tones while referencing the map. 

            Mark sat down to wait.  He knew from two days of tracking this patrol, that the rest period would last at least 10 minutes.  He allowed his conscious mind to drift while, his sense kept track of his surroundings. 

            Only seventeen winters old, Mark was a seasoned veteran, a survivor of nearly two years of bloody campaigns and skirmishes.  Originally, the draft only applied to boys over sixteen, but the war was not going well, and so the conscription age was lowered to fifteen.  Rumor was that even some girls were being drafted, but that was hard to believe.

            Mark was conscripted not three weeks after the deserters turned bandits made their clumsy encirclement of his hut.  Mark did not kill any of them on that evening, he simply did not have the stomach for it.  A few well placed arrows quivering in a trunk a hair’s breath from gaunt faces frightened the desperate and starving men away.  His father had taught Mark how to shoot and how to hunt but not how to kill clumsy starving men in cold blood.

            Stole, his militia commander, had completed that part of Mark’s education.   As a result, Mark’s well placed arrows had killed many a man in these last 20 months.  A skill he used to take pride in, was now something that he used for king and country with no emotion.  Mark killed men, not to different from himself, but with the distinction of being born in another land, serving another lord.

            The centurian barking commands brought Mark back to the present.  He watched the patrol put itself into a semblance of a parade ground formation and continue toward the ambush and their death.  With practiced ease Mark noted the location of the patrol’s leader, second in command, and scout.  Perhaps, at the end of the day, Mark would present Stoley with three prisoners to question. 

            It would be a long shriek filled night.  Mark missed his father.




Rune, Warforged Artificer

The small village was in the foot hills of some mountain that he had never been told the name of, it wasn't Rune's job to know the lay of the land his job was to repair that which was in disrepair and all the knowledge that such a job requires.



When he first arrived in the village square there were a large number of people working on the local tavern and inn which had recently been the scene of lightning produced fire.  Many of the villagers had been hurt trying to put the fire out and there were few of the others that seemed to know what to do in order to fix the building.



As Rune approached the called out to the crowd, "pardon me but it seems that you could use some help repairing this establishment." As the villagers turned some of them took a step back from Rune as if they had seen a monster. Which Rune contemplated for a second… that was true in their eye a 6'2'' metal individual was a monster, but what did he expect it's not everyday that a warforged walks into town.



A man of the village or was it a woman, Rune could never seem to get it straight the whole gender thing confused him except for the dwarves that was easier because the males had big furry tails growing out of their faces and the females didn't, stepped forward and asked, "what could you get out of helping us?"



To which Rune replied, "it's my job to repair that which is in disrepair."



At that Rune walked forward and began to inscribe symbols on the ground around the building. If his calculations were correct it would take at least ten or twelve rituals in order to repair the damage to the building and once there were all set he began to flood the rituals with the formulaic magic that was built into him. Once the magic had done its job the people of the village seemed to have a much less frightened look to them although some still looked at him as if he had caused the fire in the first place.  What could he do but the job he was created for?  After a decade of life Rune finally found a place to settle down.



One year after he came to the village and he was still having problems telling people apart just that morning he mistook Mrs. Appleseed for one of the children that she teaches, and that was the problem when dealing with the little people. As Rune headed to his work shed and home he noticed riders coming into the center of town.



After speaking to one of the riders a villager pointed towards him and the group quick moved to where he was. The leader spoke with a commanding voice, "By order of my lord I'm to bring Rune to the estate of the Duke."

Rune replied, "My good sir, I'm unable to aid you in completing your orders for my job is not finished here."



The leader snarled back, "I'm a woman you walking pile of scrap." And with a sneer she added, "If you don't cooperate we'll be forced to eliminate your reason for staying."



It didn't take in-depth calculations to understand her meaning so Rune made up his mind.



"Alright, you may take me to your lord, but you'll have to use your own power to get me there." He said and with that he turned off his consciousness.



When Rune's optic faculties reestablished themselves he discovered that not only was he in a poorly maintained prison cell but his robes had been taken from him.  Just like the humans… or which ever of the flesh races to find it acceptable to remove his clothing, but if the same were to happen to them they would be appalled.



As he looked around he noticed that not only were the bars of this cell almost rusted through but the lock was nearly falling out of the door.  After a few minutes of calculations Rune walked over to the door, and calling upon one of the formulas he knew of quick repairs, restored it to a functioning whole once more.



As the cell became like new Rune heard a gruff voice call out, "Why did ja do that now it'll be even harder to escape from?"



Rune answered, "It's my job to repair that which is in disrepair."

And after a short pause he added, "By my calculations such an attempt on my part would fail despite success with a dilapidated cell." And with that he was silent.


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## DMRob (Jan 22, 2009)

*Backgrounds, Part 2*

Yanni, Elven Rogue

A small town is expanding, burning forest for rapid expansion.



A human architect surveys the recently burned area.  He draws sketches of large buildings as he walks the charred ground, representing a great prosperous civilization without a doubt in his mind. He pauses to admire his sketch. A smile stretches across his bearded face.  The town counsel would surely adore his work. Distracted by the chattering of squirrels, he looks up from his masterpiece to find a small gathering of them surrounding some leather scraps at the edge of the charred field. The squirrels scatter as the man approaches. A small face with blackened cheeks and long ears surfaces beneath the leather blanket. The man scoops the child into his arms.







Seven Summers Later:



A small Elven girl, awakens with thought. She surveys her neighbors and friends, neatly packed into pews. They sit, eyes closed in quiet contemplation and prayer in their lavishly built temple of Erathis, all of them human.  She never prays, but rather she watches the faces others make as they close their eyes and bow their heads. She quietly questions their thoughts and motives.



Her thoughts race, why is she here? She has heard the elders speak of the rumors of wild elves in the surrounding forests when they think she is out of earshot. She contemplates this, piecing together everything she knows. She comes to a conclusion. Uncertain of what to do about her awakening, she plays it cool, sitting through the worship as usual.



She walks towards her human family's home, provided for her in the exchange of tedious chores and mandatory worship. Three children approach from behind. They shout taunts at her, all of which she has heard before. She continues on her path unresponsive to the three. The shouting grows louder. She hears the air tearing behind her. She turns about in time to dodge a large rock jetting towards the back of her head. Without pause, the elven girl grabs at a rock by her feet, hurling it with all her hatred of these bullies. Her target collapses, a slow trickle of blood produces from his ear. A look of shock comes across all of their faces. She snaps out of her astonishment, and lunges at the second boy. Tackling him to the ground, she bashes him in the head with the rock. The third child runs as blood streams down the other's face. She doesn't stop bashing until the crunching of bone and cartilage grown frequent with each blow and the child lay motionless. Splattered with blood, she runs into the nearby forest.



She runs for days. Abandoning her human surname, she embarks on her new life free from restraint. Free from the chains of society.


Kovrim, Dwarven Barbarian


Kovrim groaned in the dark.  His head ached in a way not quite like the usual hangover.  Squinting in the dim light, he felt a brief dizziness as he realized he was on the floor, and a hard stone one at that.  It seemed mostly dry and maybe even swept in the last year, so not the worst place he'd ever awakened.



Reaching a rough hand to his aching brow, he heard the clink of chains.  He frowned at the manacles clasped around his wrists, then raised his head to also frown at the small barred window set in a stout door.  Sighing, he carefully set his head back on the cell floor.



"Great," he mused to himself.  "Prison again."  At least it was quiet.

 The drink that usually brought him a measure of peace had long since worn off, but he felt alone in the chamber.  Maybe the man-made environs somehow had thrown the nuisances off the scent?  He didn't know, but he wasn't going to look a gift-brief-respite in the, uh, mouth.



Peace wasn't usual for Kovrim, to be sure.  His parents, displaying the family's non-conformist streak, were inveterate wanderers, and they never seemed to stay in one place for long.  Except for that year-long encampment with a band of druids, which Kovrim could have done without.  He was just a youth at the time, yet his father had taught him some use of the typical dwarven weapons.  (Bohemian they may be, but the Zarduks didn't throw away the useful bits of their

heritage.)  Kovrim had a good time playing with the local children during their stay, and displayed a measure of his parents' adventurous nature in exploring the surrounding forests.



Maybe if he had been more cautious.  Kovrim wasn't sure just what druidic ritual he crept up on...  There was chanting and nose-stinging incense and maybe those creepy animal masks should have warned him off.  Displaying a lack of common sense that would have made his mother proud, he hid behind a tree to watch.  The ceremony progressed, and he felt things in the air he couldn't see, swarming around, drawn to the intonations in the shaded clearing.



Hairs rising on his neck, he realized that one of these things had noticed him.  Looming behind him, darker than the shadows that concealed it, something regarded him with bright yellow eyes.  As his eyes adjusted, it took on the form of a massive black cat, radiating strength and grace as it held Kovrim's gaze.  It was the most majestic sight he had ever seen in his life, and he ran screaming from the grove.



If the chanters noticed his subtle exit, they made no mention of it.

Kovrim thought he caught a few knowing glances over the following days in the encampment, but that was all.  Soon after, his parents decided to move on, and that was the last he saw of the druids.



But not all was left behind.  Odd sounds followed him, such as the barely audible padding of feet in his wake, or a faint growl in the distance...



...And they remained with him still.  Even after leaving his parents once he came of age and setting out to make his own name, the otherworldly presences lingered.  In quiet times, which he avoided, he was never without the sounds of skritching claws, hissing, rumbling thunder, or the beating of wings.  So he stayed in rowdy bars and overpacked inns, anywhere the press of humanity drowned out the sounds.  (The odd pint or four didn't hurt either.)  In fights, which Kovrim seemed to find himself in despite his best efforts to be left alone, he often found his actions lent strength and speed beyond his own.  He felt the things that crowded his head even more clearly during these moments, but was helped through many a losing battle by them, and developed a grudging acceptance of this as his lot in life.

But why were they so noisy?



In the darkened cell, Kovrim dozed, half-awake.  Voices echoed in the hallway beyond the door, interrupting his moment of reflection.

Unseen whiskers brushed his forehead, and a rough tongue licked his nose.  "Yeh," he muttered, "I missed you too."


Varian, Elven Paladin

The forest was all but quiet. A small babe lay in his mother's arm. She smiled down at the child, and looked to her husband, a glowing smile on his slender face. The elven couple overjoyed with the birth of their child. Only weeks before, the gnolls to the north were in full assault on this little elven village.

The whole village was in celebration of the new member to their extended family. A celebratory fire roared beneath the couple's treetop dwelling. A feast had been prepared, friends told stories and jokes of the couple's courtship around the fire. Wine from wild berries was shared among them, as they sang songs into the night.

The fire was almost dead, the villagers tired. Most of the villagers had retired to their treetop homes, as dawn was fast approaching, a long day would be ahead of them. A small collection of elves still sat in a circle around the dying flame. One of the few still awake turned his attention away from the village to a yipping sound. He hushed the others just as a swarm of hyena-like humanoids rushed upon those who were unlucky enough to still be awake.

                              *                                          *                                        *
5 years had passed since young Varian's home was wrecked. He and his mother traveled by the light of the moon through the forest every night in search of a safe place to live. They had stayed at a few villages in the time spent woundering, but none ever felt like home, so they would venture off after a while. Varian learned the ways of the forest, and was taught wilderness first-aid techniques. He was taught that the moon watched over them and that the forest was alive. He never asked about his father because when he did it made his mother cry.

While walking with his mother Varian came across a rabbit. Acustomed to and loving of nature's creature's Varian tried to play with the animal. Being timid creatures the rabbit paused for a moment and when the child got down on all fours, he hopped away. Varian, still on all fours hopped after the rabbit as quickly as he good. The rabbit would pause to see if the child was still in chase, and as Varian caught up, would hop away. His mother laughed at the sight and stayed in close trail of her child.

Eventually the rabbit hopped into a cave, hopeing to escape the child, but Varian persisted and hopped after the animal. His mother chased after Varian, having a bad feeling about the cave her child was woundering in to. She shrieked as she was lifted into the air by her feet. A large hand was around her ankles holding her upside down, the giant yelled in a strange language, seeming to be saying two things at once. The gaint swung her around, yelling, the woman with what she could see, being flung around, noticed the creatures two heads. The giant lifted her up to be eye level with both heads. Face to faces, the heads ask her a question she could not understand. Varian, seeing his mother grabbed picked up a rock and smashed it against the two-headed gaint's toes. The monster howled in pain as the boy ran off and chased after him to find an arrow thumping into his chest as he left the cave. He screeched and flung the woman to the cave wall and looked for where the arrow had come from. Three more found their way into his chest. He charged into the forest, in the direction of the arrows, but with three new arrows planted into his head, he fell to the ground with a loud roar.

Varian crawled over to his wounded mother. He shook her and begged her to wake, Three men aproached Varian and his mother, and stopped 10 paces from the child. The boy took notice, but kept his attention on his mother, shakeing her and sobbing. One of the men approached, with a wave of his hand and a quick prayer, Varian's mother gasped for air. She looked around wearily and held her son.
                            *                                         *                                           *

For fifteen years, Varian lived among his rescuers. He worked wtih a group in the village devouted to Sehenine, the goddess of the moon, who's light has guided him his entire life. He learned to use Sehenine's powers that had protected him, and channel them for use in protecting others. Though not the strongest fighter, Varian's skill with the blade seems not to match his strength, but his loving personality.


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## DMRob (Jan 22, 2009)

*Backgrounds, Part 3*

Polyphony, Tiefling Bard


A shaft of anemic moonlight illuminates the hallway between dank prison cells in the Duke’s dungeon and cloaking each cell in shadow and musty air.  Once again, she could see the spotlight, but she wasn’t in it; ever left of limelight, it was up to others to be the star soloists, and her, the gentle background music.  The accompaniment.  The angelic voice from the darkness, the only part of her the heavenly firmament would claim.



“Who else is there?” she asks, pressing her dusky cheeks against the cold iron bars.  “I can hear you breathing…”



“Who’s askin’?” a gruff basso returns, sweetened by mead and trained, almost taut from a history of battle cries.



She feels relief, at least, in not being alone.  “I would say I’m free to tell you, but free isn’t the apropos descriptor for our circumstances.”



“Thanks for stating the obvious.”  A tenor in a different cell, out of sight.  The words may well be coming from the moonlight, silvery and smooth as gossamer.  “I really needed to be reminded.  I take it you’re new here?”



“Aren’t we all?”  Another voice, contralto or countertenor, gender as indeterminate as the vocal range itself.



A few minutes of recent history later, and they find that they’re all in the same key:  the Duke’s men, with flat cudgels and sharp boots, had arrested them all and brought them down here to be locked away without any exposition.  She protested, claiming accidentals had been written into the score of their fate, but the Duke’s men were either deaf or philistines.  “Certainly unwarranted, as I saw no warrant made out at all,” she jests, trying to lighten the grave mood, knowing there wasn’t much else she could do from behind the bars.  It was enough to get some conversation out of some of them as to who they were, but when the question was turned upon her, the moonlight stayed in its place.  Her time to shine and not a single star winking at her.



“Once upon a time,” she begins, wondering if it was the last cliché she’d have a chance to use, “in a kingdom not so far away, there lived a noblewoman betrothed to a nobleman, which for him was merely a title of formality rather than a supporting adjective.  Born into wealth and privilege, he knew little of the rustic ways of men; to his servants went the task of laboring for the household, and to his wife, the task of laboring for the son he so desperately desired.  Nor was he a man fit for the hunt, a pleasure left to his gentlemen, but fit he was to have his fill of the meat they returned.  So invested was he in pleasing his king to earn greater station, greater power, and greater privilege that he was often out of the home, returning every few evening to sew the seed of his lineage.  As the story says, though the soil was fertile, the seed was dead before the planting, and no amount of precipitous tears from mother nature could bring about a sprout.  Fearing her own loss of nobility, she agonized, until sheer desperation and unkind words from her husband urged her to take action.  A holy man might have offered intercessory prayer for her plight, begging the gods to smile upon her and bless her with child; but she sought no saint, and commended herself into the arms of a sinner.”



“The Hornéd Man, as the cards are dealt.  Dancing naked in the moonlight, eyes black as hell, eater of bone and offal with utterances fell that darkened the sky when he came into court to grant men their desires and take women for sport.  You’ve heard of him in childhood stories, in the tales parents used to tell, the antagonist in those moral fables we remember so well.  He figures in here as the sinner she sent for, who answered her call with a smile and a dozen roses.  I wish to give my husband a child, said she, bent to one knee, but fallow is he!  Then, said he, with quiet glee, a child unto thee shall he soon see.  Now away with me, said he, but she, did ask, what fee?  To which he, eager to hie, assured her his service was free.  The pleasure was its own reward.  One season hence, she began to show.  Two seasons in, that mother’s golden glow.  Three seasons gone, and the laboring came, along with the baby.”



Pause.



“Along with the shame.  Nothing about horns and ruddy skin was noble.  Her gambit lost, her husband shamed, the noblewoman was cast out of the court a whore.  But this story isn’t about her.  It’s about her little shame, swaddled in bloody linens and taken in rough hand, on horseback, to the farthest reaches of the kingdom and beyond, to a church across the border.  There, the Ladies of Corellon were obliged, by oath or virtue or sheer curiosity, to adopt this little outcast and raise her as their own.  Which they did…gods bless them…giving her the right proper education.  Under their tutelage and care, she learned the lore of the land.  She found passion and inspiration and music.  She learned to dress modestly as a lady ought to, even if she was no lady of the court, but a lady of the convent, clothed in propriety, dining on bread, water and sacrament.  She also learned a lot about loneliness there in that little temple to Corellon; the paintings that adorned their halls introduced her to the majesty people are capable of, yet none of the imposing, inspiring figures ever uttered a word to her, their mouths filmed over with glossy lacquer.  Nor did they move to wave or offer any greeting when she passed by, or consolation when she was sad.  The Ladies of Corellon, nice as they were, tread lightly around their adopted outcast.  So many of them go bad, they said.  There’s an evil in their blood, she’d heard some whisper outside her door at night when she pressed her head against it, and wondered why her door needed a bar when none of the others had one.  After holy days when the faithful would come and worship, while she was kept behind that bar, she would listen to them sing, and when they were gone, and the bar was lifted, she would go to this auditorium just to hear herself talk.  Because, if she timed it just right, she could ask a question, utter an answer, and then listen to hear herself more beautiful and voluminous than ever, requesting divine guidance, and a second later, receiving providence from an even more inspiring source.  Divinity from the echoes.  That auditorium became her confessional.  It became her sanctuary.  Here she could be anyone she wanted to be and do anything she wanted to do.  She was many voices, all at once.  She was Polyphony.”



Dramatic timing.  No questions.  She pressed forward, wondering if those were footsteps she heard somewhere in the dungeon.  “She lived like this until today.  The nobleman in the story?  Clinging to the robes of his king, quickly bidding to be emperor.  The noblewoman?  Swallowed by the world.  The Hornéd Man?  Wicked as ever, always finding himself the figure of a new cautionary tale.  But the shame, the little outcast, had dodged her comeuppance for too many years by hiding amongst the faithful.  And so her sanctuary was raided by men with iron shackles, her named called to bear for crimes committed in breathing air, in eating food, in singing, in smiling, in being the product of villainy, which was itself the sum of villainy, and as she went from the Church, she heard the Ladies protesting, but not too hard, because they knew it, too – that it was just the right way of things.  Born under a bad sign, deserving whatever fate was thrown her way.”



The footsteps closer, somewhere in the distance.  A rattling, keys on a chain.  “You’ll forgive me, but I’m going to save my breath now.  There’s never telling how much of it any of us has left.”


Krag, Dwavren Fighter

Krag Gunderson, Killing Machine


Krag Gunderson had always been a bit odd.

His family was normal enough. His father was a sensible and well respected Dwarven craftsmen, one of the finest woodworkers of his people. The Gunderson family lived near to the surface of their mountain home for easier access to the valley filled with trees above. His mother was a fine cook and a good housekeeper. His oldest brother was a
carbon copy of his father, already becoming a fine woodworker in his own right who would surely bring more success to the Gunderson name. His youngest brother had been apprenticed to the clergy of Moradin, which made his parents beam with pride.

Then there was Krag himself. His job was to chop wood for his families business. Of course all three boys had at some point served in this duty, but somehow it seemed Krag had never managed to find anything else to excel at so the brunt of the woodcutting fell to him. While his older brother worked hard at his craft Krag would walk around the woods above, playing at soldier with his younger brother Durak. The two boys would beat each other senseless with sticks hollering battlecries that scared birds for miles. When Durak was granted his place within the Priesthood Krag had nothing to do. He began to imagine the trees he had to chop were Ogres and Minotaurs, hewing at them mightily and then getting a stern talking to for uneven and wasteful cuts from his father.

Once, out of either boredom or a misguided attempt to impress his father, Krag took the head off of two axes and used his father's tools to create a single double headed axe. He showed it to his father and claimed it would let him chop trees twice as fast; his father called it "an impracticle bit of nonsense" then went to inspect his tools. Krag found that it was indeed impracticle at first, but was far to stubborn to admit it. He just swung faster in an effort to back up his claim of chopping twice as fast, causing even more complaining about uneven cuts.

All in all, Krag's life was unbearably boring.

It remained so until a band of Goblins that had somehow managed to sneak into the Dwarven valley had a bout of fatal stupidity. There leader Griksnot saw a lone dwarf out chopping trees and decided it had been too long since the boys had any cruel sport. The fight looked pretty fair to Griksnot, the dwarf did have a strange axe but he had ten
buddies with spears. So with a high pitched war cry they rushed forward.

Krag was momentarily suprised but recovered before the greenskins closed in. He waded into the throng of goblins and hewed left and right like he was felling a whole grove of saplings. The spray of hot blood, the flying limbs, and the high pitched squeals of pain made Krag feel truly alive for the first time. He laughed maniacally as their spears pierced his flesh, the sensation drowned by a wave of adrenaline. By now the goblins had him surrounded, and the thought of his immenent death seemed to amuse him even further.

Just as it seemed sure Krag would be overwhelmed a figure suddenly appeared in the middle of the fray, his twin longswords weaving a beautiful dance of death among the greenskins. The goblins were taken back and quickly slaughtered by the flashing blades of the dwarf and his mysterious savior. Griksnot screamed out about the unfair
fight as a sword stroke severed his head.

When the last of them were put down the stranger introduced himself as Kelethin, an Eladrin ranger who had tracked the goblins down to put an end to their miserable existence. He bound up Krag's wounds and they sat to rest. Krag was enthralled by the ranger's tales of excitement and adventure, and within a few hours of their meeting asked if he could accompany Kelethin on his journeys. The eladrin was obviously quite amused by the dwarf's enthusiam and agreed.

So for the last time Krag made his way to the Gunderson household, with his new mentor in tow. He walked into the house, his beard still caked with goblin blood, and tossed Griksnot's head onto the table. "This is Kelethin, he helped me fight off a goblin attack. I'm leaving with him now to be an adventurer. Say hello to Durak for me next time you see him. Goodbye." His parents just stared at him blankly for a moment and then Krag turned and left with nothing but his doubleaxe and bloodsoaked clothing. It was only after the door shut that his father turned and said, "Running off with faeries. Hmmph. I guess I shouldn't be suprised." to which his mother replied, "I told you all that time outdoors would rot his brain!"

Krag travelled with Kelethin for a long time, learning some of the arts of the ranger and mastering the double headed axe he stubbournly insisted on weilding. He and the eladrin remain good friends to this day, though they parted ways 8 years ago when Krag took to mercenary work. The money was better, allowing him to enchant his axe and gather other unique items. Protecting the woodlands was a worthwhile pursuit to Krag, but he preffered the part where he hacked enemies to pieces.  After all, no one complains about uneven cuts in a goblin corpse.


----------



## DMRob (Jan 22, 2009)

*Session 1*

What follows is the written up accounts of the first two sections.  Session 3 is set for this friday.  we only get to play 4-5 hours a session, so some roleplay, and two combat encounters is par for the course.  Also, a disclaimer.  this was not intended as a true story hour, but more as an interesting recap for the players.  I was so impressed, I wanted to share.


Blountstonian  Chronicles



By Mark Fletcherson's Player

DMRob – Game Master



(Disclamer: Though the Character names remain the same any resemblance to the Characters or to what actually happened during the Gaming session is purely accidental)





Session 1



Chapter I

Desperate Times Breeds Desperate Measures



          Duke Jasin Grayhain sat on a wooden stool staring at the seven individuals he had ordered imprisoned.  He resisted the urge to scratch under the eye patch covering his left eye.  Even after all of these years, the empty orbital socket still irritated him when he was in extreme distress, an all too common emotion for him these last few years.  This evening, as he sat on the threshold of his latest undertaking, the Duke felt afraid.  Not for himself.  Nearly seven decades old, veteran of fifty military campaigns and survivor of fourteen assassination attempts, he had lived longer than he had any right to, certainly longer than most of his peers.   Instead, the old Duke was afraid that in this final and most important task, he would fail. 



            Regaining his resolve, the Duke began speaking to his prisoners, to the men and women whose actions would decide the future of his kingdom, of his family.  Instinctively, as he spoke, he sized up his audience and tailored his presentation as necessary to convince each of these very different folk to accept his proposal.  With his one remaining eye he read their body language and their faces, as easily as a scribe would read a scroll.  At times, Grayhain threatened his audience, at times he promised them fame, and of course, because two of his prisoners were dwarves, he offered them gold. 



            Cocooned inside of this blending of intimidation, inspiration, and incentive, was a very common request by a ruler of a defeated kingdom: save my offspring so that one day they can return to reclaim the throne.  The only twist to the Duke’s request, was that the offspring were not his own, but those of his nephew, King Harold the reigning monarch of Lachdan.





The children’s foolish father was too busy planning a final desperate attack against the invaders from the neighboring land of Innesfal to concern himself with his own children.  Truth be told, Harold had never been interested in his children.  The King lived only for continuing a disastrous war that he had inherited from his father’s, father’s, father.  As a result, the Duke had been more of a parent to the children, than the king had ever been.  So while the King was planning for his glorious end, the Duke was looking to secure a future for his great niece and nephew.



The seven individuals that he had managed to spirit away from the King’s press gangs, must be persuaded to guard these children during the course of a long dangerous journey.  A journey designed to place the children far beyond the reach of their hereditary enemies from Innesfal.



            Duke Jasin Grayhain did not stop dangling the proverbial carrots and brandishing the figurative sticks until he felt comfortable that he had convinced six of the seven to accept his offer.  The seventh prisoner, a warforged named Rune, stood as still and as unreadable as a metal statue.   The old Duke simply did not know how to read or how to influence this mass of iron and steel. 



            As disquieting as the Duke found the warforged’s implacable demeanor, he was even more disturbed by the mutterings of the dwarf barbarian, Kovrim Zarduk.  He had heard from his men that the barbarian had been especially difficult to captures.  The Duke was now concerned that the stout wooded cudgels his men had liberally applied when the dwarf had shrugged off the spike ale, had somehow addled the barbarian’s brain.  The dwarf seemed to be distracted by an argument he was having with himself, an argument that, at times, seemed ready to escalate to physical violence, with himself.[1]



FOOTNOTE-



Excerpt from the “Internal Dialogs of a Barbarian Hero” by K. Zarduk.   . . . Want to hear a joke?  What? of course its short.  . . . Why are you laughing I have not even told you the joke yet?  Anyway these two dwarves walk out of a tavern . . . . Get it? . . . two DWARVES WALK OUT of a tavern . . .Of course it is  funny.  No DWARF ever WALKS OUT of a tavern.  Staggers maybe but . . . Wait, that does not count, the miserable place ran out of ale.  Of course I left . . .What? No that does not count either.  I did not walk out, I was thrown out. . . .  Look, my joke was funny.  You’re just jealous because the female Tiefling clearly wants me. . . .   Take that back!!!  . . .  Shut up, you miserable flea ridden . . . ok there is nothing wrong with fleas.  Still you’ll treat me with  . . . They are not smarter than me!!!  That is it, this time you are dead!  . . . .



END OF FOOTNOTE





            “How far must we travel, great duke?” asked the golden eyed Tiefling bard, Polyphony.



            “Three-thousand leagues.” Grayhain responded.



            “Truly an epic quest.” commented the young Elvin paladin enthusiastically.



            “I have far too much important work to do here.” Droned the warforged.



            “What work can be more important than safeguarding your liege’s progeny?” the Duke demanded.



            “Not my liege” reminded the second dwarf, Krag Gunderson, while unconsciously flexing against the manacles binding his hands together. 



            “Nor mine” said the mechanical being.



            “Progeny” interjected the barbarian.



            The true danger posed by the warforged was now becoming clear to Grayhain.  The fragile consent the Duke had achieved with his speech was falling apart thanks to Rune’s obsession with mundane repairs.  The Duke contemplated how to deal with this setback while the Paladin, Varian, harangue Rune for being a soulless constructed. 



            Nothing good could come out of such early conflict thought the Duke as he held up his hand for silence.  “It has been my experience that nearly every place is in need of some repair, though some repairs are more intriguing that others.”



            The bard’s melodious voice added “And it has been my experience, Great Duke, that the Machine Spirit manifests itself differently in the different kingdoms.”



            “Different how?” asked Rune.



            “Oh I don’t know if I can accurately tell you.  I must admit that I do not really pay much attention to such details.”



            “Most organics do not.  They take the Machine Spirit for granted” stated the warforged, with the first sign of emotion It had demonstrated.



            “Of course” the Tiefling continued, “I am sure that an Artificer of your obvious skills, would find these difference and these details, to be endlessly fascinating. “



            “Not if I am forced to spend my time caring for little organics.”



            “Who with time and the proper education could come to regard the Machine Spirit, all of its details, and in all of its differences, with respect.”



            “No organic could properly teach this respect. “lamented the warforged.  



            “I agree.  It would take a warforged of exceptional quality and dedication to teach such an important understanding to small impressionable organics” said the Bard.



            Rune did not respond but in its silence it seemed to withdraw its objection to the journey.



            With a quick smile of thanks to Polyphony, the duke rounded on Gunderson. “Your clan and my people have had a long and beneficial history.  My city’s gold flowed into Dwarven underhalls as payment for the fine construction and craftsmanship provided by your people during the construction of this city. “



            “True” answered the bearded warrior as he, once again strained against the manacles binging his arms together.



            “What I propose would simply be a continuation of that profitable relationship between our kin. Besides” the Duke shrugged, “the alternative is that you would remain in these dwarven built dungeons, and continue to wear those dwarven forged manacles.”



            “By yourself” said the Elvin female, Yanni.  “I, for one, look forward to watching the Artificer teach ‘small organics’ the ways of the Machine Spirit.”



            “And I will not turn my back on such noble quest.  An entire kingdom needs our help.  We must respond.” said the Paladin.



            “Respond ” added Kovrim as he pounded his skull with his fist.



            “It will be extremely dangerous” said the human archer in a voice that sounded even more devoid of humanity than the warforged’s.  “Assignments from Nobles are never without considerable risk.”



            “Krag Gunderson is not afraid of any being or of any danger.  I have been slaying those who oppose me long before you were whelped.”



            “Then I pity you”, responded the young man as he withdrew inside of himself.



            Gunderson looked at the Duke “The best do not come cheaply, Duke Grayhain.”



            “You will find the compensation to be more than acceptable, master dwarf.



            “Kovrim wants out now! grayhair.” The Barbarian grabbed his cell bars with both hands and began to shake the bars.  “Kovrim go anywhere! with anyone!.  Kovrim keep little manlings alive and kill all enemies.” The entire wall of bars was now resonating from the barbarian’s efforts.  “Let Kovrim out now!”



            Before the duke could respond, one of the jailers swung his club at the barbarian’s hands.  With a glare, the dwarf retreated to the corner of his cell and resumed his mutterings.



            “Fletcherson” called out the duke to the last holdout, the human who looked to be barely older than the children he would be escorting.  “What say you?”



            The young man looked up.  “My family has always served king and country, Great Duke”.  Then looking around at his surroundings he continued “what choice have we ever had?”








Chapter II

Sewers, Souls, and Scampering



          “Bloody Nobles!” Mark Fletcherson silently raged as he kept pace with his small party of ‘volunteers’ and their guards in the abandoned sewers.  “It is not enough that they kidnap and imprison you.  They then force you to agree to a suicide mission to journey across the very face of the world.   But the royals don’t stop at these simple ignominies.  They then bind you with a magical ritual so that your eternal soul is in jeopardy if you fail.”



            Mark’s thoughts were briefly interrupted as the Dwarven warrior snarled “Guard, this is the third switchback that you have taken.  You are either lost or deliberately wasting our time.”



            “Wasting time” agreed the dwarf’s barbarian kin while fingering the edge of his two handed axe.



            The guard paled a bit at the dwarves’ gruff challenges.  “I assure you Sir Gunderson, I am not lost nor am I wasting time.  We back track in order to guarantee that we are not being followed.”



            “There is no one following us, human” hissed the leather clad female elf as she suddenly appeared from the shadows near the guard.  “While you have been walking in circles I have had ample opportunity to check our back trail.”



            A second guard approached to gathering and the argument escalated.  Mark noted that even the paladin, his features taunt and pale, seemed ready to shed blood over the delay.  “It is the magical binding.” Mark thought.  A sense of unease had settled over him and, from what he could observe, over his companions after the Arch Bishop completed the ritual.  To be separated from the very beings whose safety is the key to one’s soul, was extremely stressful.   Being forced to wander in the dark, with no understanding of the destination, and with nothing to do but fret over the fate of the unseen wards, was unbearable.



            Ahead, the argument escalated.   Violence was only moments away.  “All of this so that we can protect the bloodline that started a twice be damned war.  Why? So that when the brats grow up they can return and start up another pointless war, conscript children into their armies, and destroy field and village alike in pointless battles.  Like their ancestors, these children will  leave nothing to the future but ruins, overfilled cemeteries, plaques, and heroic statues of themselves and their cronies.” 



Mark, now alone and unsupervised slowly began to move away.  “No more.  I will not be responsible for enslaving future generations to the vagaries of royal’s vanity fueled destruction.”  Mark though.  Yet, as he turned to flee, Mark’s heart pounded as if he had already run leagues.  He felt flushed and sweat covered his entire body.  His legs would not move and the pounding of his skull drowned out even the quarrelling voices of the guards and the volunteers.  His vision narrowed.  Then, a light touch on his should turned him around and away from flight. 



“It is the spell” stated the melodic voice from somewhere in front of him.  “It will not allow you to betray your Pledge” the voice continued.  “Abandoned all thought of escape, of betrayal, and the spell will release its hold on your body.”



Mark took a step towards the cluster of men and women.  Their argument forgotten as they now watched him with a singular focus.  Somehow they had sensed his attempted treachery.  Mark noticed that with the first step his vision expanded back to normal.  Another step and the pounding in his head subsided.  Another step caused the racing of his heart to slow.  He looked and saw that the Tiefling was keeping in step with him, her golden eyes watching him with concern, rather than anger.



“The Archbishop, cast a powerful binding spell.” she said in her distinctively beautiful voice.



“He should” Mark responded as he walked past the rest of the now silent group, ignoring their hard stares. “I am sure that he has had plenty of practice.  Bloody nobles!”





*       *        *          *        *          *



When the small group finally emerged from the sewers and entered the cramped room where the Duke and the children waited, the volunteers were frantic with anxiety.  They immediately crowded around their charges, as a starving man rushes a buffet.  The Duke calmly extracted his kin from the circle of protectors.  In a regal tone, completely at odds with the dingy surroundings, the Duke announce “Sirs and Dames” and rested his strong right hand on the shoulder of a handsome red haired boy of perhaps twelve dressed in plain tunic, leggings, and cloak.  “I present to you Prince Jasin Greyhain, eldest son of King Harold and undisputed heir to the Throne, Scepter, and Crown.”  The boy, tight lipped, stepped forward, gave a practice bow, and then as he straightened, let his eyes quickly move over the volunteers, assessing them.



“And this” continued the old Duke “is Princess Emalin Greyhain, Eldest daughter of King Harold, and undisputed second in line to the Throne, Scepter, and Crown.”  The princess, pulled back the hood of her traveling cloak, releasing her tightly curled blond hair and stepped up next to her older, taller brother.  She remained still silently gather the attention of all of the room’s occupants.  Then, with a dignity that cannot be taught, curtsied low.  She straightened, replace her hood and stepped back to grasp her great uncle’s left hand.  He squeezed her hand lightly in response. 



With his free right hand the Duke gestured towards two packs resting against the nearby wall “I took the liberty of having some basic supplies prepared and packed should anyone require them.”  The barbarian and the warforged silently stepped forward and took the packs.  “Very well, we should begin.”  The Duke faced the guards.  “I will escort my family out of the sewers.  Return to the castle and await my return.”  The men saluted and obviously relieved to be free from the ritual crazed band, quickly left the room.



“Don’t get lost on your way back to your beds” shouted the barbarian to their backs.  The duke, though puzzled, chose to ignore the comment.  “No doubt” he thought “just another example of the barbarian’s many eccentricities.”



The small band left the room with the Duke leading the way, closely followed by the two dwarves.  The paladin, smiled, bowed to the royal heirs, and took a position immediately in front of them in the procession.  The tiefling calmly took up a position behind the children.  Mark and Rune crossed the now dry sewage drainage channel and kept even with children.   Yanni, alternately ranged ahead of and then behind the party.  The Elf moved silently, and under cover of the shadows cast by the two glow sticks the party carried to light their way.



For more than an hour the band moved at a quick pace, with only the occasional muttered comments by the dwarves as to the quality of the sewer’s construction breaking the silence.  Several times Rune stopped as if to examine or perhaps to repair some feature of the sewers, but each time, it seemed compelled to abandon its efforts.



The Duke came up short as the dim light cast by the glow sticks revealed that the tunnel ahead was completely filled and made impassible by debris.  “This is new” he said. 



“A trap” observed Varian, drawing his sword.



“Good” stated Gunderson as he moved in front of the Duke, his distinctive double axe held loosely in his right hand.



“Perhaps an ambush” the Duke nodded and he ushered the children with him to the back of the party.  “There should be a door just at the edge of the barricade.  Scout ahead.  We shall await you here.” 



As the party was arraigning themselves, Gunderson stepped forward and kicked down the door.  Nothing happened. The dwarf moved into the tunnel.  “Draw them out” called Mark as he nocked an arrow in his great bow.  The barbarian followed Gunderson into the corridor, pausing only to stick his tongue out at the human archer.  Another crash from inside of the corridor evidenced that Gunderson had found another closed door.  This time, however, there was a high pitched series of squeaks. 



“Wererats”, the Dwarf bellowed as he charged forward.



“Kill them all! Kill them all” the barbarian screamed as he followed.  The Elvin paladin shrugged to the archer and then moved forward into the corridor as well.  There was a brief clash of metal and then two distinct high pitched shrieks.  The sound of another door opening and this time Varian issued a challenged to an unseen foe.  Another death bestial cry followed.



“Mine, mine, mine,” bellowed Kovrim as he rushed back into the corridor and then disappeared past the paladin.  Another crash of metal striking metal followed by two audible wet thunks sounded from the direction the barbarian had taken.  



By this time Yanni, from her position beside the corridor’s entrance peered inside and declared.  “Rat free.”   She moved in followed by the rest of the party.  Kovrim, covered in blood inspected his equally blood encrusted executioner style great axe.  Beside him, Gunderson’s own double axe was no less bloody, but somehow his armor was free of any blood.  Kneeling nearby, the Paladin, equally pristine in appearance, finished up the death prayer for his fallen opponent.  The barbarian, satisfied with his weapon’s condition, shook himself like a dog emerging from a lake, and drops of blood covered everyone in the hallway.



“What?” Kovrim asked as his companions stared in disbelief at him.  “Don’t worry, it is not mine.”



Mark, glanced into the first room off of the tunnel and saw two almost human sized furry forms slumped unmoving against the far wall.  Their rusted and nicked swords resting on the floor.   Rune was beginning to repair the corridor door that Gunderson had shatter with his first kick as Mark continued forward to look into the second room off of the corridor where the Paladin had said the blessing. To Mark’s dismay the humanoid form laying in the threshold changed before his eyes, from a furry man-sized rat like creature, to a smooth skinned half naked man.  When he looked at the room’s second dead occupant, he saw that this being also appeared to be fully human. 



“the legends appear to be true.” Commented Polyphony as she examined the dead humans.  “Wererats are not a species onto themselves, only diseased humans.  Upon death they are freed of their curse and thus revert back to their original forms.”



“The legends are not entirely, accurate” complained Yanni.  “This lot does not appear to hoard shinny shinny things, such as gold and precious gems.”  The Paladin gave his kinswomen a disapproving stare and then moved further into the corridor stopping next to another door.  The two dwarves moved up next to the elf knight.



The elf rested his ear against the door and then whispered “I hear movement coming from inside.  Perhaps we should prepare . . .”



“to charge” interrupted Gunderson, as he kicked open the door.



“Organics, stop creating disrepair” called out Rune from his position beside the second shattered door.  Heedless of the Warforged’s admonishment, the three warriors poured into the new room.  Their battle cries were met with growls and deep hissing.



“Ho, big rats.  goody” Kovrim’s voice resounded over the cacophony of noise.  The remainder of party rushed into the room.  The battle inside was fierce but its outcome was never in doubt.  Within seconds two hound sized rats and their wererat handlers were dead.  The two remaining larger and better equipped wererat warriors were quickly surrounded and dispatch by a combination of axes, swords, and arrows.



Yanni, wiped her blade on the fur of one of the dead giant rats and efficiently searched the quasi rodents’ bodies.  Clucking in disappointment she sheathed her blade and rejoined her companions. 



The Duke and the children entered the room.  Despite their youth, neither child appeared to be bothered by the carnage.  Mark took their dispassionate detachment to death as further support for his hatred of all things Royal.  This angry thought directed at his charges, cause pain in his chest to flare up.  



Gundreson, his armor now splattered with both his own blood and that of his vanquished foes, gestured towards door on the side of the room.  “This should lead back to the main tunnel.”  His prediction proved correct and the band resumed its march down the ancient sewers.



Chapter III

_Committee of Concerned Citizens
_


After several more hours of travel, the party left the abandoned sewers and descended to the more recently constructed and still very much in use sewers.  Only the warforged was unfazed by the choking stench.  “I do not breathe, therefore, I do not smell.” It noted with obvious pride as it marched past its organic companions as they hastily tied cloths over their faces in a futile attempt to block out some the smell.



The majority of the new sewer tunnel’s floor consisted of a deep and swiftly flowing channel of brown liquid.  On either side of this channel were narrow walk ways.  The party divided themselves on to either side of the channel.  In this formation they advanced as rapidly as the children’s small tired legs would allow.  There was no attempt to rest.  Each eager to leave this foul tunnel, except of course for Rune, who regularly questioned the dwarves and the Duke regarding various designed feature that Rune detected in the sewer’s construction.  Its questions went, for the most part, unanswered as talking required more breathing.



A few miles more of travel brought the party to a wide section of the tunnel.  “There is a set of metal grates just ahead.  They lead out of here” gasped the Duke through his makeshift mask.



Before anyone could react to these instructions, a flicker of light appeared in the center of the tunnel seemingly to float above the channel.  A dark shape could barely be seen in dim light.



“Give us the children and you will be allowed to leave here alive.” The Figure stated.  The Duke moved forward cautiously.



“Why do you want the children?” he asked the dim form.



“That is none of your concern” the figure responded.

“Who told you that the children would be here?” the duke pressed. 



“Give us the children and you may leave with your lives.” The figure repeated.



“Who are you?” the duke demanded.



“A committee of concerned citizens” the figure mocked.



“Very well, citizen, you may not have the children. Glancing briefly over his shoulder, he said to Gunderson “Deal with this.”



“Finally,” the Dwarf answered while moving forward towards the figure.  “Manlings talk too much; it’s a wonder that you ever find time to kill anything.”



Suddenly, a flash of bright light blinded every member of the party.  When their vision returned the figure was gone.  In his place standing on a stone platform raised above the channel, and connected to each walkway by a 5 foot wide ramp stood four men and two large reptilian creatures.  Each man bore a sword.  Scattered behind the men, a score of glow rods fully lit the platform, the connecting ramps and the surrounding tunnel.  Behind the first rank of foes, was the original figure, bracketed by two larger cloaked humanoids. 



The two reptiles advanced to the forward edge of the platform, red boney crest raised and surrounding their fearsome faces. “Dragons” exclaimed the Barbarian as he tried to push past the warborn without falling into channel.



“Spitting Drakes” corrected Mark from near the back of the party.  As if that was their cue, both drakes suddenly rose up and opened their mouths.  One drake focused on Gunderson, and the other on Rune.  A cloth yard shaft from Mark’s greatbow suddenly appeared in the open maw of the drake facing Gundeson, the creature shook its head in pain and frustration, its attack temporarily foiled.  The other drake belched forth a stream of acid that fully covered Rune.  His metal skin smoked from the corrosive liquid.[2] 



FOOTNOTE

An excerpt from “A World in Need of Repair” by Rune,  Warforged Artificer, Repairman, and Servant of the Machine Spirit.   . . . In my travels I have often noted that organics, when given a choice, tend to prefer to protect each other and to ignore metal based life forms.  My first encounter with organic monsters called ‘Spitting Drakes’ was a typical example of this organic-centrist view.  My organic companion, the Archer Mark Fletcherson could have shot the drake attacking me, sparing me from its acid spray.  Instead, he chose to shoot the Drake endangering his fellow organic companion, Krag Gunderson.  This organic based biased, while hard to tolerate at times, is both inherent and widespread among organics of every species. 



END OF FOOTNOTE



A shadow detached itself from the wall and advance toward the back of the Barbarian dwarf.  Kovrim was too preoccupied trying to find a way around the now sizzling Rune to realize the danger, until a glass shard encrusted garrote dropped over his head. 



Meanwhile, Gunderson, produced a matchlock handgun from his belt and fired at the wounded drake.  The iron ball struck the beast in the skull.  With a cry it fell dead. 



On the other side of the channel, Rune, oblivious to its own melting skin or the choking sounds of the barbarian struggling behind it, stared at this previously unseen mechanical device in gunderson’s hand.  “I must examine that” Rune stated to no one in particular.



Just behind the distracted Warforge, Kovrim tucked his chin in to protect his vulnerable throat from the garrote and then stomped backwards on his attacker’s left ankle.  The blow caused the attack to stagger back.  Freed, the barbarian turned toward his attacker, raising his mighty axe.  Before he could strike though, Polyphony shrieked a string of profanity at the garrote wielding assailant. 



The words struck the being with an almost physical force causing him to real backwards.  Rune, no longer mesmerized by Gunderson’s fascinating new weapon, hurled a burst of sound energy at the strangler, striking him squarely in the back.  With a cry of surprise, the strangler was propelled by the thunderous energy directly towards the tiefling and off of the narrow stone ledge.  He splashed into the swiftly flowing brown liquid below.  The overpowering current carried the doomed strangler away from the battle.  [3]



FOOTNOTE

From the epic manuscript “The Future in My Humble Hands” by Polyphony. . . . As the assassin wrapped his deadly noose around my stocky companion’s neck, the villain caught sight of me.  In my most commanding voice I ordered him to cease his vile attack.  The assassin, apparently smitten, like so many before him, with my virtue ceased his shameful actions and, as if mesmerized by my form, moved towards me, too besotted to realized that in this direction of travel solid ground did not exist.  He fell headfirst into the polluted river.  As he was carried away in the current, no doubt to some horrid fate, he raised his head so that his eyes would be allowed to see me for as long as possible.  My worthy companion, whose life I had saved, blew me a kiss.  Ah, I lamented, another would be suitor, doomed to fail in his efforts to woo me.   Once again the twin curses of perfect form and flawless virtue rested heavily on my shoulders.

END OF FOOTNOTE



Meanwhile, through a combination of arrows and a well placed iron ball, the second drake collapsed.  The barbarian, finally managed to squeeze past the warforged and with a frenzied battle cry, charged the ramp leading to the platform and its four human occupants.  Before the barbarian could reach the ramp, the humans nimbly leapt on the walkway and surrounded him. 



The warforged summoned the energy from the Machine Spirit to reinforce the barbarian’s armor.  The thunderous sound resulting from this merging of the Machine Spirit’s energy with the barbarian’s armor actually caused one of the human attackers to stagger backwards.  The Artificer began another incantation, when a glass covered garrote, nearly identical to the one that had previously endangered the barbarian, dropped over Rune’s throat.  The garrote wielder began vigorously sawing on the warforged’s throat. 



Gunderson, who had been advancing to help his surrounded kinsman, changed direction and made a double attack at the cloaked figure sawing on the Warforged neck.  Unfortunately, the strangler shifted the warforged at the last moment so that Gunderson’s mighty blows actually struck Rune, rather than his assailant.  Almost immediately afterwards, Yanni lunged at the strangler as well.  Once again the strangler adroitly shifted Rune so that the elf’s sword struck the warforged.  “Organics, stop helping me!” Rune cried.  “You are causing much disrepair.”



Kovrim was equally frustrated by his situation.  The weedy humans refused to stand and fight.  Every time the dwarf would lunge at one, the human would give ground, and his cowardly companions would attack the barbarian’s exposed flanks.  Several of these flank attacks had result in some minor wounds to the dwarf.  More distressingly, there was some form of poison on the humans’ blades that made the dwarf sluggish and deadened his limbs.   In less than a minute, Kovrim, though still standing and barely injured, was immobile with the head of his powerful axe resting on the stone pathway.  



The warforged’s situation was now desperate. Its attacker continued to saw furiously on its neck with the garrote while Gunderson and Yanni watch helplessly. Rune was nearly deactivated from the extensive damage it had suffered from friend and foe alike.  Polyphony, from the on the other side of the channel once again unleashed a stream of vile profanity at the new strangler.  But though Bard’s efforts clearly had an impact, this strangler he was able to maintain his hold on the warforged.[4]



FOOTNOTE



From the epic manuscript “The Future in My Humble Hands” by Polyphony.   . . . The steadfast Rune was ensnared by a second assassin.  Only this villain was blind, incapable of perceiving and therefore being moved by my physical perfection.  Others would have to save the peerless Artificer.  Things were looking grim.



            END OF FOOTNOTE





Yanni feinted high with her rapier and when the strangler shifted Rune to intercept the fake attack, the elf dropped gracefully into a crouch and kicked the strangler’s left knee with her right foot.  Unbalanced, the strangler released his victim.   Yanni followed up with a powerful kick to the strangler’s chest.  The force of the blow propelled him off of the narrow walkway and into the channel’s swift brown current.  The second strangler’s futilely flailing form was carried off to share a septic grave with his predecessor.



In Kovrim’s poisoned brain something alien stirred and the nearly comatose dwarf suddenly opened his eyes “Yes, I missed you too” he said to no one in particular. The human who had cautiously advanced to dispatch the helpless dwarf, paused in surprise, and died for his hesitation.  The barbarian’s axe struck the human just below the left hip and continued unimpeded into his abdomen.  Mortally wounded, he slumped to the ground.   The first human’s death seemed to rouse the dwarven barbarian out of his lethargy and he hurled himself into the stunned ranks of the surviving humans delivery crippling wounds to each of them.



From further back in the tunnel, the original figure who had identified himself as a “concerned citizen” decided that it was past time for he and his companions to intervene.  But they found their most direct path into the fray blocked by an acid cloud conjured by the Artificer.  By the time reinforcement reached the platform, still coughing from their brush with the artificer’s acidic barrier, they found the three remaining humans slain and a resolute Elvin knight eagerly awaiting them at the center of the platform.  The “concerned citizen’s” two body guards shed their concealing cloaks to and charged the knight.  The elf found himself hard pressed by his attackers, two nearly seven foot tall dragonborn warriors.  Outnumbered and outmuscled, the skilled knight still gave as good as his got. 



From the shadows, Yanni appeared behind one of the dragonborn, but then cried out in pain and dropped to the floor.  Behind her, the “concerned citizen” who also had the skill of appearing from nowhere, withdrew his sword from her unmoving form.  With a might swing, Varian, forced his opponents to step back from him.  The knight immediately called out “Sehanine, heal and protect mine ally” A soft glow of pure white light emanated from the paladin’s form and engulfed Yanni’s prone form.  The vicious sword wound in her back began to close.



Snarling, the dragonborn attempted to reengage the paladin, but one stumbled when an arrow struck his leg and the other reeled back with a gash from Gunderson’s double axe and collapsed to the floor.  The Elvin paladin efficiently dispatched the remaining dragonborn warrior.



Now alone, the “concerned citizen” turned to flee only to collapse with an arrow in his back. 



Still suffering from the effects of his deceased attackers’ poisoned blades, Kovrim dropped to his knees.  “So” he called out to the Duke on the far side of the tunnel “when does this quest start to get difficult?”  Lying prone at the center of the platform, yanni groan and rolled onto her side.


----------



## DMRob (Jan 22, 2009)

Chapter IV
_We Come in Peace_

Friends of yours?" Yanni asked as she casually tossed the golden necklace
she had removed from the concerned citizen's corpse.   The old man caught
the flying jewelry and quickly examined pendent dangling from the chain,
which displayed a flying hawk embossed over the background of a full moon.

"Nighthawks" he said softly.  The Duke tossed the necklace into the brown
liquid flowing around and underneath the platform on which the party had
gathered after the fight.

"Hey!" called out the Elvin rogue, "that was not yours to discard."

"We must leave now" the Duke stated, ignoring her protest.

"What is the hurry" Mark asked as he was assisting the paladin to bind
Kovrim's wounds.

       "These men were Nighthawks"

"The assassin's guild?" asked Polyphony.

"Yes.  There will be other Talons, other teams of assassins searching for
us" the Duke stated with certainty.  "We cannot tarry here any longer."  He
gestured towards the set of iron double doors, into which the last assassin
had attempted to flee.  "Our path lies through those door."

The party, spurred on by the Duke's concern, assembled and with the dwarves
and the paladin in the lead, headed through the iron doors.  The chamber
beyond sloped down at a reasonably steep angle.  The party followed the
smooth stone path as it spiraled down around an unseen axis until several
hundred feet later, the path ended at another set of iron doors, barred shut
from the outside.   "Through there" the Duke indicated.

The sound inside the room was reminiscent of a great waterfall, though the
smell was not.  The liquid from the channels above apparently flowed into a
great opened topped copper pot.  Connected to the pot were two separate but
parallel enormous copper tubes.  Each tube was bigger in diameter than the
trunks of ten large trees lashed together.  The sewage temporarily collected
in the giant pot flowed out through the tubes and continued out of the
chamber to some location beyond.   Shouting, so as to be heard over the roar
of the odiferous artificial waterfall the Duke said "Follow the pipe through
the next few chambers."

The party turned and saw the Duke strapping his left hand and arm into an
oddly constructed metal gauntlet.  Polyphony immediately recognized the
contraption as a Turathian Gauntlet, a specialized offhanded weapon favored
by some of the more devious of tiefling warriors and scouts.  The device was
a blending between a gauntlet, bucker, and dagger and encased the Duke's
left arm from finger tip to elbow.  The lower portion of the weapon
resembled a steel gauntlet with razor sharp points at the finger tips.  As
it progressed above the wrist towards the elbow, it widened to form an
abbreviated shield that a skilled fighter could use to parry attacks.  A
thin single edged blade extended beyond the elbow the midway point of the
Duke's upper arm.  Clearly fascinated by yet another new contraption, Rune
approached the Duke so as to better inspect his gauntlet.

"Not now, Master Artificer", the Duke shouted to the warforged.  "I will
allow you to inspect this" he said slightly moving his armored left arm,
"later tonight when we camp.  Now go" he yelled to the party.  "I will check
our back trail and join you in one of the chambers beyond."  The Duke drew
his long sword with his right hand and slipped back out of the door.

Somewhat taken aback, the entire group stared at the door for a moment, as
if they expected the old Duke to reopen it, smile and say "Just kidding."
But of course the Duke had not demonstrated a sense of humor thus far.

The party turned and exited the septic waterfall room.  When they closed the
heavy iron door behind them, things became quieter, and a bit less
malodorous.  Overhead the two massive copper pipes continued.  The floor
also continued its gradual slant downwards.  Along one side of the room was
a series of valves and gauges.  The party continued past the machinery,
except for Rune, who stopped to study it.   The warforged's companions did
not slow down, and opened the iron door on the far side of room.

"Rune, we are leaving" called out Varian.

"But I have not completed my examination" Rune protested.

"Next time" responded Mark.

"There will be no 'next time'" the warforged stated with some amount of
heat.

"The next room looks just like this one" sang out Polyphony.  Rune hurried
forward to catch up to his companions.

And so the routine continued.  The party followed the two roof mounted large
cooper pipes from one room into the next.  Iron door room entrance led to
iron door room egress.  In each room Rune hustled forward to examine the
equipment against one of the side wall for as long as he could.

In the fifth room, the pattern changed.   The two large tubes were replaced
by a half score of smaller pipes that ran straight into the floor.  The
slightly angled stone floor was replaced by a relatively level floor covered
by an iron grate.  Underneath the grate was a 100' drop to a large stone
pit.  The machinery and equipment normally found on a side wall was replaced
by more than two dozen Otyughs.  The disgusting pentapods were eating the
sewage that the smaller copper pipes dumped into the pit.  By the looks of
it the creatures were able to use their three strange jointed arms to shovel
the wasted products into their top mounted mouths, almost as quickly as the
smaller copper pipes could pump in the sewage.

"A very efficient waste disposal process" commented Rune.

"Of course it is" stated Gunderson.  "Dwarves designed and constructed it."


Any further conversation regarding the 'efficient waste disposal process'
was interrupted by the iron door behind the party slamming open followed by
a panting Jasin Grayhain.  Without a word, the Duke closed the iron door,
took two steps back, drew a handgun that was virtually identical to
Gunderson's and shot the iron door's lock.  The beasts below the floor
roared in response to the handgun's explosive report.  The Duke, still
breathing heavily, physically pushed several of the closet party members
across the floor towards next iron door.  He then grabbed his great niece's
hand and ran across the iron grated floor and yanked open the door on the
far side.  As soon as the rest of the party was through the door, the Duke
slammed it shut behind them and instructed Kovrin to smash the lock.

"Discover something" Yanni asked the Duke as he reloaded his handgun while
striding quickly across the room to the next iron door.

"It appears that Master Zarduk may get his wish" replied the Duke.

At the sound of his name, the barbarian jogged over to join the still fast
walking Duke and Yanni.  "Which wish?" he demanded.

"Things are about to get difficult" the old man answered.

"Good.  How?" the dwarf asked.

"A Soulless is on our trail."  The children, who had been practically
sprinting to keep up with their great uncle, looked at each other with near
identical tight lipped expressions.

"What is a Soulless?" asked Yanni seeing the children's expressions but
still not understanding their reason for concern.

The Duke opened the next iron door, ushered everyone through, slammed it,
and then shot the lock before answering.  "A highly skilled assassin who
trades his soul to a demon in exchange for dark magical powers" he said.

"You seem to know quite a bit about assassins Duke Jasin" stated Gunderson.
The Duke did not reply.

Rune, who had been staring intently at the Duke's handgun asked "What is a
soul?"  There was an abrupt silence as the organic life forms in the room
looked at each other.

Varin then stepped forward. "A fascinating question" he began.

"Not now!" the Duke interrupted and resumed his hurried stride to the next
room.

"Another matter postponed until this evening" grumbled the warforged.

Gunderson, jogging next to his kinsman said "Just like an elf talking, when
they should be moving."

"Aye" Kuvrin agreed.  "It puts me in mind of the old joke about Elves and
Deer."

"You mean the one about the difference?" asked Gunderson.

"The same one" the barbarian agreed starting to chuckle.

Both dwarves looked at each other and said in unison "Fleas"   Their
baritone laughter resounded off of the walls.

"Why are 'fleas' funny?" Rune asked.

"Later" Gunderson gasped, finding the combination of laughing and jogging a
bit taxing.

"Aye" the barbarian agreed, wiping away tears of mirth "tonight".

FOOTNOTE
From the personal journal of Krag Gunderson . . .   The joke regarding
distinguishing an elf from a deer has long been a favorite.   It goes like
this  . . . . A young dwarf apprentice of the Stonecutter's Clan asked his
master one evening after supper.  "Master" said the lad "I am having trouble
with my studies."  "How so" responded his kind master.  "I have been
studying the creatures of the forest, and I must confess that I cannot tell
the difference between elves and deer.  Both are flighty plant eating
woodland creatures, with four spindly limbs and points on their heads.
Neither has the ability to work stone or metal or to brew decent ale" the
lad stated. "What is the difference between the two?"  The lad's wise master
stroked his beard for a moment and then replied "Fleas".  "Fleas?" repeated
the lad in some confusion.  "Aye, not even those vermin can stand to be
around elves for very long" the master assured him. My battle companion
Kovrin Zarduk when he heard me telling the joke to Rune, claimed,
incorrectly, that the lad was actually from Ironsmith clan.  He was wrong of
course, and when he refused to admit the error of his memory, I was forced
to place his name in my clan's Book of Grudges."
END OF FOOTNOTE



"It is a good thing that I do not need to sleep.  There are so many things
that I must learn tonight."  Rune stated.

"If we live that long" the Duke said give a hard one eyed stare at both
dwarves as he waited for them to come through the next iron door.  "Now if
you are not too winded from joke telling.  Would you be so kind as to smash
the lock, so that the demonically empowered, highly trained assassin on our
trail can be inconvenience in his efforts to slay us all" he asked
sarcastically.  The barbarian complied.

For the first time since heading underground the party found themselves in a
natural cavern.  Puddles of water were interspersed along the cavern floor.
As the band continued, the puddles gave way to an ever deepening covering of
water.  After a few hundred paces the water level was up to the dwarves' mid
chest.  "I have not had this portion of the tunnel scouted in some years"
the Duke said, as he hefted Emailna onto his back. "I do not know exactly
what or who we will find."  The younger Jasin clambered upon a willing
Rune's shoulders.

"Then we shall take the lead, my lord" stated Varian wading, along with the
muttering dwarves, to the front.  The other members of the party followed
along in a ragged column.   For several minutes the band sloshed along the
tunnel until it opened into a large cavern.  Inside of the cavern were
several large mounts of dirt rising out of the water.  On each of the mounds
was at least one hut sized mushroom.  Interestingly, portals cut into some
of the mushrooms suggested that the mushrooms were in fact being used as a
residence by something.

The band slowly spread out from the cavern entrance.  The Duke and the two
children remained just inside of the tunnel mouth.   At the other end of the
column, Varian's longer legs allowed him wade in front of the huffing
dwarves.

From the hut at the back of the cavern a man-sized white scaled bipedal
lizard came out of a mushroom hut.  The paladin sheathed his sword and
raised both arms, empty palms outward facing the albino lizard man.  "We
mean you no harm" the elfin knight shouted.  We just wish to cross your
territory in peace."

On the far side of the cavern, the lizard man cocked his head and then
shouted "Hzrththed!" and stabbed his clawed hand towards the party.
Instantly a cloud of green mist engulfed the majority of the party.

Those caught inside the poisonous cloud, except for the warforged, hacked
and tried to stagger into fresh air.  Rune, seemingly unaffected by the
toxic vapors, summoned the Machine Spirit and channeled a ray of frost that
struck the lizard man square in the chest.

Seconds later, Mark, still coughing from the poisonous mist, drew and loosed
two shafts at the distant lizard man.  Poor visibility resulting from the
engulfing cloud caused the human to miss with his first arrow entirely.  His
second arrow struck the white scaled lizard man in the upper thigh.  Reeling
from the magical and mundane attacks, the lizard man staggered back to the
temporary safety of his hut.

However, inhuman battle cries from either side of the party and from its
front confirmed that the fight was only just beginning.  From the left, two
pale lizard men wielding spears charged at the floundering and sputtering
dwarves.  To the front, a pair of smaller lizard men armed with what
appeared to be small wooden sticks disappeared beneath the surface of the
water.   The greatest threat came from the party's right as two gigantic
albino crocodile-looking bipeds advanced baring their enormous teeth and
swinging stalagmite clubs.

Varian moved to intercept the giant lizard men.  Yanni tried to support her
kinsmen when the two small lizard men surfaced almost immediately in front
of her, and placing the sticks to their mouths, blew two poisoned darts into
the rogue.  She collapsed and the blow gunners re-submerged.

Polyphony drew a wand and fired a beam of magical energy at one of the giant
lizard men.  The energy struck the giants in the left hip and caused him to
stumble temporarily defenseless in front of the paladin.  Unfortunately, the
creature's thick scales deflected the elfin knight's blade.

From his position ten paces behind the paladin, Mark was lining up a shot at
the unbalanced lizard man, when splashing from his right caused him to turn
just in time to catch a blow from the second giant lizard man's stone club.
The archer flew backwards and landed into the mouth of the tunnel.

On the other side of the battle, Kovrin waded towards the nearest spear
armed lizard man.  The cold blooded killer futilely stabbed at the frothing,
splashing, barbarian.  In return, the dwarf's great axe struck the scaly
humanoid between the creature's right shoulder and neck and continued
through to center of its chest.  Scarlet blood pored over the dying lizard
man's white scales and spread, cloudlike in the water.

Nearby, Gunderson and his spear armed opponent exchanged a few attacks and
parries with no appreciable effect, then the wily dwarf ducked under a spear
thrust and spun around his opponent to deliver a mortal blow to the base of
its spine.

The paladin was not having the same degree of success as his dwarf
companions.  Though the knight had managed to dodge the flanking attack from
the second giant lizard man, and to deliver a minor cut in return, the first
giant had regained its balance and was advancing on paladin.  The elf was
outnumbered and soon to be overpowered.  From behind him an arrow buried
itself in the first giant lizard man's shoulder.  Then a burst of energy
from the bard's wand struck him, followed by a shuriken thrown by a groggy
Yanni and the warforged's hurled dagger.

The giant roared with rage and looked momentarily at the distant foes that
had wounded him.  Seeing his opportunity, the paladin lunged forward and
delivered a telling blow with his long sword.  The giant lizard man's roar
of rage over his lesser wounds instantly stopped as the beast toppled over
to float unmoving on the water's surface.

The second giant lizard man swung his massive club at the elf, but once
again the skilled knight avoided the ponderous attack.  The two blow gunner
surfaced near the warforged and fired their poisoned darts at its metal
torso.  Both missiles clanged off of the artificer harmlessly, but before
the warforged could counter attack, the smaller lizard men ducked back under
the water.

The surviving giant lizard man tried to continue his attack on the paladin,
but was simultaneously pierced by arrow and shuriken, and then cleaved by
two dwarf wielded axes.  The albino giant dropped to one knee where he was
struck by another of Rune's daggers and then by a magical beam from the
bard's wand.  The lizard man slumped to the side.

The blow gun wielding lizard men surfaced near the paladin, saw the fate of
their larger tribe mates, and hastily ducked back underwater without puffing
any more darts.  Near the rear of the party, Yanni, her skin an unhealthy
shade of blue sat down abruptly.  Within seconds Varian and Polyphony were
administering to her.  The rest of the party quickly fanned out looking for
any other threats.  They found that all of the cavern's inhabitants had fled
or were in hiding.

By the time that the scouts had regrouped around Yanni she looked
considerably better and claimed to be able to travel.  The concerned paladin
was about to protest when the party heard the distinctive sound of metal
scrapping on stone from behind them.  "Move" the Duke ordered.  Rune lifted
the eldest child and the Duke once again lifted Emailna to his back.  The
band waded to the far side of the cavern.

As the two dwarves passed one of the floating lizard man corpses, Gunderson
said "Another prime example of elfin diplomacy."

"Have you heard the one about the difference between an elf and a rabbit?"
Kovrin asked.

"Let me guess" interrupted Yanni whose poisoned wounds had reduced her speed
to a dwarf pace, "fleas."

The barbarian turned and said with a patience normally reserved for the slow
of wit "No girl.  Rabbits are smaller."  Gunderson chuckled.


Appendix

From the scholarly scroll, Racial Jokes and Their Origins, by Polyphony

Many races have variations of the difference between an elf and a deer joke.
"Elves taste better", according to the Orcish joke.  "Deer are prettier"
goes the Tiefling variant.  "There is no difference" according to the dragon
born punch line.

Not surprisingly the elves are not the only butt of racial jokes.  A
comparison between dwarves and boulders is also fairly common.  The original
version, traced to elfin origins, claimed that the only difference between a
dwarf and a bounder was that "dwarves have limbs."  This punch line changed
when it was learned the dwarves actually considered it to be a compliment.
Soon alternate punch lines were substituted to include statements that
boulders are faster, smarter, or have more of a personality.

The most disastrous telling of the boulder dwarf comparison joke occurred,
some fifty years before this author's birth.  Sources claim that a Halfling
Bard named Harry Underfoot (obviously a stage name) while entertaining the
audience at a popular tavern asked "What is the difference between a wall of
stones and a dwarf battle line?"  When his chuckling audience shouted back
"What?" the hapless Halfling stated "a stone wall will not run".
Unbeknownst, to Squire Underfoot, a party of dwarves was seated in a
curtained room near the stage.  They were not impressed with the joke's
punch line.  The Halfling did not survive the dwarves' displeasure.

When the band of bard killers was brought the next day before the city's
magistrate, the Right Honorable Magnus Ironbeard,  ruled that the Halfling's
death was a suicide and dismissed all charges against his kinsmen.   The
tavern's proprietor then tried to recover restitution for the interior
damage caused when the dwarves aided the troubled troubadour to commit
suicide.  A red face Magistrate Ironbeard fined the tavern owner one hundred
gold for inciting a public suicide, a charge that had never before or since
been leveled against any citizen.

Further research into the genesis of Squire Underfoot's disastrous joke
suggests that in its original form this joke was actually quite
complementary to the dwarves.  The first recorded telling of this joke
occurred after a successful battle against a goblin horde.  The leader of
the human contingent led a toast to his dwarf allies by stating "Gentlemen,
what is the difference between a stone wall and a dwarf battle line?   A
stone wall cannot charge and a dwarf battle line will not break."

Comic scholars debate to this day, whether the tragic fate of the half sized
minstrel was simply a case of a joke being interrupted mid punch line, or
whether the bard was guilty of misreading his audience.

FOOTNOTE
As an interesting side note, at the beginning of the inquisition into
Underfoot's death the prosecutor respectfully suggested that because of the
offensive nature of the Halfling's joke to dwarves, Magistrate Ironbeard
should pass the matter on to a different magistrate.  The Right Honorable
Magnus Ironbeard denied the request and sentenced the prosecutor to thirty
day in the dungeon.  The Magistrate stated that Underfoot's joke was
offensive to any right thinking person, therefore he was as capable of
overseeing the hearing as any of his peers.
END OF FOOTNOTE




Chapter V
_The last Dance_

       Soon after the party left the cavern the walls around them ceased to
be natural and resumed the appearance of worked stone.  The near human waist
high water level remained constant though.  The trailing scraping of metal
on stone also persisted.  Approximately a mile after leaving the cavern, the
band's path was blocked by a heavy iron gate with no apparent locking
mechanism.  Visible through the gate was another cavern with mounds of dirt
and giant empty leather egg shells.  "I like this not" stated Gunderson.
Another scraping of metal sounded from behind the party.  Rune helped the
young Jasin from his back.

       "No time or choice" the Duke said setting down his great niece and
then moving to the front.  Once he reached the gate, the old man ran his
hand along the left side of wall where it connected to iron barrier.  "These
gates were meant to keep unwanted visitor out of the sewers" he explained.
"There should be a catch here."  A few seconds later, there was a metallic
click, and the gate raised "Hurry" the Duke called the party, "this gate is
timed and will not stay open for very long."  The dwarves and Varian entered
the cavern first, followed by the remainder of the party.  The Duke and the
children were last and as they attempted to cross the threshold, Emailna
seemingly lost her footing and fell face first in the water.  As the Duke
and her brother helped Emalina to stand, the iron gate came slamming down.
The party turned at the sound of the gate's decent and saw a solitary figure
dressed in black leathers bearing two short swords emerge from the darkness
behind the Duke.  The ancient warrior sensed the new presence and turned
just in time to deflect his attacker's first thrust.  The second blade
grazed the Duke left shoulder.

Rather than press his attack while he had the advantage, the dark clad
figure stepped back and pulled down the hood of his dark cloak.   The face
revealed could have been human except for its incredibly pale complexion and
glowing red eyes.  A disturbing leer was affixed to the newcomer's face.
"Soulless" hissed the Duke as he drew his long sword with his right hand.
The children pressed themselves against the gate.  The silent being bowed
slightly and then turned the abbreviated bow into a lunging attack.  The
wary Duke parried both of the demonic assassin's blades this time and
counterattacked with sword and gauntlet.

       Never ones to spectate, rather than participate in a fight, the
dwarves struggled to lift the gate.  As the rest of the party watched the
grim battle beyond, each realized that their quest, their very souls hung in
the balance.

       The paladin, who was the furthest into the cavern when the gate
descended, was suddenly pulled underwater.  Hundreds of small jaws with
razor sharp teeth ripped and tore into his exposed face and seemed to find
every opening in his armor.   The elfin knight propelled himself to the
surface and in a choking voice cried "Ware behind."  All but the stubborn
Gunderson turned in response to Varian's warning.  Gunderson continued in
his efforts to lift the gate.

       The water near the paladin churned with hundreds of small scaly
creatures that seemed to be more teeth than body.  As his fellows watched in
dismay, Varian was pulled under again only to reemerge seconds later, even
bloodier than before.  Almost as one the party fled from the gate in favor
of the scattered mounds of earth that lay just beyond the paladin.  The
sounds of the Duke's duel with death incarnate continued on the other side
of the gate.

The knight, surrounded by the swarming schools of tiny predators, could not
move to the relative safety of the earthen mounds and resorted instead to
slashing desperately into the water, with little consequence.  Before the
party could try to rescue the beleaguered elf, a sound from deeper in the
cavern drew their attention.

Gliding effortlessly towards them was a beast of legend, a black scaled
dragon with a head a long as a man's body, and large cold golden eyes.
Feeling more than a little overwhelmed the desperate band prepared to
attack.  Seeming to grin at the adventurer's impudence, the dragon opened
its jaws and roared.  The sound was deafening.

Mark was so unnerved by the sound of his impeding death that he loosed his
missile prematurely and the arrow disappeared harmlessly into the water.
The archer's comrades were equally awed by the dragon.

While the roar was still echoing off of the stone walls, the dragon inhaled
again and then spewed black acid over all of the party except for the
besieged paladin.  The pain of the acid spray seemed to rouse the band from
their terrified stupor.

       "You call that a scream?" yelled Gunderson as he charged past Yanni
and towards the great black beast.  The dragon's thick spiked tail flashed
forward and struck the attacking dwarf warrior square in the chest.
"Aaaaahhhhhhrrrrr!" the dwarf screamed as he flew backwards past Yanni and
splashed into the water.

       Mark regained enough composure to draw another arrow and loosed at
the fearsome creature's massive head.  The razor tipped arrow struck the
dragon in its right eye, partially blinding the monster.

       Yanni sprang forward on the Dragon's blind side and drover her
slender rapier into the gap near the dragon's neck.  Dark blood sprayed from
the wound.

       Meanwhile, Rune totally ignored the dragon and focused on trying to
aid Varian.  First, the warforged temporarily enhanced the paladin's armor.
Then it summoned the energies of the Machine Spirit to send blast after
blast into the swarms of, what Rune now recognized as baby black dragons.

       With the reduction of the number of his attackers, the paladin was
able to advance forward towards the black dragon.  "A worthy foe", the
paladin thought.  Then the dragon breathed on him, causing him to cry out in
pain.

       Some of the infant dragons directed their attention on warforged,
while others pursued the knight.  Their numbers greatly reduced and now
divided between two potential preys, the baby dragons ceased to be anything
but a nuisance to the adventures.

       The paladin pushed aside the pain resulting from the acid burning
his skin.  He also ignored the teams of tiny beings swarming and biting his
legs.  Raising his symbol of his faith, Varian called forth the power of his
deity.  Pure white energy exploded from the paladin and briefly engulfed the
dragon, causing it to scream with pain.

       Kuvrin charged the wounded beast and buried his executioner's axe
high in dragon's flank.  Gunderson, wet from beard to boot, ran back into
combat and delivered two fierce blows to the weakening brute.  A ray of
energy from the Bard's wand almost completed the terror's demise.

In desperation, the crippled monster conjured darkness so complete that not
even the light radiating from Varian could penetrate it.  When the
impenetrable shade finally dissipated, the dragon was gone, as were her
children.

The last sounds of combat faded from the heavy, fetid air.  Several of the
group bled freely from their wounds.  Even those who were unwounded still
suffered from aching limbs and lungs burning from the acrid smell of their
foe's blood.  Yet there was no time to recover, for the Duke was the only
one defending the children from the Souless.  The heavy gate was still down,
barring the rescuers from the Duke.  Rushing, as best they could through the
waist deep water, the strongest amongst the band struggled once again to
lift it.  All the while, through the cross-hatched slats of the grate, the
entire band witnessed a duel, the likes of which, none of had ever seen
before.

Jasin Grayhain and the assassin moved like vipers, attacking each other at a
speed that was almost impossible for the eye to follow.  The rapid exchange
of strike, parry, and riposte between the two duelers was faster than any
sword play that the observers had ever before witnessed.  The assassin's
maniacal grin and the ease in which he wielded his twin swords was in stark
contrast with the Duke's own heavy breathing and frantic use of his
longsword and Turathian gauntlet.  It was obvious to even the most
optimistic that the Duke's advanced age, and the grueling pace of the fight
with the assassin was having a telling effect on the older man.

Then, the inevitable happened. The Duke missed a step in their intricate
dance.  His heel skidded out from under him and for the briefest of moments
his blade wavered opening his defense.   Fast as lightning, the assassin
struck plunging his left hand blade, quillion deep, into the Duke's chest.

Youth and dark magic laid the elder warrior low, but not low enough.
Stiffening his fingers and thus locking the gauntlet, the dying man drove
their sharpened tips deep into his prematurely overconfident and unguarded
opponent's stomach.  The killer watched in helpless horror as the Grand Duke
Jasin Grayhain, Vice Marshall of the King's Army, and Knight Protector of
the Realm, abandoned all pretext of chivalry and, imitating a starving
wolverine, ripped out a large hand full of the assassin's viscera.

Both warriors collapsed together into a bloody pile.  The older man released
his last breath in a soft moan.   His killer remained as silent in dying as
he had been during the entire fight.

The children rushed to the pair.  Young Jasin unsheathed his blade and
repeatedly stabbed his great uncle's slayer, ensuring that the assassin was
truly dead.  Meanwhile, Emailna oblivious to the copious amounts of blood
and gore used both hands to tug on the cruel blade jutting from her uncle's
chest.  Tears streaming down her face, she looked to her brother.  "I can't
get the sword out of him" she cried  "Help me, we have to save him!"

At this point, the desperate band's combined efforts finally managed to
break the gate's locking mechanism, allowing them to lift up the heavy
obstacle and rush inside, knowing even as they did, that they were too late.


Chapter IV
Cyclops

       Jasin looked down at his great uncle's still form.  "He is dead" the
boy said in a voice devoid of all emotion.

       "We could try a healing ritual" Varian began.

       "He's dead!" Jason shouted.  "Nothing can change that.  Leave him to
his rest."

       "It was a good death" Kovrin stated.

       "One worthy of its own ballad." Polyphony added.  But Jasin was not
listening to the platitudes or to his own sister's sobbing. He methodically
gathered his great uncle's long sword, the battle blade the Duke had carried
for more than three decades.  He retrieved the dwarf handgun, a gift from
the contingent that built the sewers.  Finally, he unfastened the Turathian
gauntlet, whose story Jasin's namesake had never shared.  The combined
burden of these three weapons was almost too much for the youth to bear, but
bear them he would, in honor of his great uncle, the only father figure he
had ever known.
Respectfully, the Varian and Polyphony removed the Duke's pack, sword
sheath, and iron shot from the old man's corpse.   They then helped the
child to adjust to the increased physical burden. The emotional burden
prompted by the Duke's death would not be so easy to address.

       Emailna continued to cradle her dead uncle's head in her own arms,
her body shaking with the very emotions that her brother refused to show.
No one attempted to move her.

Finally, drained and shivering from the cold water, she gently released him
and carefully removed the leather eye patch.  "Bye bye Cyclops" she
whispered and slowly waded to stand next to Jasin.  He took her hand.  They
both took one last look at the beloved figure floating in the dark water.

 Varian knelt next to the Duke and began a brief ceremony for the fallen
noble.  All gathered around to participate in the ceremony, save for Mark
Fletcherson.  The archer moved back into the dragon's lair.  The paladin's
keen ears overheard the human mutter "Good riddance" as he left.

A few minutes later the party reassembled and prepared to leave.  In a voice
dripping with contempt, Mark asked "Did any of you mourners happen to notice
that the body of the Souless is nowhere to be found?"


----------

