# The Liberation of Tenh (updated April 24)



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*To New Readers*

The Liberation of Tenh is the campaign continuation of our homebrew Return to the Temple of Elemental Evil campaign, which was the first "serial" story hour on the EN Boards.  It's one ongoing campaign that has seen a series of adventurers buried in shallow plots, resurrected, killed again and raised as undead. 

If you haven't read the *TOEE2 story hour*, you should do so before starting this one.  You won't be dissapointed.  (_Unless dead PCs dissapoint you, in which case you will be dissapointed over and over and over again._)  

In addition, I have compiled .rtf versions of the Liberation of Tenh logs along with the TOEE2 and the *Risen Goddes* logs.  If you'd like a copy, email me at [b]cklarock@hotmail.com[/b].

Thanks for reading, and remember-- take it one level at a time, kill everything, and move on!


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The PCs have grown from 1st to 12th level, despite having picked a fight with the biggest, nastiest bad guy on the block: IUZ.  Our story picks up the spring after the PCs stunning defeat of Zinvellon and his Abyssal cronies.

At the time, a few of the readers were curious, "will Jespo Crim adventure in the Liberation of Tenh?"

Alas, as we shall soon see, Jespo Crim is preoccupied with weighty matters of state (most likely frantically trying to keep his meal ticket, er . . . Prince Thrommel from adventuring) and must remain in Chendl.  But he is not forgotten, and we will be revisiting him soon.  

At this point in the story, we shift gears and go from a site-based political/intrigue adventure where everybody dies to a free-form political/intrigue adventure where everybody dies.

I left my players entirely up to their own devices as to where they would like to go in order to take the war to Iuz. Their response:  Tenh.

Tenh.  Not a happy place.  Tenh has remained a battleground since the Greyhawk Wars.  The land was conquered by men of the Stonehold (Stonefisters) working in conjunction with priests of Iuz.  The Tenha were routinely massacred, enslaved and oppressed.

Duke Eyeh is the hereditary leader of Tenh, but has not set foot in the country since the Greyhawk Wars, preferring to lead his 'rebellion' from the safety of a Nyrondeese court.  Morale amongst his troops is shaky, and their successes have been few.

In the last few years, the majority of the Stonefisters have left Tenh, in the wake of a political falling out with Iuz.  The Fisters who remain, however, are those who have grown particularly fond of Iuzian debauchery and the easy life afforded by the rape of Tenh.  

The Iuzian stranglehold on the land is at its weakest since the Greyhawk Wars.  They have abandoned most large population centers, attempting to hold the natural resources of Tenh with an ever-thinning military force.

The Theocracy of the Pale views the current Chaos and Unrest in Tenh as just exactly the sort of vacuum that Nature abhors, and they have mobilized a Holy Crusade to "convert" large sections of the land to the Blinding Light.

And oh yeah, there's a horde of trolls and a few liches, but we'll get to that later.

The story will begin with the PCs in Chendl and Hommlet, at First Thaw, CY 593.


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*The Liberation of Tenh*

The characters that begin the adventure:

Prisantha, human enchantress, 9
Ethel, human sorcerer, 8
Gnomishic, gnome cleric 8
Heydricus, human fighter 4, sorcerer 5
Elijah, Heydricus' cohort follower, human ranger 8

"The Lads", a small group of warriors and mercenaries that follow Heydricus, including:
° Ywain (known as Urin), ftr 1
° Dimethius the Scout, exp2
° Otto the Hammer, exp2
° "Sarge", war3
° Pel, war1
° Ulrich, war1, and
° A cast of tens.


Fireseek 20, CY 593

*1: Our Heroes Gather in Much Abused Hommlet for First Thaw, CY 593, then Create a Plan*

Heydricus has renovated the Chapel of St. Cuthbert in Hommlet and turned it into a common area, as construction on Kelanen's Rest was forced to halt for the winter.  Pris _teleports_ in with four priests of Tritherion, sent from Chendl to answer the spiritual needs of the community, as well as being the proof and seal of a political understanding Heydricus had cemented with His Inimical Magnificence, Halrond the Fourth (Stalwart Master of Tritherion, Lord Protector of Chendl, etc.), the temporal head of Tritherion's worshippers in Furyondy.

Pris also arrives with a letter written by Jespo Crim, begging his and Esril's absence from the arranged meeting.  Jespo was vague, but hinted that Great Things were brewing in Chendl that required his presence, and Esril had also determined to remain in Furyondy, to take a new post as Master Instructor to the Royal House.

Gnomer arrives from the forest, with the heartening news that he has left his rebellious sons Gnomishic and Gnomio in charge of the Gnomish community, freeing him up indefinitely for whatever adventures lie ahead.  Ethel also arrives, sporting a new sun hat and her now ubiquitous _handbag of holding_.

Ren Qi and C'min are known to be in the Veseve, on assignment from the Knights of the High Forest.  Word is left for them to contact the Chapel in Hommlet upon their return.

Keriann neither sends word nor arrives in person.  The last anyone had heard from her she was returning to her St. Cuthbertian nunnery in Verbobonc.

In the months since the fall of the Temple, Heydricus has called to him any able-bodied warriors from the surrounding territory willing to raise a hand against Iuz and take revenge on the Old One.  They number thirty men and women, a small force perhaps, but they are hardy and eager.  

They are led by a human ranger known by the name of Elijah (iy-LEE-yah) "The Long Step".  Elijah, like Esril, is an expatriate of the Great Kingdom, though her home is among the free woodfolk of the Adri Forest.  She had been wandering far from her homeland when she stumbled across the Temple of Elemental Evil.  While the party was debating which of their associates to raise, Elijah was hunting down stray groups of humanoids and bandits from Knulb.  She quickly determined that the Temple was the root of the Evil plaguing the land, and shortly before the _earthquake_, she attempted to gain entrance, but was nearly killed by Orcs and Iuzian priests.  When she heard that Heydricus was responsible for the fall of the Temple, she was quick to join his cause.  Elijah is a capable scout and woodsman, as well as a powerful combatant.

The four PCs strategize about how to best take the war to Iuz.  They are not so naïve as to think that their encounters in the Temple of Elemental Evil would be forgotten by the Tyrant, and have determined that the best defense is a good offense.

To that end, Heydricus proposes his ancestral lands of Tenh as a suitable battleground.  Duke Eyeh, although still the official ruler of Tenh, is fallen into disrepute, and commands no confidence among either the royal houses of the Flannaes or the Tenha themselves.  

Heydricus reports on his meeting with the Lord Protector, and explains how Halrond has given his tacit support to a covert military action in Tenh, should the PCs manage to obtain a foothold.

Much debate ensues as to the best entry point for the first assault.  The mines at Cur'ruth in the Bluff Hills, the Prentiss fortresses, and a guerilla action in Calibut itself are all discussed.  The final decision is to proceed by boat as far as Stoink, and from there travel to Cur'ruth. 

Cur'ruth was one of the first townships to fall before the Stonefist invasion in CY 582, and little has been heard since, although Furyondy's best military intelligence indicates that the copper and iron mines there are still productive, and a vital source of raw materials for Iuz in Tenh.

The group travels to Dyvers, and manages to charter a boat willing to transport them and their war-band as far as Stoink, where the Captain assures the group, it should not be difficult to obtain a place to hide their troops while the party scouts the mines.

It isn't.  They have barely left the docks before they have found someone willing to rent them a suitable 'hideout', then forget their names, faces and existance.

In Stoink the group inquires about a suitable guide to take them into Tenh, and are directed toward a band of Stonefisters who are in the city to sell slaves.  The group meets with them in a festhall curiously abandoned save for the Stonefisters (apparently even the bandit scum of Stoink have _some_ principles about who they will or will not drink with).  

The party poses as buyers, and demand to see the slaves.  The leader of the Stonefisters is a coarse, cruel man, and with each mention his price grows higher.  When the barbarian leader begins an insulting diatribe about the racial weakness of the Tenha, it is more than Heydricus can bear, and Heydricus overturns the long oaken table, followed in short order by a shout from Ethel that stuns several of the barbarians.  Elijah is quick to draw blood, as is Gnomer.  Prisantha dazzles and slows her opponents, and before the barbarians can say "I'm . . . so . . . _angry_" they are slain.  But not before Ethel has a chance to fire two _lightning bolts_ in succession through the wall of the inn, destroying a nearby produce cart in the process!

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Next:  The Liberators high-tail it to a hidey hole where they make friends with some of Stoink's more colorful citizens!  What's grey, Large-Size, and wants to kill everything in sight?  No, it's not Heydricus' baby mama, its . . . well, the Liberators are about to find out!


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*Readye'en 6, CY 593

2:  A Situation Emerges In Which One Thing Leads To Another*

The party quickly slinks out the back door of the inn, with the surviving slaves in tow.  Heydricus leads the group into the back alleys of Stoink, intending to distance the party from the growing commotion outside of the festhall.  The younger of the two slaves tugs on Gnomer's sleeve, and tells the gnome that his aunt lives nearby.  The party slips into her home unseen,  and hides in a cramped wine cellar.  The young boy asks the group to wait while he tends to his aunt.  

The older slave expresses his gratitude, and offers the party a few interesting facts:  The Men of the Fist have many more slaves, the majority of which are not Tenha.  There is a large group of the barbarians in Stoink, and they have been waylaying citizens in the alleyways, and putting them to work digging in an underground lair.  The physically weak or mentally strong slaves have been sold off in small groups.

The party quickly determines to put an end to this villainy, and asks the man to provide details about his captors - - their numbers and defenses, etc.  He replies that he was blindfolded and drugged, and cannot say much for sure, but he thinks there is someone who can find this information out.  The party agrees to meet this informant at the Gallows' Toll, a local watering hole of ill repute.

Like clockwork, the rogue arrives an hour late.  He introduces himself as "the best burglar in Stoink" and bickers with the party, but is quite obviously afraid of them.  He indicates that the older slave, contrary to his self-assessment, is a very "important man", presumably within the local underworld.   (It seems the party has earned the gratitude of someone very important in Stoink.)  The uber-burglar contracts out a reconnaissance mission looking for these Stonefisters and their lair.

He returns the next morning with startling news.  The men of the Stonefist have occupied a walled complex that once belonged to a bandit-lord of the city until he was lynched by his own men some 15 years ago.  He reports seeing at least a score of Fisters, giant bears and a pair of giants.  There are suspicious piles of dirt throughout the compound, lending credence to the older slave's story.  Most interesting is the presence of a shaman type wearing a holy symbol made from a giant bear's paw print.

The party asks the man to find someone who is familiar with the building, and he returns with an old woman who used to be a servant to the lord.  She paints a scathing picture of life in the lord's mansion, but is able to give the PCs a description of the building's interior.

Our heroes set up an early morning assault, and take a moment to discuss strategy.  Elijah scouts ahead, and returns ashen-faced.  She reports that the burglar's account was essentially correct, and after sneaking around the complex exterior, she tried to get in the front door.  Just inside the door was a pair of two-headed giants, who spotted her, and raised four clubs between them to crush her!  Fortunately, she was able to get the jump on the slow brutes, and use her advantage to escape.

The party is almost ready to move on the Stonefisters when they spot the old servant woman coming from the direction of their target.  Gnomishic follows her to a tea house, and then into a pawn shop before returning to the group.

The PCs prepare themselves with spells and "liquid courage" (in Ethel's case), then creep over the wall, moving toward the kitchen doors.  Heydricus _enlarges_ to nine feet in height, and after his next incantation creates a handful of _mirror images_ he signals that he is ready.  Remembering fondly the assault on the Moathouse outside Hommlet, the group reprises that oh-so-crafty strategy.  They go _invisible_ and knock on one of the two doors, determining to ambush the first Stonefister foolish enough to open it.  

But no one does. 

Okay, plan B . . . The PCs kick in the door, and come face to face with a horrible creature, giant-sized and humanoid, covered with gray, scaly skin, sporting six red eyes and a mouth large enough to swallow a halfling whole.  The beast leans forward and hunches over a pair of long, cruel claws.  Two sets of chains lead off from a manacle about its neck, held by a pair of straining Fisters.  A much tougher looking barbarian clutches his greatsword eagerly and commands "Release the Render!"

First things first, however.  Ethel lets loose a _lightning bolt_ which sends one of the Fisters to his Eternal Reward, and seems to agitate and disorient the Render.  The huge gray monstrosity shakes its head, and gets turned around in the confusion.  The Render snatches one of its handlers in its massive claws, delivers a viscous bite and then begins to demonstrate how it received its name.

The Fisters' cries are pathetic, but brief.

Gnomer _summons_ a trio of celestial bears into the room, giving the Render more targets.  This seems to cause a state of reverent awe in the Stonefisters, who immediately begin screaming in their guttural tongue that they "must save the brothers!".  The Fisters turn on their Render, and try to distract it from rending the bears.

Meanwhile, the party members outside of the door have their hands full trying to bring the gray monstrosity down.  Heydricus, Gnomer and Elijah shift to cover the second door, and are prepared when another four Fisters and a second Render come bursting out!  

The giant-sized Heydricus goes toe to toe with the gray scaly beast, and proves that he can equal its damage, if not its hardiness.  Fortunately for him, it does not also have a _mirror image_ spell.  

A furious, enraged, Stonefister takes a _lightning bolt_ from Ethel, and decides he's not going to respect his elders, he's going to kill them.  He charges her, and drops her with one furious blow!  Fortunately, her handbag is not covered in blood, but unfortunately her new sun hat is.

Gnomer races to her side, and before anyone can say "dismembered" Ethel is back on her feet, with vengeance in her eye, and more _lightning bolts_ than she'll ever need.  The poor Fister never knew what hit him.  And hit him, and hit him, and . . .  well, eventually the sucker died.

Meanwhile, the first Render has finished off all the bears and all the bear cultists, and is about to propose that they pick the fight up from this spot in a couple of months when the party rushes into the room and does it what for.  And how.

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Next:  The liberators make a big mess, and do their best Jackson Pollack impersonation!


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Readye'en 8, CY 593

*3:  Onward and Onward*

Gnomer scouts through one door, and Heydricus sends Elijah through the other.  They determine that both of the interior rooms are kitchens, and both open onto a long feasting-hall that appears unused.  The hall itself is unlit, and there are no visible windows.

Elijah examines the floor of the hall near the kitchen doors, where a small amount of light spills through from the gray morning outside.  She notices the tracks of men, and a creature that must be a Render, but nothing unexpected.

Gnomer creeps out of the feeble circle of light surrounding the door, and into the darkness of the great hall.  He strains his ears and hears a constant hissing sound, that modulates from a higher to a lower pitch and back again. 

Ethel steps into the hall, and enchants one of her spare buttons (one never knows when one will need to repair her overcoat, especially if you're in Ethel's line of work).  The button flickers with a yellow-orange _light_ and illuminates part of the hallway, leaving the remainder covered in shadow.

Ethel throws her button into the darkness and the party can now see that the feast hall is a deserted, dust-covered place.  The remnants of fine furniture are shoved against the wall, leaving a wide walkway from the back of the room (where the PCs are) into the darkness beyond.  

Elijah and Gnomer hide behind the discarded furniture, and begin sneaking forward along the left-hand side of the corridor.

Ethel marches forward, retrieves her button, and pitches it again.  The globe of _light_ doesn't reach the end of the room, but it does barely illuminate the front end of a Render, standing in the middle of the hall, completely motionless.  Its six eyes narrow as the _light_ strikes them, but it does not move.  The rhythmic hissing noise is the creature taking air in through a pair of slits along the top of its head, scenting the room.

Ethel backs away slowly, while Prisantha and Heydricus move forward.  As the three of them come even with each other, the Render springs to the attack!

The gray beast springs forward directly at Gnomer's hiding place!  From behind the Render comes the war cry of first one, then another, then a half-dozen Stonefisters.  The Render seizes Gnomer with both hands, ripping and tearing through his armor, and delivering a bone-crunching bite.

Ethel leaps to his rescue (figuratively only, of course - - grandmothers don't leap) with a _reduce_ spell.  The nine foot tall monstrosity rapidly becomes a 4' 6" monstrosity, and Gnomer is able to wrestle himself free and retreat to safety before the render can shred him like a Defense Department memo left overnight in Fawn Hall's office.

This new, improved render is set upon by Heydricus who fortunately is still protected by his _mirror image_.

Prisantha begins casting on the back of the room, and the tide of butchering Stonefist warriors _slows_ to a trickle.  The crafty enchantress then _charms_ one of the Stonefisters still moving about.

Ethel sends a _flaming sphere_ into the fray, setting Men of the Fist on fire, and breaking their ranks.

Elijah drinks a potion of _spider climb_ and plants herself squarely on the ceiling, then begins to rain death on her enemies in the form of arrows.  The Stonefisters have never heard the old chestnut "A failure to plan is a plan to fail", but they sure are living it, as none of them possess missile weapons.  One _slowed_ individual shows some real initiative and starts flinging debris at Elijah.  She kills him a round later.

Stonefisters are desperately trying to fight their way to the back of the room.  Ethel places a _grease_ spell under the feet of a barbarous duo, causing them to slip and stumble to the floor.  At the same time, Prisantha captures the mass of barbarians in a _web_, which is immediately ignited by their torches, causing a general conflagration of barbarians, _webs_, and _grease._

Gnomer, meanwhile, has _healed_ himself, and uses his _charm of friendship_ to summon Ren Qi.  The elven commando appears covered in dirt and camouflage paint with leaves woven into her clothing and hair.  After taking a minute to orient herself, she charges into the fray at Gnomer's side.

A lone Stonefister makes it past the front line of Heydricus, Gnomer and Ren Qi, and menaces Ethel and Prisantha.  He charges Pris and smites her mightily with his greatsword, stunning her and nearly killing her with one blow!  Angered, and more than a little worried, Prisantha breaks out her ace in the hole.  She _feebleminds_ the lout, and as fast as you can say "lobotomy" the Fister has forgotten his name, rank, serial number, and what his greatsword is used for.   

To add insult to injury, Ethel directs her _flaming sphere_ to pounce upon the _feebleminded_ Fister, who, too stupid to flee, burns to death.  Slowly.

The _charmed_ Stonefister stands up stunned and shaken in front of  Prisantha and Ethel.  His face relaxes, and he looks at the Enchantress of Verbobonc with new eyes.  Her hair!  Her skin!  The flecks of blood splattered across her face!  She's _beautiful_ . . .

Just as things are looking especially bleak for the surviving Men of the Fist, the two ettins guarding the front door poke their heads in to the room, followed by a 12' tall Stonefist barbarian!

The ettins demand that the party surrender, and Heydricus coolly informs them that he would be willing to discuss terms.  When he clarifies that he is referring to the ettins' surrender, the poor beasts have just about had all the intellectual challenge they can stand, and grow very confused.

Which gives the party the jump. _Lightning bolts_ streak from the fingertips of One Bad Grandma, while Heydricus, Gnomer and Ren Qi demonstrate what they learned in *Stone Cold Killer School* (a.k.a. the Temple of Elemental Evil).  The ettins are quick to fall, and despite drinking a pair of _healing_ potions, the Stonefist giant manages only a pair of fruitless swipes before Heydricus and Elijah cut him down.

As the debris (and blood sprays) settle down, the party turns their attention to their captive.  The _charmed_ Stonefister warily eyes Heydricus and makes Prisantha a proposal of marriage, promising her that he would sire many strong sons, give her many slaves, and beat her very rarely.  As tempting as that sounds, she declines tactfully and prompts the brute to tell her what he knows about the Stonefist activities here.

The barbarian explains that his clan worships Usul, the Bear-Spirit of the Northern Reaches.  All bears are sacred to them, and the spiritual hierarchy of the clan have been advised by Iuzian priests to gather the remains of all the "great brothers" from the ancient burial sites.  One such ancient site is directly beneath this house.  The Stonefisters have been mugging Stoink citizens, and bringing them here to mine, selling the weak or strong-minded as slaves.

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Next:  How will Heydricus deal with this new rival for Prisantha's love?  Can Elijah really prove that sometimes the best punishment is corporal punishment?  Helthrax walks the streets of Stoink!  Stay tuned!


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Readye'en 8, CY 593

*4:  All Covered in Blood and Nowhere to Go.*

As the _charmed_Stonefister's attitude degenerates, so does his life span.  The Fister says something unintelligible in his native tongue, but the meaning is clear.  He wants to fight Heydricus.  

Bad call.

Heydricus  tears a strip from the cloak of the dead Fister and writes the following on the wall in his blood:  "Let this be a warning to all those who displease the Old One.  Cross Iuz at your peril.  Next time we will kill you all."  

Hoping that will confuse their foes, the group tries to decide where to flee to. Ethel makes Elijah _invisible_, and the ranger guards the entrance to the chamber o' gore.  Prisantha stays behind with Elijah, keeping her _dimension door_ spell at the ready.  Heydricus takes Gnomer and Ethel with him out the kitchen door and over the wall.  Both groups of adventurers spot Fister groups at the same time.  One band of Fisters is searching the temple grounds and attacks the group going over the wall with missile fire.  A second band is exploring the battle site, and an advance scout gets enough ahead of his fellows to catch a _charm_ spell from Pris.  The Ravishing Enchantress and Elijah take their opportunity to flee to safety through an opening in space/time.

Ethel covers the second group's retreat with an _obscuring mist_, and the party reunites itself on the other side of the compound wall.  Gnomishic uses Intimidation on a bunch of gutter-urchins who had mistaken him for a very bloody (and well armed!) little kid.  It would have been funny if they weren't so pathetic.

The party are dirty, disheveled, wounded, and covered in blood, most of it not their own.  The stench of burning _feebleminded_ barbarians clings to Pris and Ethel's clothes and hair.  There is a wild-eyed post-combat look on each and every face.  

Now they finally fit in here in Stoink.

The party decides that in the rougher part of town a group of gore-covered adventurers would be less likely to draw attention from the guard.  So off to the slums of Stoink they go.  To further 'blend in', Prisantha decides to disguise herself as an Iuzian Priest.  As she has only ever met two, she chooses the more dashing of the two to mimic, and behold!  Helthrax leads a group of bloody, bristling mercenaries, including an old lady in a sun hat and a 9' tall giant.

What's so unusual about that, you say?  Nothing, except the surprising amount of street traffic that bows to Helthrax, muttering "Dread Lord".  After a few minutes, Pris is approached by a young man in a fine tunic.  

"Sum of My Fears", he begins "don't you remember me?  It is I, Mirn, your altar boy from Chendl!"

(Now, there have been some cases where Iuzian priests _don't_ molest and abuse their altar boys, but they have been hushed by the Church, and all offending parties have been sacrificed.)

Prisantha begins to answer the boy in her high-pitched voice, but Heydricus thinks fast and covers up, explaining that the Dread Lord has a terrible cold and has lost his voice.  Mirn cringes from the nine foot tall blood covered warrior and begins to apologize with that curious mix of abject terror and hatred that only a member of the Iuzian clergy can produce. 

The lad takes them to his house, and forces his young wife to go out and obtain some clean clothes for the group.  He is convinced that Helthrax has come in response to his request for poison from the church hierarchy.  He crowingly unfurls a map of Stoink, with all the wells circled.  The boy plans to poison the entire city, and march the corpses back to Dorakka as an undead army.

Prisantha _dominates_ the young fool, and gives him instructions to sail to Admunfort and explain his plan to the Port Authority, who will, she tells him, give him the poison.  The lad, overjoyed, practically floats to the docks, looking for the first transport to sail.

The group returns to their hideout, where Elijah has to dress down the men for throwing a party while the party was out fighting Stonefisters.  No parties without the party!  That's the party line.  

A couple of soldiers get flogged, and so much extra detail is handed out that Elijah assures Heydricus that he will soon be in command of the cleanest hideout in Stoink.  (A city known for its impeccable hideouts.)

As the party settles in to rest, they send Elijah to spy on the Stonefister stronghold.  She spots a group of Fisters dragging the old lady informant into their stronghold.  She immediately returns to tell the others, but notices a pair of suspicious customers tailing her.

The party is convinced that the old lady sold them out to the Fisters, and after the assault has been called in for 'questioning'.  What is worrisome is the fact that the informant met with Heydricus at the young slave's home.  Heydricus, Ren Qi and Elijah take 4 of the lads and double-time it to the home, convinced that the Fisters will attack.

They are right, but they are also there first.  They set up an ambush, and attack the group of five barbarians who arrive.  The battle goes the PC's way, but Elijah and two of the lads are left hurt and unconscious.  One villain escapes, running into the night.  

Heydricus remains behind to convince the boy and his aunt to go into hiding.  The other two lads and Ren Qi gather the casualties and high-tail it back to the hideout, but are confronted along the way by the two suspicious customers - - a young boy and an older man.  

The suspicious customers demand to know what the PCs were doing in the company of Helthrax, and tell Ren Qi that she is under arrest.  Ren Qi cleverly demands to see their warrant.  When the older man produces a Lord's Writ, Ren Qi runs for it.  The rogues cannot hope to catch the fleet-footed monk, but they do capture Elijah and the four guardsmen.

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Next:  Elijah captured! (consort, cohort or convict?)  Meet the Lord of Stoink!  Watch the party utilize their Diplomatic skills!  Plus -- The Big Brawl!


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Readye'en 9, CY 593

*5:  Our heroes find themselves in a Delicate Situation, or, You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make it think.*

That morning, with everyone healed, rested and in possession of a full compliment of spells, the guards smugly report a quiet evening.  No disturbances at all, sir.  Unfortunately, they can't explain the note slipped under the door, which reads:

"Your crew is alive and well.  We need to talk.  There are two Cloaks in the alley across the street who will take you to the meeting.  Elijah says that a sharp tack like you would leave his weapons at home, if he knew what was good for her." 

The note is stamped with the Seal of Stoink, a pair of hands crossed over a single coin.

Considering the fact that being weaponless would leave . . . um, . . . _nobody_ without offensive capabilities, the party decides to leave the choppers at the base, and see what these 'Lord's Men' are all about.

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_Aside_:  In a land run by thieves, the biggest, toughest thieves' guild runs the land.  The Lord of Stoink is an honorific given to the rogue with the most influence in the city.  An honorific that holds with it the writ to 'dispense justice' and set all matters of tariff and tax.  A thief can squeeze a shop, a gang can gouge a district, but only the Lord can extort the whole city.  

He who dies with the most victims wins.

-----

The party is met by a pair of disreputable-looking guards who eyeball them for concealed weapons, then look nervous at the fact they can't find any.  They warily lead the group to a nearby alleyway, and after delivering a secret knock on a seemingly blank wall, a secret door opens into a long hallway.  The hallway is filled by a gray-skinned, yellow fanged half-orc, bristling with arms and armor.

The half-orc looks the party over, and appears nervous at the fact that the party doesn't appear nervous.  He leads them to a small antechamber containing exactly one table, four chairs, and three beings.  A gaunt, pale human stands near the door, wearing clothes that are remarkable only by being so unremarkable.  At the table is a half-elf dressed in bright colors and dripping with jewelry, sitting next to a halfling sporting a carefully coifed mane of hair.

The half elf begins the interview.  "Where is the priest."

Heydricus casually pulls up a chair and says, "I don't know what you're talking about.  My name is Heydricus, and these are my companions Ren Qi, Gnomer, Ethel, and Prisantha.  We're here to retrieve our people."

The halfling leans close to the elf and mutters, "They don't look scared.  You assured me they would be scared."

Prisantha chimes in.  "If you mean Helthrax, I can explain.  You see, it was a clever disguise.  Here, I'll show you."

The duo look startled as Prisantha activates her _hat of disguise_ and transforms herself into the visage of the fell priest.  The rogue at the door curses and puts a hand to his weapon, but backs away at a signal from the half-elf.  

The halfling says "I see.  Allow me to introduce myself.  I am the Lord of Stoink.  The honorific here is My Lord, or if you prefer, Number One."

Heydricus and Prisantha start to explain their disguise, thinking that in this situation, honesty is the best policy.  The two thieves listen carefully, occasionally whispering to one another.  Things seem to be going well, and the Lord is about to say something when Gnomer jumps on to the table.  

"You can't be the Lord, you're too short," he exclaims.

There is a long, uncomfortable silence, lamentably broken by more insults from the gnome.  "And not a great looking guy either.  Whew!  You remind me of a horse I once owned, but I won't say which end of him!"

Heydricus attempts to break in and silence the cleric, but the damage has been done.  

"No one talks to me that way," the Lord says.  He gets up to leave the room glancing at the half-elf "You know what to do."

The half elf watches his master leave and whispers "There is no need for bloodshed, but you have to leave now."

"Not without my companions," Heydricus replies, tensing his spell-casting hand.  Prisantha glances about for the most likely _feeblemind _target, and Ren-Qi cracks her neck meaningfully, straightening her shoulders and shifting her weight onto the balls of her feet.  Ethel begins rummaging through her handbag for spell components.

The half-elf glances nervously at the party, and then whispers into Heydricus' ear.  "Your friends are safe, and have been healed.  You can't fight your way out of here.  Meet me at the Loaded Dice tomorrow at noon."

There is an almost pleading tone to the half-elf's command, and after a moment's reflection Heydricus stonily agrees.

Score one for diplomacy. 

The next day, Heydricus finds the half-elf sitting at a table outside the Loaded Dice, which despite the early hour, and its discouraging name, is filled with gamblers of all sorts.  The half elf sunnily orders Heydricus the Blooded Veal, a house specialty he hastens to add.

Heydricus is in no mood for small talk, so they settle their business before the veal arrives.  Elijah and the lads will be returned to the party before sundown.  The Lord was primarily concerned that a powerful priest of Iuz, rumored to be in line for membership in the Lesser Boneheart, then rumored to be dead, had arrived in Stoink, consulting with a known psychopath.  As far as the Fisters go, of course the Lord knows they've been enslaving citizens, but what do you want him to do about it?  Weaken his forces fighting barbarians so that he can loose the city to another gang?  The Lord has been_ covering up _for the Fisters, in order to save face.  As long as no one knows they're acting with impunity, they're not really acting with impunity, get it?  The Lord was overjoyed to hear that the party sent so many Fisters to their shallow plots.  More power to 'em, they almost got a medal.  

After the fiasco with Gnomer, a hasty council was convened, and the Lord of Stoink was finally convinced that Heydricus and his group were worth more alive than dead,_ if _they continued to assault the Stonefist stronghold.

Heydricus assures the half-elf that he intends to do just that, and bids him a good day, without touching his food. 

True to their word, the Lord's Gang releases Elijah and the lads well before sundown.  The party decides that no more time should be wasted, and moves toward the Stonefisters' stronghold to finish the job.

They find the Men of the Fist lying in wait for them; their severely depleted numbers entrenched in the extensive tunnels beneath the building.

The battle takes place in a large hall accessed by a pair of stairwells.  The fighting is furious, and within a few seconds all Chaos breaks loose:  Stonefisters supported by ettins charge from either stairwell, up into the room at large.  

Prisantha has a field day disrupting the Men of the Fist's ranks.  A second giant barbarian manages to reach the top of the northernmost stairs, but is swiftly reduced to a mewling, drooling, _ feebleminded_ state of anxiety, while a group of _ confused_ barbarians alternately stare into space or chop him into bits.  

Gnomer staves off the depredations of four dire bear skeletons, cleverly buried just beneath the floor near the entrance.  His positive energy burst sends the undead monstrosities fleeing into the Stoink night, where they can do no harm.  (Um, to the party, that is.)  

Ethel and Prisantha find themselves cornered by a handful of enraged barbarians, but manage to use defensive magic to escape.  In the end, an ettin, a giant, a half-score of barbarians, four dire bear skeletons and a real live dire bear aren't enough to protect the Priest of Usul, and his plan to 'free the brothers' meets the cutting edge of Heydricus' sword, with gruesome results.

-----

Next:  Their 'mission' completed, the Liberators are visiting Stoink on borrowed time.  How will the Lord treat them now that they are No Longer Useful?  What could an accountant possibly have to contribute in this nest of thieves?


----------



## (contact)

Readye'en 10, CY 593

*6:  "As sunlight gives rise to all Nature, so too do we thirst to be useful." - - Harin, Theocrat of Pelor*

 The slaves are quickly found and released, and a thorough search of the Stonefister's lair reveals a pair of hidden warehouses containing bulk goods and enough equipment for outfitting a double-score of raiders.  The dust on the loot indicates that it was left there by the Lord who was the former occupant of the stronghold, and had gone unnoticed by the Men of the Fist.  

The PCs exit the stronghold, and discover that the undead dire bears turned by Gnomer made their way into the surrounding city, destroying property and lives before meeting their end at the hands of the Lord's men.  One of the skeleton corpses is still slumped half inside a second floor window where it was rooting for flesh, in some dim memory of its foraging habits from life.

A quick conversation with one of the Lord's henchmen at the site make it clear to the PCs that their business in Stoink should be concluded hastily, as they are now visiting on borrowed time.

Elijah and Heydricus gather the troops, and march them to the Stonefister's manse.  Along the way, a personable rogue by the name of Curst joins in, and pleasantly introduces himself to Heydricus, asking innocuous questions about the troops, their pay, etc.  Heydricus fends him off, but wary of angering the Lord of Stoink further, leaves him be.  Curst strikes up a conversation with Urin, making comments about Heydricus' gift for leadership, and remarking what a magnificent sword he possesses.  Curst casually compares the sword's value with the entire troop's yearly pay, and points out how much better Urin might have it working for a Lord who knows what he is worth.  Urin proves steadfast and loyal, and rebuffs the rogue's advances.

Heydricus' company spends the next day preparing their goods for transport and dodging the ever-curious Curst and his leading questions.  A confrontation with the rogue reveals that his role for the Lord is High Accountant, a position charged with assuring that the Lord receives his fair 'tax' of booty won in Stoink's endless gang wars.  Curst proves resistant to bribery (but accepts the swag gratefully) and in the end, his message is clear:  You can insult the Lord of Stoink and live, but f*** him out of his gold, and you're a dead elf. 

Heydricus reluctantly allows the "Accountant" to go over the treasure and assess the Lord's Tax.  Satisfied, Curst bids the party a cheery goodbye, and promises to check in tomorrow, to ensure that "all preparations proceed apace for your departure from Stoink".  Curst promises to "help" the PCs through the gate personally.  

The Lord gets his cut, and the party gets the boot.

-----

Next:  Gnomer consults his God, Heydricus consults his Better Judgement, Prisantha consults her Hat, and the Lord of Stoink throws a party!


----------



## (contact)

Readye'en 12, CY 593

*7:  My God, my God - - Why hast thou forsaken me?*

Five days after their arrival in Stoink, the PCs have managed to slaughter a double-score of Stonefisters, anger the Lord of the City, and accumulate some bulk treasure.  What they haven't done is find out a single thing about Tenh, or determine where they wish to go.  As the PCs debate their next steps, Gnomer _communes_ with Garl Glittergold.  As the tiny priest leaves his trance, he has learned the following things about Tenh:  

* There is, as rumored, a Troll King.
* The Troll King does not control the Prentiss fortresses in the South of Tenh.
* There are no less than three liches (!) contesting for control of Southern Tenh.
* The Iuzians use Tenh for its resources, but no longer have a firm hold on the land.
* Duke Eyeh has taken Holy Vows, and is now supported by the Theocracy of the Pale.
* There is a being in Stoink who has accurate intelligence on Tenh.
* The PCs have met him, and
* One of these answers was a lie (this is Garl Glittergold we're talking about after all).

It looks like the party needs the Lord of Stoink after all.  Cursing their luck (and their poor diplomatic track record), the group creates a plan to weasel back into the Lord's favor, using that most ancient of courtly artifice:  Flattery.

Using Prisantha's _hat of disguise_ to approximate the Lord's features, and with the help of Gnomer's _stoneshape_ spells, Heydricus' expert craftsman Otto is able to create a trio of larger-than-life statues of the Lord in Heroic and Noble poses.  A hasty meeting is arranged, and the suspicious halfling proves more than susceptible to flattery, he is positively overborne by it.  He happily forgives the party's earlier gaffe, and cowingly informes Gnomer that he is a gnome after his own mettle:  bloodthirsty and senseless to danger, a real Stoinker!  Gnomer swallows the insult implied in the compliment, and agrees to sit at the right hand of the Lord in a feast called in honor of the party's foray into Tenh.

The feast is a lavish affair, with the Lord's Gang dressed (rather incongruously) to the nines, and attempting to conduct themselves in a civilized manner.  Prisantha bristles at several courtesan's amorous admiration of Heydricus, and the entire group is forced to refrain from laughter while watching the Lord's Gang try to pretend that they are accustomed to eating with silverware.  (DC 12 willpower save)

The Lord himself is in a jovial and talkative mood, proudly unveiling the trio of statues to his gang.  He spills the beans on Tenh, verifying what the PCs learned with their _commune_, but adding the following of note:  There is a mine in the Bluff Hills, near a town called Cur'ruth that is supplying the lion's share of raw ore to Iuz's war effort.  The Lord shares its location, the route used to ferry the ore to a processing plant in Tenh, and the route used to ship the processed ore to the Empire of the Old One.

After dinner, the PCs are treated to a rare sight, an ancient Banditlands ritual - - the Dance of Many Knives, performed (for this occasion) with live blades.  Four dancers live, seven die, and one is badly mangled.  The performance is hailed as a smash success, and the Lord's Men erupt in drunken displays of admiration.

-----

Next:  Prisantha flexes her craft skills, Heydricus flexes his negotiation skills, and the Liberators spot an Awful Sight!


----------



## (contact)

Readye'en 28, CY 593

*8:  Final Preparations are made, a pair of Shady Deals are struck, and the party spots a Bad Omen*

Now that they have secured the good will of the Lord, there is no haste to leave, and the party decides to take some time off to craft magic items, particularly those that might help them in Tenh.  Prisantha successfully duplicates her _hat of disguise_, one for each member of the group.  She also contracts out to create magic for other party members, taking a fee, and storing the gold away against the _crystal ball_ she's been dreaming about.

Toward the end of this process, the party are approached (once again) by Curst.  This time, the "Accountant" offers to join Heydricus' band for the same pay rate that Urin receives.  Although viewed with suspicion, divinatory spells reveal no duplicity on Curst's part, and loose terms are arranged.  Curst produces an extremely detailed Contract of Service, and negotiations begin in earnest.

While Heydricus and his new Accountant are wrangling, Prisantha receives a summons from the Lord of Stoink.  He asks her to cast spells for him, for the going rate, of course.  He produces an item of clothing, and asks her to scry the individual it belongs to.  She obtains a vision of a young half-elf, merrily sharing wine and bread with a group of happily joking youths.  Next the Lord calls for Haarn, a cruel-looking half orc, dressed in blackened armor, and bristling with weaponry.  The Lord asks Prisantha to _teleport_ the half orc to the scene of revelry.  Anxious to return to her work, the distracted Enchantress complies without a second thought.  The Lord seems pleased, and invites her back for tea and crumpets the next day.

With Curst on board, the magic created, and a plan in motion to punish the Old One by sacking his mines, the party sets out into Tenh.  Elijah and Curst scout ahead, and plot a northerly course that hugs Tenh's eastern border, providing (it is hoped) enough cover that Heydricus' small band might travel unseen.

Along the way, they discover that one of the ore shipments from the mines at Cur'ruth had been attacked, and the large wagons destroyed.  Some of the minerals were left undisturbed, while some wagons were torn apart, their contents missing.  A tracking survey of the scene shows that fire was used in great quantities, the wagons were cast about like toys, but nothing approached the caravan on foot.  Elijah is left to conclude that the attack was made by one or more flying creatures.  A sobering thought.

To make matters worse, the party is followed for several days by some sort of flying monstrosity.  The creature would not even be seen, save for the use of a pair of _eyes of the eagle_.  It hugs the horizon, where reflected glare makes it near invisible, and makes no aggressive motions.  After three days of this, the creature disappears

The party finally reaches the hills, and finds a suitably hidden valley from which they can launch forays into the mines.  The troops set about fortifying the place, and the first scouting mission into the mines itself is prepared.

-----

Next:  Elijah shows why she was voted Most Likely to Kill a Lot of Poeple in finishing school!


----------



## (contact)

Readye'en 28, CY 593

*9:  Wherein cruelties are witnessed, and Elijah becomes a Thing That Goes Bump In the Night.*

Elijah and Dimethius begin scouting the mine complex.  They see that the main structure is a fortified keep with an artificial moat, set against a butte mesa.  Atop the mesa, several wooden guard towers have been constructed, and are most likely the highest point for several miles.

To either side of the keep, gigantic statues nestle in alcoves, each icon reaching fifty feet in height.  The statues depict human figures, although their features are indistinct.  They clasp their hands across their chest in a funeral-pose, and wear some sort of headdress.

In front of the keep, a sprawling, filthy tent-city slowly decomposes.  The tents are occupied however, and drunken Stonefisters, bugbears, goblins, giants, ettins and giant-sized Stonefisters are observed milling about.  At several points during the day, the drawbridge lowers, and a cowering Tenha emerges pushing a wagon-cart filled with foodstuffs.  The Men of the Fist eat first, followed by the giants, then the humanoids.

Over the course of several days, Elijah watches the Stonefisters engage in a cruel ritual:  they release one of the food-bearing slaves, and chase her on foot.  They catch her close to the edge of camp, and lame her.  Gloating over her struggles, the Stonefisters watch her die.  Elijah stoically awaits her opening.

The next evening, she gets it.  The Fisters release another slave, but this time they let the young boy run well clear of the camp, chasing him, and apparently intending to run him to death.  Elijah slips in behind the four barbarians, following them by their torchlight.  She uses her _hat of disguise_ to take the appearance of a fellow Stonefister, and begins the hunt.

She surprises her first victim handily, and dispatches the cruel fellow before he even has a chance to free his greatsword from its scabbard.  She assumes his form and begins trailing her next target.  The second falls as easily as the first with none of the Fisters the wiser.

Although she does not speak Frosttounge, the third barbarians' reaction tells her that he was expecting just such a betrayal from his companion.  If he is confused by his associate's use of two swords it doesn't slow him one iota as his pupils dilate and his skin flushes.   He shouts for help in his cropped language, while avoiding the worst of her first assault.  The grimy brute bulls his way inside Elijah's guard and uses his superior height to knock her off balance and force her to absorb the full impact of his greatsword blow.  Elijah gives him a hug with her swords, cutting him once, twice and again, slicing him deeply along his back and severely hampering the use of his right arm.  The Fister is dead on his feet, but his iron will and adrenaline fueled rage keep him fighting, even if he seems to have trouble focusing on Elijah.

The last Fister sees two things in short order:  the dead body of Elijah's second victim, and the second victim, seemingly alive and well, cutting his fellow hunter into ribbons.  The barbarian shouts a word over and over, then runs for the safety of camp.

Elijah, who had hoped to leave one of the Fisters alive, looks over the badly mangled corpse of her victim, and reflects on how difficult it can be _not_ to kill people with a pair of razor-sharp masterwork weapons in your hands.

She quickly finds the hunted boy, and using a mixture of pidgin Tenha and  common, convinces him that she is taking him to a great "Tenha Lord".  Imagine the lad's surprise when he is not taken to Eyeh, but a small encampment of grizzled looking Furyondians and a tall Flan named Heydricus.

The boy introduces himself as Looish.  It quickly becomes apparent that he has some strange assumptions about life, and has lived the majority of his life in the mines at Cur'ruth, under the leadership of a Tenha named Aiman.   Aiman is the Lord who keeps the Tenha in the mines safe from Iuzian deprivation.  In exchange, the Tenha slaves produce ore and food for the followers of the Old One, and suffer only the occasional murder out-of-hand.  

But before the exhausted slave can make his thanks to the gods for his deliverance, and sleep, he tells Heydricus that recently things have not been going well.  The Iuzians seem unusually agitated, and have been killing slaves at a prodigious rate.  The boy is too young to be let into the council of elders, but he knows that something is disturbing the Tenha miners as well.  Perhaps the gods have sent Heydricus to Cur'ruth just in the nick of time.

-----

Next:  A strange visitor brings unwholesome tidings!


----------



## (contact)

Coldeven 1, CY 593

*10:  The postman always rings twice:  Elijah takes note of an Vile Mystery, and a visitor brings news from home.*

After her bloody run in with the sporting Stonefisters, Elijah returns to her vigil over the tent-city and is rewarded by witnessing a most strange phenomenon.  

Hoping to spot some reaction amongst the Stonefist ranks from her 'hunt', she instead returns to camp with disturbing news.  Toward nightfall she watched several priests of Iuz directing a large group of slaves.  The slaves were pulling a massive slab of stone, that was itself balanced on a series of trees, stripped into the shape of rollers.  On the slab was some sort of colossal object, approximately tewnty five feet long, and ten feet wide, by ten feet tall.  The object is covered by a greasy-looking thin shroud-like cloth.   The object is rolled to just outside of the fortress gates, where the slab is removed from its rollers.   A pair of black-robed humanoids exit the fortress and take up positions watching over the object.  The stonefisters themselves seem quite frightened of it, and begin a series of drunken dares, apparently proving their courage to one another by venturing near the thing. 

After Elijah's report, the party is mulling this development when Heydricus gets the haunting sensation that he is being watched.  Afraid that he is being scryed, he slips into a dark recess of the cave and draws his sword.  Sure enough, the sensation is swiftly followed by the slight pop and hiss that is the sonic signature of a teleport spell.  A small figure appears within a few feet of Heydricus' position, and whispers "hello?".

No Iuzian lackey this, but an outrageously expensive messenger sent by Halrond (the Fourth, his Inimical Magnificence, Prolocutor of Tritherion, etc.) with a command to contact him with an update on the party's activities.  The messenger (_"Horatio the Halfling's Friend-Finder Service -- no fee too large, no Plane too small.  If they at least partially exist, we can find them"_) went first to Hommlet, and while there, brought with her the party's mail, which had been accumulating at Kelanen's Rest. 

Here are the letters, with all spelling and punctuation faithfully translated from the original, arranged by date with the undated messages listed last: 

-----

(on plain parchment, hastily folded and unsealed) 
Fireseek, the Third, CY 593 
heydricus -- construction ahead of schedule on project designated homlet I -- kelanen's rest to proceed now with construction of project designated hommlet II -- orphanage please advise -- dumrick deepen master builder -- see attached cost revision approve or deny 

-----

(Plain parchment, rolled and bound) 
Fireseek 13 
Sir Heydricus, 
Word of your fame has reached my ears here in Veluna, and I salute your success. 
I cast the gauntlet. I am the greatest fighter in the land, and intend to prove it. 
I do not hide behind a title. 
I am, 
Vestifal Margrove, Scourge of the Sheildlands, 
Charterhouse Royale, 
Veluna 
p.s.: I will take any silence as a sign of cowardice. 

-----

(plain parchment, neatly folded, and stamped with the Seal of the Magical Services Guild, Furyondy) 
Fireseek 28 
Heydricus, etc. 
To Wit: An invoice of alchemical and magikal supplies was drawn against your account by Anton Flamehair to the sum of four thousand sixty-two gold inclusive. 
As you are aware, it is our most stringent policy that all ledgers in excess of twenty pieces of silver be paid within one month of reciept. 
In light of your high position in the halls of government I have personally authorized an extension through the month of Readye'en, but I must request payment in full at your earliest convinience. I am sure that neither of us wish to see this matter brought to public mediation. 
May I apologize in advance for any inconvinience this might cause. 
Your Humble Servant, 
Mardello Etun, 
Proprietor, 
Living Alchemy and Transubstantiation, 
Chendl 

-----

(Scratched into the back of a broad leaf) 
Readye'en 6 
Gnomer! Where are you? 
Gnomio has stolen my clothes, and the oak tree supporting the central shrine is a Treant! Worse yet, he wants to move to the other end of the forest! 
What should I do? 
Need help desperately, love, 
Gnomishic 
p.s.: Goblins set the storehouse on fire and killed Nurin and Hobble. 

-----

(Written in sloppy, small writing onto a piece of thin rose-scented vellum) 
Readye'en 9 
It is difficult for me to draw ink into a pen, so please forgive my brevity and accept my fondest wishes for all further success against wickedness. 
I keep you all in my thoughts and prayers. 
Sending you Boundless Love In the name of the Seven Holies, 
Fräs 
(a cat's paw print follows) 

-----

(written in a sloppy, hurried handwriting on thin, rose-scented vellum) 
Readye'en 9 
Dearest Pris, 
Is it possible, my dear, that you might supply me with a letter of introduction to your master &/or the Sages of Spellcraft in Chendl that I migh be permitted to research a spell of non-detection?? 
This would please me greatly. 
Please send your letter by first post -- promise the messenger any reasonable sum and I shall double the amount! A matter of most urgent priorities, you understand 
My regards, 
Jespo Crim 

-----

(A carefully folded parchment, stamped with the Royal Seal of Furyondy) 
Readye'en 15 
It is our wish that we be kept abreast of your endeavors against our foe. Thrommel sends his best wishes. 
Signed, this day in the court of Furyondy, Chendl, 
His Pious Majesty, The King of Furyondy, etc., 
Belvor IV 

-----

(A plain parchment sealed with the Holy Cudgel of St. Cuthbert) 
Readye'en 22 
In the Name of St. Cuthbert of the Cudgel Temis Veil Commands you to Zeal. 
To the Cudgel of the Temple: 
I am the Abbot of the Cuthbertian Nunnery at Verbobonc. Keriann Croller is my Disciple and Charge. She may have Spoken of me. 
I put pen to parchment in the Hope that you my lift a veil of Confusion blinding my sight. Three days ago, Sister Keriann failed to appear for her duly appointed duties. She often spoke Fondly of you, and it is my Hope that this missive finds the Good Sister safely in your Company. 
Please ask her to reply by messenger at once. This is a Request and a Command. 
In the spirit of our faith, I have the pleasure to be, etc., 
The Right and Firm Abbot Veil 

-----

Not Dated 
(Written in a clumsy, childlike hand) 
To Heydricus the swordfiter (sic) 
Will you teach me to fite evel Evel? I am six. My name is bandor Bullfinch 
Esril says you are the greatest sword-fiter she has ever seen 
I want to be the greatest fiter in Chendl, and dad says I have to beet Esril to be the bes grandest fiter. 

-----

Not Dated 
(Written in a mincing, careful script.) 
Dearest Ethel, 
How are you? The weather here is fine. My arthritis is acting up, and Gall is fine as well. 
Can you come home soon? Leilah is very sick, and there is some ne'er-do-well who says he is your son, but he is drunk at all hours, and is frightening the children. 
Also, may I have some gold? The landlord says he will throw us out on our ears if we don't pay him soon. 
Love, 
Your Faithful Sister, 
Maude 

-----

Not Dated 
(Rolled and sealed, stamped with the Great Seal of Chendl, the Seal of the Office of Provost-Marshall Commerce, and the Seal of the Guild of Cartographers and Scribes, Chendl) 
My darling Heydricus, 
I have the honor to request your presence Fireseek the First at the ball celbrating our daughter Marguerite's Coming Out. 
Please R.S.V.P. 
I have the Honor to be your Faithful Servant and Sword Marshall of the Realm of Chendl, Jewel of Furyondy, 
The Provost-Marshall Commerce, 
Reine 

-----

Not Dated 
(A thin, heavily perfumed note of hand-woven paper) 
Heydricus, 
Will you make availiability for a social appearance at my annual Rite of Spring Bacchanalia? 
Provide nothing save your charm, and wear little. 
Your darling, 
Maleen 

-----

Not Dated 
(A carefully folded parchment with vellum overlays cut into the shapes of dragons rampant. Written in an elegant and formal script) 
Sir Heydricus, 
It is my fondest hope that you will do me the Honor of appearing before court Readye'en the Twentieth for the Knighting of my son, Alumain the Second. 
As you know, he dotes on your memory, and still has the whetstone you so gallantly lent him at last summer's tilt. 
In brotherhood, 
Sir Fellon IV, Knight of Furyondy 

-----

Not Dated 
(A small, folded note, perfumed with a lilac scent) 
Heydricus, 
I cannot put you out of my mind. Tell me you feel the same. 
Yours eternally, 
Maia 

-----

Not Dated 
(Written in a shaky script) 
Dearest Pris, 
I hope you are well, and keeping warm up north. Are you wearing the cloak I gave you for festival? Your grandfather and I love the new horses you bought. The bay is taking to the plow despite all of her high-stepping military training. 
Goblin died. He was getting to old to hunt, and grandpa put him down with your old crossbow. 
You may remember the Spinners from next farm over? Well, they passed away this winter. Grandpa and I were hoping to buy their farm, but we are a few Royals short. Could you send more money? I don't want to sell my mother's jewelry, but I will if I have to. 
Tell that handsome friend of yours (the tall one) hello for me, and don't forget to go to church. 
Love, 
Grandma 

-----


The characters spread out around their hide-out while they read their post. A frail, diffused silver light slips in from the outside, a cold rainy day. Torches gutter and smoke in crude hand-made sconces, and the place smells like burning wood and too many unbathed men in a confined space. The lads are quiet, not at all in their usual bantering mood. 

The party is reading and re-reading thier letters from home, accumulated these past two months in Hommlet. As Curst is about to re-seal the bag containing the post, a small, wrinkled piece of unidentifiable parchment falls to the cave floor. The scrap is tan in color, creased and crisp, not pliable at all. The material is familiar, somehow. There is a one sentence message scratched into it's surface, and stained dark brown: "We have not forgotten you". 

-----

Next: Prisasntha and Elijah fight for their lives in a Swamp Not of their own Making! Heydricus Unravels a Sinister Plot! The Return of Jespo Crim -- or "Why is Fras Eating out of Garbage Cans?"


----------



## (contact)

Coldeven 2, CY 593

*11:  In which a mysterious thread is pursued, and the Tip of the Iceberg revealed.*

Having finished with his correspondence, Gnomer stalks out of the cave muttering darkly, and shortly afterward Ethel flies into a nervous fit, bemoaning her sister's incompetence in overly loud tones while fidgeting with her knitting projects.

Curst approaches Heydricus with a scheme whereby he proposes to set up a gambling ring, with the profits funneled back into the payroll fund.  He promises Heydricus a 45-60% reduction in payroll expenditure, and crowingly brags that he'll make his own yearly salary back for Heydricus in one month.  Heydricus has other things on his mind, and absentmindedly dismisses Curst while turning the strange, leathery note over in his hands.

Heydricus and Prisantha regard one another over the mysterious unsigned note.  Elijah seems to sense their unease and moves protectively near the pair.  A close examination of the leathery parchment shows a mark that could be a tattoo.  Elijah recognizes it as half of Tritherion's holy symbol, and Heydricus recalls a crusader of Tritherion he used to know . . . 

A dark realization comes over him, and Heydricus asks Prisantha to scry Aelniir, but the pool remains gray and indistinct.

Time to go to Hommlet.  

Prisantha and Heydricus gear up, and place Elijah in charge (with instructions to keep Curst away from the lad's silver).  Prisantha _teleports_  herself and Heydricus to the dirt road just outside of town, a few hundred yards away from Kelanen's Rest.

The duo move behind the inn, and unseen, examine the small graveyard for the Fallen Heroes of the Temple.  They count graves, and find all eighteen seemingly undisturbed.  Heydricus takes a moment to read the makeshift grave-markers that are the only worldly recognition of his companion's sacrifice.  Wincing as he mentally re-lives the death, after death after death of his friends, he fondly reads the wordy inscription carved into expensive stone heading the grave of Pippin, and finally comes to the brief and half-finished wooden markers the later dead received:  

"Egil. _ BNR, bludgeoned by giants", _

"Lady Amyryth, _  we hardly knew you." _

"Lucius Maturin, _  he ain't liked nobody" _

"Anton Rex, a Real Burner from Almor, _  died quick", _and 

"Tisha --_  the ogre got her"._

Prisantha leaves Heydricus to his reverie, and walks to her grandparent's farm.  She is greeted at the low stone wall by her grandmother, who has hiked her skirt up around her knees and is running as fast as her chubby legs will carry her.

Heydricus walks into the half-finished Inn, and finds a group of half-drunken dwarves sitting on half-chairs around a partially carved wooden table.  The dwarven foreman tipsily takes his feet and greets Heydricus, then begins to complain about the stonemason.  Apparently, the stonemason has been complaining about the dwarves, and as a result, the monies taken from the sacking of the Temple and allocated by Furyondy to rebuild Hommlet have been frozen.

The argument?  The dwarves refuse to build in wood, complaining that even elves aren't stupid enough to kill the tree before making a home out of it, and pointing out that the first good tornado to come along would snatch a wooden inn from its solid, dwarven-built stone foundation, and then where would you be?

Never one to argue with a drunken dwarf, Heydricus proposes this solution:  the dwarven crew should undertake to finally finish Andras' tower, and leave the inn to Hommlet's population.  Finally a human with some sense.  Problem solved, and toasted with ale.

By this point, Heydricus' presence in town has been noted, and the Hommlet folk begin gathering around the inn, sunnily greeting their hero.  A general work-stoppage is called, and a party hastily planned for the evening.

Heydricus walks to the farm owned by Prisantha's grandparents, and finds her grandpa leaning on the fence, surveying the recently deceased neighbor's farm.  Heydricus chats with the old man, who reminisces about the days before Prisantha's mother was born, when he was free to_ just roam all over creation without a care in the world. _  Heydricus excuses himself and goes inside to find two things of note:

1)  A fresh baked berry pie, just now cool enough to eat, and
2)  Prisantha, dressed for the evening's festivities in a hideous blue dress she hasn't worn since she was sixteen.  (A bit tight, and quite a bit out of date, even a Fashion Accident of her Grandmother's creation cannot dim the light of Prisantha's beauty -- a fact that is apparently lost on the preoccupied sorcerer.) 

Heydricus snatches Pris by the wrist and takes her into the bathing room announcing that the bathwater must be left in the cauldron!  Flustered and blushing, Prisantha asks what for, only to be met with a curious smirk from the sorcerer.  Why, to scry with my dear, what else did you suppose?

Prisantha stutters and mutters an arcane phrase.   The bath waters reveal the form and figure of Jespo Crim, showing the vexatious summoner sleeping fitfully in a small, dank cell -- heavily drugged, and wearing the uniform of Chendl's debtors prison!  And if Jespo is jailed, where is Thrommel?  Of the Crown Prince there could be no word, at least until tomorrow, when Prisantha might be able to _scry _again.

Some trouble is brewing at home, of that the duo are sure, and they absentmindedly mime their way through the party held in their honor, then duck out early in order to catch the 7:25 _teleport _spell back to Tenh.

The next morning, Prisantha's scrying puddle in the back of the cave is coaxed to reveal the image of Prince Thrommel:  alone, and behaving fearfully, the Prince is placing some object in his backpack, and rather raggedly running through an unknown forest.  He looks like he is in trouble, and Elijah is hastily summoned.  Pris and the ranger plan to_ teleport _to Thrommel, grab him and return him to the relative safety of Cur'ruth.  Final preparations are made, Elijah paints her face for field work, and off they go.

They return a half-hour later soaked to the skin, smelling of rot and stagnant water, and looking defeated.  The following story emerges:  Prisantha's_ teleport_ spell malfunctioned, dropping them chest-deep into a swamp.  As they wade toward the nearest dry land, Pris is attacked by a massive swimming constrictor snake!  The unholy predator bites the enchantress, and a numbing wave of negative energy courses through her, dulling her mind and ravishing her spirit.

Elijah jumps on the snake, cutting it deeply, but she cannot prevent the serpent from twining around Prisantha and dragging her under water, biting her again and again.  Elijah swims into the murky water, and unable to see, uses her hands to locate the snake's tail, then climbs hand over hand until she reaches the other end, and begins to saw the head off the beast.

Eventually, the limp form of Prisantha is coaxed free from the coils of the headless constrictor, and Elijah swims the semi-conscious mage to an outcropping of dry land.  The duo rest, and Elijah tends to Prisantha's wounds.  The Enchantress of the Temple removes the spell components needed to return them home, but finds that she cannot summon the spell to mind.  Apparently the horrific paralytic energies of the serpent have suppressed her mastery over her most powerful spells.  Facing a grueling overland journey out of a swamp unknown to either of them, the adventurers have no choice but to use Prisantha's most precious possession.  Elijah holds tight as Pris reads her_ limited wish _scroll, and gods be praised, they are transported securely to Cur'ruth.

Heydricus runs forth to find Gnomer, hoping the gnome can cure Prisantha's wounds, and _restore_ her vitality.  What he finds however, stops him in mid-request.  The gnome is sitting outside, gazing into the afternoon sky and rocking back and forth on his heels.  Gnomer keeps his eyes on the sky, and points out the fact that the dragon is still out there.  

"A cave isn't a forest, Heydricus" Gnomer remarks, "and we can't be _sure _that we're safe, can we?  _You  _understand, don't you?"

The gnome is unclean, and has obviously not slept for days.  Heydricus gently says "It may be time for you to go home, Gnomer.  I think your sons need you."

Gnomer pauses to reflect for a moment, then begins to mutter what he knows about dragon lore.

Heydricus returns to the cave, and gives Prisantha his remaining_ cure light wounds _potions.

The next morning, Ethel and Gnomer are _teleported _back to Gnomer's village, promising to return when their personal business is settled.  

The rescue attempt botched, things don't look good for the Prince. _ Scrying_ reveals Thrommel to be securely bound, bruised and bloodied, encased in some sort of wooden box.  He is alive, but for how long?

If it is to be a rescue, then it is up to Prisantha, Heydricus and Elijah to do it -- the once mighty Heroes of the Temple, reduced to three.  Pris can only memorize two _teleport_ spells per day, and has the might only to take two others along.  If a rescue is to be made, Pris will need a pair of _teleport _scrolls to accomplish the feat.  The best place for this scribing to take place is, after all, Chendl, and while she is working, Heydricus and Elijah can look into Jespo's situation, and investigate the mystery of Anton's miraculous return from the dead . . .

-----

Next:  Prisantha, Heydricus and Elijah investigate the mystery of Prince Thrommel's abduction, discover why Jespo is in jail, and find out how Fras has fared, left to her own devices!  The Provost Marshall Reine takes the stage, and the King himself is consulted!


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## (contact)

Coldeven 5, CY 593

*12:  Jewel of the Kingdom and Seat of the Furyondian Throne, Chendl beckons.*

Chendl in the summertime is much like Chendl in the winter, save that the puddles of human waste fester and evaporate rather than freeze, and street traffic is much more congested.  The group uses_ hats of disguise_ to take the appearane of a trio of messengers, and _teleports_ to their favorite inn:  The Sign of the Last Days. 

After obtaining rooms, and  a hearty meal of Furyondian comfort food (blood sausage and kidney pie with a side of salt pork and turnip greens) Elijah, Heydricus and Prisantha travel to Jespo Crim's house. 

What they find confirms thier worst fears:  the house is boarded and sealed, by order of "His Most Austere Authority, the Provost-Marshall Commerce, Reine -- By the Authority of the Crown of Chendl, Jewel of Furyondy, Sheld of the South".  As the party searches the back of the house for a surrepititious entrance, a familiar warbling is heard.  Fräs!

The party spots the celestial cat perched on top of a stack of discarded boxes and crates behind the rear door to Jespo's house.  Although Fräs has lost weight, and is sporting a torn ear, with some missing patches of skin, the Cat from Heaven seems little the worse for wear.  After all, the tough tom-cats she's been fighting don't have sixteen hit  points and _smite evil_!  Through Sasha, Prisantha's familiar, Fräs' sad tale is heard:

Jespo, the poor dear, has been working himself ragged recently trying to craft magic items for Thrommel.  Thrommel, after his bull-headed fashion, has been making noises about adventuring, hoping to match some of the glory his father had during his youth.  Jespo has been desperately trying to rein in Thrommel's heroic impulse, fearing that any 'adventure' would be just the opening Thrommel's enemies might desire.  Jespo had attempted to protect Thrommel by crafting a series of powerful magical items for the young prince.  But in order to keep the work a secret from the prying eyes of the court, Jespo had used his own resources, effectively draining his ToEE plunder to a few hundred gold, barely enough to keep up payments on his house and carriage (not to mention his sailing yacht).

One month ago, the prince and his wizard had toured Southern Furyondy, in an attempt to drum up support for the War Effort, and the church of Tritherion's Holy Crusade.  (Thrommel is a True Beliver in Tritherion's Contest. of Arms.)   Upon their return, Jespo discovered that his home had been robbed, his magical wards bypassed, and all his belongings (including the magic items he was crafting for the prince) stolen!  

Destitute and peniless, Jespo was without recourse, when two days later, the agents of the Provost Marshall Commerce arrived with a warrent for his arrest.  Jespo was to be jailed for the debt incurred by the Heroes of the Temple, specifically one Anton Rex, for the outstanding sum of fourty thousand six hundred and twenty pieces of silver.  

Jespo thought to hide, but Fräs would not hear of it!  If the debt should legally fall to him, why, then the Baatezu must be paid his Due, as they say in Mount Celestia. Fräs brought the guards to Jespo's hiding place, and was thrown out on her ear for her trouble.  

Since her rude eviction, and her master's imprisonment, she has been living off of the leavings to be found in Chendl's alleys, and fighting with the local street-cats.  She has tried to remain productive, and did manage to find and kill an abyssal dire-rat that had gotten loose from some mage's home.  She was unable, lamentably, to find the mage.

Prisantha tucks Fräs into the bag holding Sasha, and the two cats, overjoyed to be reunited, begin purring up a storm of affection that makes the Enchantress blush.

The next stop is the offices of the Provost-Marshall, the courtly agent concerned with matters of commerce and debt in Chendl.  Jespo may not be well-liked, but he is certainly important enough that Reine himself would have signed his arrest warrant.  Perhaps one of Heydricus' fawning groupies can prove useful after all.

The party is met by a pair of rude guards at the Provost-Marshall's door, but the guards are quick to sing another tune when Heydricus drops his own name.  Reine is found taking tea and crumpets in a roomy office, tackily and ostentatiously decorated, and very poorly kept up.

A brief interview reveals the following:  Reine's feelings were devastated when 'darling' Heydricus failed to R.S.V.P. his daughter's coming out, but he is mollified when Heydricus (acting as his own messenger) claims that Heydricus speaks of Reine often, and well.

Fortunately, bald-faced lies aren't an alignment violation, but Fräs' hissing is heard from her bag.

Reine puffs his chest at the compliment and assures the messengers that he will "gladly work with Heydricus to determine whatever happened to this . . . what was his name?  Crim . . . oh, yes, disagreeable fellow, claimed to know Heydricus, I remember him now.  His, er, _cat_ turned him in, if I recall correctly . . ."

After examining the paperwork, and a brief conversation regarding Jespo's legal options, the party draws the conclusion that debt, once passed on to the Court as part of the Noble's Charter, is non-negotiable.  The good news?  Heydricus himself has escaped any legal responsibility.  The bad news?  Jespo will be left to rot until he can scrape together four thousand sixty some-odd gold pieces.

Reine agrees to get Heydricus' messenger a _brief_ audience with Crim the next morning, but only on the condition that the Hero of the Temple agrees to attend a dinner in his honor the very next time his business brings him to Chendl.

The party retires to their inn, and Heydricus takes Fräs to the Viscountess Maia, the recently widowed Lady of gentle birth and voluptuous proportion, most well known for her discretion and husky voice.  Maia is so glad to see Heydricus, she dismisses the servants, and after an afternoon of heated, er, _tete-a-tete_ Maia agrees to bring Fräs into her household, promising the celestial cat a life of satin pillows, sunny napping spots and fresh fish.  If Fräs shoots Heydricus a disapproving look as he takes his leave, only Jespo would know for sure.

-----

Next:  Jespo, Thrommel and Iuz, oh my!


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## (contact)

Coldeven 6, CY 593

*14:  Deeper and Deeper, look how the rot has grown*

The next morning, a sleepy Reine meets the party outside of debtor's prison, his servants bearing silver trays laden with a tea setting for one.  Sipping his tea, Reine signs the papers allowing Heydricus, Prisantha and Elijah to visit Jespo.

The prince's summoner appears even more flaccid than usual, and his eyelids are barely open as he regards the messengers who are let into his cell.  "Get out, you dogs," he slurs, "I will receive no visitors".

"Jespo," Heydricus begins, "I am not who I seem to be, do you understand that?"  Searching for a means to communicate to the obtuse wizard, Heydricus leans close and whispers, "Daern".

This infuriates Jespo, who begins to shout "How dare you speak that name to me?  Who do you think you are? Get out!  If my friends were here, you'd pay for that!  I want you out!  Out!  Guards!  I want them out!"

The party withdraws from the cell, only to be met by a knowing smirk from Reine, who says "I see you've had no better luck with him than I.  Ugly little man."

The group enjoys breakfast at a famous local holstery, The Horse and the Hippogriff, then proceeds to the Temple of Tritherion, to report as ordered, to Halrond the Fourth. 

Using their true forms, the group is immediately recognized, and a young acolyte dispatched to find the Prolocutor of Tritherion.  While the party waits in the veranda of Halrond's palatial estate, they notice a frenzied activity as priests of Tritherion pore over maps, and hold heated conversations.  

Halrond himself appears to guide the group to a back deck where he pours liberal draughts of fine brandy and passes out cigars.  He is suprised, and pleased that Heydricus has appeared in person, but suggests a message spell might do next time.  Halrond praises the party's doings in Tenh, and calls their action a "clean war".  He seems completely unsuprised about Thrommel's capture, and suggests to Heydricus that while they are both fighting the same war, Heydricus is best used in the field, not Chendl.  Leave Chendl and it's dirty politics to me, he implies . . . and mind your own business.

The party thanks Halrond and returns to their disguise, and their rooms at the inn.  They order a bath to be drawn, and use the waters to scry Thrommel.  Unfortunately, it seems they are too late.  The pool is black, indicating that Thrommel has met his mortal end.

Stunned, the party debate their next move.  Their allies in the church of Tritherion showed no enthusiasm for a rescue of Thrommel, and now even his corpse cannot be recovered, as it cannot be located via scrying.  A thought strikes the Enchantress, and she attempts to scry Fragarach, Thrommel's intelligent sword.  Success!  Fragarach is seen to be lying on a slab of stone, decorated with Evil runes of binding and power.  The slab is in a vile laboratory, and standing over "the Answerer" is a black-robed wizard, wearing the holy vestments of Iuz.  The laboratory's location cannot be discerned, but it doesn't take a genius to recognize that this room is undoubtably deep beneath Dorakka.

The mage appears to be conducting research on the sword.  After all, how does one torture an inanimate object?  As the mage casually drizzles abyssal adder venom on Fragarach's pommel, hundreds of miles away, the Heroes of the Temple, Executioners of Zinvellon, are strapping on their adventuring equipment..

The heroes teleport into the labortory, a cramped space that reeks with the stench of the charnel-house.  The mage seems unsuprised to see them, and before they can cut him to ribbons (or feeblemind his Evil ass) he raises a wrinkled hand and says "I wish you had appeared in the next room over", and suddenly the party finds themselves standing in a crowded storage closet, filled with all manner of repulsive things.

"Did you just hear what I thought I heard?  Did that wizard wish us in here?  Oh hell, no," Heydricus begins, but his short speech is made half in Dorakka, and half in Chendl, as Prisantha, thinking the same thing, teleports the trio back to safety.

Time to call in the Big Guns.

Prisantha makes a call on the Royal Academy of Magic, and arranges to inform one of the King's own Arch-mages of the trouble with Thrommel.  The wizard seems, like Halrond, unsurprised by the news, and implies that young maglings should be more concerned with their better's time than Prisantha seems to have been.

Okay . . . time to go over his head.  Esril is contacted, and after hearing the whole sordid story, she contacts King Belvor himself and arranges for a secret meeting in the swordplay wing, her demense.

The King is suprised, and angered, and vows that come Hell or Death on His horse, Thrommel will be returned to Chendl, and if he is dead, shall be raised forthwith!  Satisfied, Belvor turns to summon his arch-wizards, but is stalled by Heydricus.  

"What of Thrommel's enemies, my lord?  We do not know who they truly are.  The jailing of Jespo Crim cannot be a coincidence."  After all, if you want a prince dead, it follows that his personal wizard must be dealt with.
Belvor ponders this weighty news, and asks Heydricus his opinion.  Heydricus proposes the following plan:  obtain Thrommel's corpse, and raise him in secret.  Equip him, and teleport him to Heydricus in Tenh.  Thrommel can then act upon his desire for adventure (under the watchful protection of the party), and do so far, far from his enemies in Chendl.  In fact, if carefully executed, none of his foes shall even know that the Heir still lives.

"Bravo", Belvor replies.  "Bravo, Heydricus and Prisantha (and whatever your name is my dear), once again your clever wit outshines my own!  You have a good head on your shoulders.  Let's keep it there!  Now, I shall sign a writ having Crim freed."

"No sire," Heydricus interrupts with a glance at Elijah.  

The young ranger continues, "Sire, if Jespo is freed, it will serve notice to all those who oppose Thrommel that we are back from Tenh, and aware of their plotting.  Jespo must remain in jail for the time being, and he must not learn about Thrommel's whereabouts.  When we are sure the prince is safe, we can free his summoner."

-----

Next:  A horrible massacre, a hidden community, and an astonishing secret!


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## (contact)

Coldeven 7, CY 593

*15: In which it is revealed that given time, the multiverse always proves the pessimist right.*

After procuring a pair of _teleport_ scrolls against any future emergency, the trio returns to Tenh.  Upon their arrival, swords flash from their scabbards, as our heroes find the caves to be empty, and heavily bloodstained.  By the looks of things, their camp has been a massacre site.

Elijah tracks the exterior of the cave, and discovers that a mixed band of humans, humanoids and giants fell upon the cave, most likely at night.  There were some survivors, but many more bodies were dragged than led in chains.  In one heartening note, a small band of survivors snuck away during the fighting and appear to have eluded pursuit.  A child's footprints are in the lead.

Following the trail of that small group leads the party to a mesa some half-mile from the mines at Cur'ruth.  A quick search reveals a secret door that opens to reveal a long, narrow passage leading down into the earth beneath the mesa.  The passage winds and descends for many hundreds of yards before coming to an end in a small room.  The room has one door leading from it, heavily barred, and a short table with a few stout chairs.  

Elijah confirms that the survivors of the massacre came this way, and that Looish was leading them.  This must be a "back door" into the mine-home of the Cur'ruth Tenha.  Ignoring his now-instinctive distrust of back-doors, Heydricus knocks once, and waits.

A panel in the door slides open, revealing a woman's face, Tenha (if a bit pale) and elderly.  She narrows her eyes.  Heydricus tells her his name, and states that he is looking for his men.

"The soldiers?"  She begins, "they are here.  You will want to speak with the Aiman.  He is expecting you."  She lifts the bar, and the heavy wooden door swings open.  "You may leave your weapons with me."

The party looks at her quizzically, and she continues, "You must leave your weapons here."

Heydricus laughs at her.  Elijah shoulders past to get a better look of the room, and scout for an ambush.  She turns back to Heydricus and signals "All clear.  I'm on watch."

Heydricus refuses to disarm.  He requests to speak with a clan leader.  She replies that she is one.  The woman fixes Heydricus with a cold stare, and repeats her demand that the party remove their weapons.

Heydricus replies that you don't get to be as old as he is by taking your weapons off within spitting distance of an Iuzian encampment, and he'll have his men back _now_.

The woman stands eye-to-sternum with the massive sorcerer and glares at him.  After a breif stare-down, she leads the group through a series of passages to a large common room, filled with Tenha sitting quietly, apparently absorbed in various tasks.  At the back of the room is an older Tenha, speaking to a small group that has gathered around him.

The matron mother leads the adventurers to the older man, and she introduces him as the Aiman of the Cur'ruth Tenha. A brief and tense audience follows where the party once again bluntly refuses to disarm, and laughs mockingly at the suggestion that they are safe within the Cur'ruth mines.

Perhaps it is the stress of teleporting from end to end of the continent, or perhaps the shock of realizing how many lives have been lost, but there is no mood for diplomacy or refinement within the group.  The Aiman, showing the fearlessness that seems to characterize these Tenha, takes Heydricus to the surviving lads, and politely asks the group to leave.

Ywain is one of the survivors, and he tells Heydricus that they have been treated well, and fed, if poorly.  Apparently, these Tenha have a very bland diet. 

Heydricus and Prisantha gather the lads and leave the mine of the Cur'ruth Tenha.  They turn the soldiers over to Elijah who examines them for wounds, and applies her knowledge of herbal lore.  Finding a quiet spot, Pris and Heydricus quietly review the brief meeting, and conclude that their relationship with the Aiman might yet be salvaged.  

Heydricus divests himself of his sword, and arms himself with his best apologetic face and a bottle of fine Furyondian wine.  He returns to the doorway, and knocks once again.

After a brief conversation with the matron mother, Aiman himself emerges and sits down with the massive sorcerer.  Heydricus offers an apology for his rash words, and demonstrates his willingness to meet in peace.

The Aiman, for his part, comments how much he enjoys the wine, and reminds Heydricus that he hasn't had a drop to drink since the Iuzian take-over ten years ago.  As the wine warms him, Aiman takes to Heydricus and shares his story:

Since the Iuzian takeover, times have been hard.  The miners at Cur'ruth have always been self-sufficient, exploiting the resources of the near-underdark to sustain their needs.  The Iuzian garrison here was always small, and has grown even more so since the Stonefist rebellion.  Exploiting this, the Aiman managed to negotiate a mutually benificial pact between his people and the Iuzians.  The Tenha miners here live an autonomous life, and in exchange, they meet cruel quotas for food and ore.

The Aiman tells the party about the Iuzian 'leaders' (when asked if any of the individuals was in charge, his response invariably was 'he thinks he is'):  Suel, a human necromancer; the Master Inquisitor, a torturer who treats his profession like a refined and subtle art; Martak the Undying, certainly undead;  and Ra-Mohn, a darkling beast.  In addition, there are beings named only as "The Seven Terrors", associates of Suel.

As the wine takes effect, the Aiman bluntly points out that he has no hope that the party might succeed in their mission.  He cannot give Heydricus aid, he explains, because to do so would imperil the lives of his people once the Master Inquisitor got his hands on Heydricus.  "They can wrest your secrets from your corpse, I think." He drunkenly advises the sorcerer.

The Aiman asks could he convince the party to desist?  Not at this point, he is told.  The old man nods and slyly implies that the PCs may not fully understand what is at stake.  He asks Prisantha and Elijah to join him, and knocks on the stout wooden door.  Elijah and Heydricus leave their swords with Ywain, and place him in charge.

The matron mother answers the knock with a worried expression, and is too shocked to even complain when the Aiman invites the party in!  The Tenha wise man leads the group through a number of twisting corridors and into the mines themselves.  He shows them the mine shaft, now carved smooth, where his ancestors first discovered the entrance to the vast network of caves that lie underneath the Flannaes:  the underdark.

A short journey through natural caves ends at a low crevice, seeminly too small for anyone larger than a halfling to enter.  But it's size is an optical illusion, and after shedding their packs, the party is able to crawl into the crevice.  The Aiman leads them through a twisting, clausterphobic journey where they are forced to crawl worm-like through a stream-fed passage with barely enough room to keep their faces above water.  

After an agonizing few minutes that seem like hours, the party emerges into a gorgeous natural chamber.  The cavern is filled with stalactites and stalagmites, both types of rock formation studded with crystaline formations that sparkle in the reflected glow from Prisantha's _continual light_ stone.  The place is magestic, and there is a profound sense of the Holy in the air.  "Almost there," the Aiman wheezes as he pauses to catch his breath.  His eye twinkles as he regards the party and watches their expressions.

A second cave (this one, thankfully larger) leads the group into a massive cavern, fully as large as the greatest feast-hall of the Southern Lords.  The Aiman instructs Prisantha to put away her light source.  When she complies, the party realizes that the chamber is filled with enough glowing motes of light to rival the night sky!  Stranger still, the lights are _moving_ - flying to and fro.  "Stand still," the Aiman instructs them, "and if you are pure of heart, they will come to you."

The party is pure, and Good are their intentions.  One by one, the motes of light descend on the heroes, suffusing them with the purest essence of the Good ideals:  True Hope, Bountiful Joy, Blessed Mercy, and Utter Peace flood into them,  overwhelming their pain and exhaustion, lifting up the Heroes of the Temple and inspiring them.

There are tears in the Aiman's eyes as he says "Aren't they beautiful?"

-----

Next:  Trouble below, and one less Liberator!


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## (contact)

Coldeven 7, CY 593

*16:  "Well, there goes the accountant."*

Aiman tells the group that he doesn't know what the motes are, or why they are here, but he is sure they are Celestial, and completely harmless.  He is also certain that the Iuzians would find some depraved use for these gentle beings of heavenly light, should the wicked priests learn of their existance.

He has been able to communicate with them after a limited fashion, but they adamantly refuse to move, or be moved.  They tell him only that "We must be here".

The Aiman leads the way back to the room where the empty wine bottle sits.  "That," he begins, suddenly sober, "is what you are putting at risk when you attack the mines.  I believe you are pure, and the motes have proven it, but I do not believe you will succeed."

When asked why he would show his secrets to adventurers he felt had no chance, the Aiman cooly replies, "Because when you loose, I need you to die rather than be captured.  If they catch you alive, you will tell them of us.  You will tell them what they want to know.  When you loose, when hope is lost, for the sake of those good beings - you must kill yourself rather than submit to capture.  Do we understand each other?"

We do.  The Aiman produces vials of a clear, acidic liquid.  "When you fail, drink these," he says, "the death will be painful, but your throat will be destroyed, and thus your corpse can betray no secrets."

The Aiman pauses as his request sinks in.  He gauges the steely looks he is receiving from the hardened adventurers.  "But I cannot say that I have no use for swordsmen and sorcerers.  If I asked a boon of you, would you agree?"

When assured that the party would help the good Tenha of Cur'ruth in any way they could, the Aiman continues.  "Below our mines lie our crypts.  Old they are, and my father's fathers lie there.  For some time now, the wise men and women of my clan have been growing agitated.  They have dreams that disturb their sleep.  To a man, they dream of the crypts.

"One of my own have I asked to investigate.  He did not return.  I am afraid that something beyond our means is amongst the bodies of our ancestors.  Would you go there, in our name, and if need be, avenge our kin?"

At last, a reason to be bold in this confusing place where the lambs lie down with the lions and act like foxes!  Heydricus assures the Aiman that they will set right whatever is wrong in the crypts of Cur'ruth.  Returning to the lads, Heydricus calls Curst forward.  "You're coming with us."  Curst is reluctant, but seems even more reluctant to look like a coward in front of Elijah.  The party recovers their weapons and are led past the solemn matron mother into a dark and dusty area of the complex.

"Behind that door, the crypts." she whispers.   "May the blessings of the Wise Ones be upon you.  I will await you here."

The door opens onto the top landing of a long flight of stairs.  Apparently even the dungeons have dungeons in Tenh.

The hallway at the base of the stairs is a narrow passage.  Engravings and bas-relief decorate the walls and serve to illustrate the Tenha belief in the passage of the dead into the afterlife.  Small hand-built shrines litter the hallway, old offerings withering away in the dry, dusty air.  At the edge of the party's light a human hand can be seen, lying on the bare stone.  The hand is blue and slightly swollen.

The group creeps closer, with Elijah in the lead, followed closely by Heydricus.  Curst brings up the rear, clinging to Prisantha's skirt.  Weapons are drawn, and even the breath of the heroes seems over-loud and alarming.

The corpse is fairly recent, and as Elijah turns it (him?) over it makes a wet sucking sound.  There are a pair of wounds on the upper shoulders of the man, and a small hole missing from the top of his head.  Judging by the lack of blood around the corpse, the heart must have stopped before the peircing wounds were made.  As if he died of shock.  Or fear.

Before the party can fully examine the corpse or the room beyond there is a high-pitched scream from Curst.  Appearing directly in front of him, materializing out of thin air, is a massive spider, the size of a horse.  The beast is covered in small, wiry hairs, and is colored grey like the surrounding stone.  It's two long front limbs drip with a viscous liquid, and it is attempting to grab Prisantha, and impale her with a thorny proboscis that juts from it's mouth.  Fortunately for her, her reflexes are quick, and she steps out of the way.  Heydricus and Elijah push past her to attack the beast, with some success.  Curst cries out in Oerdian and flees for the stairs.

Before the warriors can kill the thing, however, it dissapears, and all is once again quiet save for the frantic pounding of Curst's feet on the stairs.

"Well," says Elijah,  "there goes the accountant."

The party looks about, and confident that the beast is truly gone, they proceed into the chamber beyond.  This room is larger, and seems designed to hold ritual services for the dead.  Three open archways lead off from this room into the burial-halls themselves.  A series of engravings in the floor radiate magic, specifically enchantment and illusion.

Prisantha, concentrating on her _detect magic_spell, fails to notice the slight rush of air, as the spider appears directly behind her.  It seizes her in its front limbs, and before anyone can stop it, the thing vanishes, taking the Enchantress of Verbobonc with it.

Heydricus and Elijah frantically search the area, waving their weapons in front of them, trying to find_ invisible _creatures - but to no avail.

Reasoning that the beast must have fled, they dash into the northern burial-hall and find a shocking sight.  The dead of the Tenha mines, generation after generation, are laid out in the massive hall.  The room is shaped like an inverse ziggurat, with tiers rising in regular intervals.  The most ancient dead lie to the back of the room, the more modern corpses to the front.  In the Tenha custom, the bodies lie entombed, covered only with a thin shroud.

At the near tier, the another spider hunches over the corpse of a Tenha, its proboscis thrust into the skull of the body, with a strange greenish glow oozing from the thing.  Heydricus and Elijah charge it, and catch it off guard, wounding it badly.  By the time it recovers its senses, it is nearly done for, but it manages to vanish like the other, into thin air.

Meanwhile, Prisantha has found herself floating in a grey, misty and insubstantial ghost-world.  She is still in the clutches of the giant spider, but manages to wrangle free, and strike the beast sensless with her ace-in-the-hole: _ feeblemind._

Prisantha can see the corridors and rooms of the crypts, but it is like everything has become thin, grey and insubstantial.  She explores her new environment for a few moments, then, suddenly, another spider appears several hundred feet from where she floats!  She crouches behind the drooling form of the spider next to her (well, it would be drooling, if spiders drooled), and watches the thing as it scuttles nearer her, seemingly intent on something she cannot see.

Heydricus and Elijah, after witnessing the spider dissapear, turn to run into the western burial-crypt, and sure enough, they see a third spider feasting on the corpse of a long-dead Tenha, it's disturbing proboscis oozing greenish light.  Once again, they charge to the attack, and once again the beast dissapears.  The duo, with barely a glance at each other, run into the main chamber, and place themselves back-to-back, awaiting the worst.

Prisantha sees a second spider appear, and now both spiders are converging on the central room -- curious, she floats closer to their convergence point, and there she spots Heydricus and Elijah.  Her friends appear ghost-like and transparent, but there is no mistaking Heydricus' unusually long, powerful sword, held proud and firm in his hands . . . ahem, well yes.  Prisantha tears her eyes off the sorcerer and assesses her situation.

Certainly, she cannot communicate with them to warn them, but she is not helpless either.  She regards the spiders.  One of the beasts seems to be rubbing it's front arms together, generating a putrid yellowish glow, and leaving its arms coated with some bubbling, hissing liquid.

The spiders position themselves near Elijah and Heydricus, one spider for each, and Pris moves out from her hiding place, spell components in hand.  But she is too late, and the spiders fade into grey mist before she can bend their will to her own.

Elijah is grabbed, seized and held, then suddenly phased into the ghost-plane where Prisantha has prepared a _charm monster_ spell.  Before the spider can sink it's ghastly proboscis into Elijah's skull, Pris completes her charm, and the spider grows still, then scuttles to her side in a posture that must equate with arachnid affection.  Prisantha quickly discerns that the beast can read her mind.  It sends waves of loving thought, assuring her that it is not evil at all, but a bizzare being of alien mentality.

Elijah quickly adapts to her surroundings, and when Prisantha assures her that the beast is friendly, she takes a look around.  She notices, sadly, Curst's limp form floating dead and still in the mist nearby.  Apparently, the _feebleminded_ spider gave chase, and drew the rogue here before killing him.

"Well, there goes the accountant," she mutters to herself.

Meanwhile, back in the real world, Heydricus has been grabbed by the spider dripping acid from its forearms.  The viscous substance burns his skin, and shreds his clothes, but is not deadly enough to kill him.  Heydricus gives as good as he gets, striking the creature twice with his mightiest blows.  He severs the spider's wicked proboscis in one swipe, then slashes deeply into it's front-section with his return swing.  He watches in horror as the proboscis simply reforms, and begins to glow green.

Prisantha manages to communicate mentally with her _charmed_ spider companion that she wishes it to attack its companion.  As these creatures have no concept of filial love, the thing quickly agrees, and moves next to it's companion, waiting to shift into the real world to finish the badly wounded beast.  Elijah floats next to Heydricus, prepared to slice his foe should the thing shift into her reality.

What happens next would be enough to convince a superstitious fellow that his luck has gone sour.  The badly wounded spider shifts into the ghost-realm at exactly the same moment that the ghost spider shifts into reality.  Heydricus and Elijah strike simultaneously, and before you can say "trapped in the border etheric", both spiders are dead.

Heydricus is alone in the now-empty crypts of the Cur'ruth Tenha, and Prisantha and Elijah cast horrified glances at each other over the bodies of two spiders - one dead, the other _feebleminded_.

-----

Next:  Heydricus alone in the wilds of Tenh, can the Liberators be reunited?


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## (contact)

Coldeven 7, CY 593

*17:  The ghost in the machine.*

Heydricus searches the crypts fruitlessly for any signs of his friends, then discouraged, he returns to the Aiman to tell him what has transpired.  Showing the mark of compassion, the Aiman offers to shelter Heydricus' remaining followers (all four of them) and keep them hidden.  But for Heydricus, sadly, he can do no more.

Prisantha and Elijah follow the despondent sorcerer as he slinks out into the wilds of Tenh, and hunts for a suitable hiding place.  They watch over him for a while, but can find no way to communicate.

Desperate for answers, the duo trapped in the border etheric use a _monster summoning_ to call one of Prisantha's hound archon friends to her side.  The archon greets her joyfully, and calls to mind their stunning victory over Zinvellon and his Balor ally.  Pleasantries are exchanged, and the archon is introduced to Elijah.  He gives his mortal name as Valor, and offers her a blessing from the Most High Mount Celestia.  

He is familiar with their environment.  He tells them that they are on the plane connecting the Prime Material with the elemental regions.  He does not know how they might return.  When told about the motes, his ears perk up, and his tongue lolls out of his mouth involuntarily.  He gives a joyous yip, and dances in circles, wagging his tail.  "Emotes!  Here!"  he shouts, "can you take me to them?"

They lead the way, their journey made easier by the fact they are unhindered by the narrowness of the passage.  When the archon spies the emotes, he whines under his breath, and tells the women the following:

These are celestial emotes.  They originate from Mount Celestia, and inevitably each one embodies one of the Holy Virtues.  The Mountain is a difficult climb for the souls of Good folk who find themselves there.  One can only ascend as high as he is righteous.  When a soul fully embraces all the myriad lessons of Ultimate Law and Goodness, he merges with the plane in a joyful reunion, ceasing to be.  It is the highest goal of all of Mt. Celestia's inhabitants, petitioner and celestial alike.  When a soul shows an unusual amount of Virtue, sometimes a part of their essence remains behind, as a glowing bulb of light.  No one is sure why, but the emotes themselves seem intent on helping struggling aspirants along, causing them by the merest touch to be filled with whichever Holy Virtue the past-petitioner embodied best in his afterlife.

That one Emote should be found away from Mount Celestia is a miracle, but that this many would gather in the Prime . . . the archon begs to be dismissed, explaining that once again Prisantha is involved in some mystery that his superiors would be overjoyed to learn about.

Before he leaves, the archon suggests that some mortal wizards can communicate across the planes using their scrying abilities, and perhaps Prisantha might do the same . . .

Of course!  Prisantha and Elijah travel ethereally to Heydricus' hiding spot and watch with a poignant amusement as he attempts to dress his own burns, his big hands fumbling with the _y'ttre_ cloth.

Prisantha _scrys_  him using drinking water pooled in Elijah's cupped hands and is then able to communicate with him via _message_.  Heydricus is glad to hear that they are safe, and suggests that they might use their etheric state to scout the dungeon.  The main concern is that non-corporeal undead exist partly in the etheric.  Prisantha replies that if any non-corporeal undead are spotted, she will swiftly _teleport _away.

The etheric duo, once again trapped together in a land far away from their companions, venture back to the Tenha mines to have a look around.  They make careful notes of their observations, but no sooner have they entered into the Iuzian-held part of the mine than they spot a desiccated man, dressed in ancient garments and clutching a heavily jeweled rod of office.  The man seems very real, not ghost-like at all, for all that he is shrouded by a black aura.  He leaps forward, and as Prisantha _teleports_ away, he clutches her arm, coming along for the ride.

From Heydricus' point of view, his restless and pain-filled slumber is disrupted by the sudden appearance of a misty, black-shrouded undead creature that smells of grave-dirt, cruelty and rot.  He leaps to his feet, and draws his sword.  The thing recoils as if cut by a pair of invisible blades, and when Heydricus leaps at the foul creature, his sword blow dissolves it into strips of impotent mist.  Confused, Heydricus looks around him for some explanation of what just transpired, but can find none.

Elijah sheathes her swords, and suggests to Prisantha that they rest here, next to Heydricus for the night.

The next day, another _scry_ and _message _later, they _teleport_ to Chendl, to try and get help from the Royal Academy of Magic.  Appearing ethereally in the middle of the greatest school of magic outside of Greyhawk City might not be the wisest thing to do, but fortunately, the wards set against etheric intrusion are set to warn, not kill.  The good news?  Prisantha is able to contact a mage who can restore her and Elijah to the prime, but the bad news?  The mage is Mina, Prisantha's rival at the Academy.  Mina glowingly overcharges Prisantha for her spell-casting services, guessing rightly that the desperate enchantress will have no choice but to submit to her magical price gouging.

-----

Next:  An unexpected reunion makes strange bedfellows of two very handsome men!  And one of them is Heydricus!  Curst is joined in his Eternal Rest!  Who dies?  Who doesn't?  Read on . . .


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## (contact)

Coldeven 9, CY 593

*18:  Wherein it is supposed that sometimes it is best to just sheathe your sword and go home.*

Prisantha takes Elijah back to the mines at Cur'ruth, only to find a strange Pholtan priest engaged in a game of Seers and Sovereigns with Heydricus.  Heydricus (who is loosing badly) feigns surprise and overturns the board.  "Prisantha!  Elijah!  So good to see you!  Meet Tau."

While Pris and Elijah were in Chendl, getting lectured by the Headmaster about the dangers of inadvertent planar travel and counting gold into the hands of an old rival, Heydricus was having a reunion of his own.

Tau is a cleric of Pholtus, a servant of the Blinding Light.  He is primarily a scholar, specializing in the fields of undead lore and genealogy.  He also happens to be a childhood friend of Heydricus.

Between the ages of seven and eleven, the two were thick as thieves. As the only son of a diplomat from the Theocracy of the Pale, Tau was the smallest child at the private school where he was to be educated.  The other foreigner of note was a hulking Tenha named Heydricus, a child who even at that young age stood a head taller than his other classmates.  

They met one day when Heydricus pulled a child off of Tau who had been tormenting him with a handful of dead bugs, hoping to force the smaller boy to eat them.  Heydricus carried the bully bodily across the yard, and deposited him inside a rabbit hutch, head first.

Tau was never picked on again, and the two became inseparable.

When the boys were eleven, Tau's father was recalled to the Pale, forced to submit to The Question, and never seen again.  Tau, showed divine aptitude, and even as a young lad he had the temperament of a scholar.  Thus, he was assigned into an apprenticeship with the Bureau of Genealogy (Lineage and Nobility).  There he excelled, and his natural connection with the divine led him eventually into the clergy, and the study of Metaphysical Events (Negative Material, Undead).

Heydricus, due to his connection with a diplomat's family, had been a name on a thin file in the cellar of a basement in Wintershiven.  But after the killing of Zinvellon made him a hero in the Marklands, his file was 'promoted', and he was watched.  It did not escape the notice of the Pholtan clergy that one of their own had close ties to the Tenha sorcerer.

When Duke Eyeh of Tenh  Beheld the Blinding Light, and converted to the worship of Pholtus, more cynical politicos around the Marklands pointed out that if Nyrond had any money or troops to lend him, Eyeh would have 'converted' himself a Nyrondeese wife.  But from the point of view of many important decision-makers in the Pale, Tenh was first and foremost a Flan state.  In fact, Tenh was the only other 'pure' Flan state remaining, other than the Pale itself.  Thus, it seemed natural to the powers-that-be in the Theocracy that they should lend their support to Eyeh, assuming he could come to an understanding of the One True Faith.

And so he did.  Many important clerics of the Theocracy have long viewed Tenh with something approaching carnal desire.  That they could never convince their compatriots to agree to conquer Tenh held them back, but their intelligence on the place is probably better even than the Old One's.

When word started to circulate that Heydricus of the Temple intended to free Tenh, divinations were cast.  Pholtus was very clear on one point:  "He has at least as much a chance as Eyeh".

Heydricus has spent the last several days waiting primarily for Prisantha and Elijah to extricate themselves out of  a series of predicaments the two women have found themselves in.  Down to three from an original group of thirty-four, the Liberators of Tenh have mauled slaving Stonefisters, come within a hair's breadth of getting themselves poisoned in their sleep, aided and abetted criminals, formed unscrupulous alliances along Tenh's southwestern border and solved mysteries back home, but they have yet to make any Iuzians pay for being Evil.

Heydricus can barely stay in his own skin, he is so itchy to kill, kill kill.  Sometimes, although he doesn't admit it, he grows antsy when he looks up at the sky and realizes that there is no dungeon ceiling over his head, and no monsters in the next room over, waiting to eat his friends or die trying.  

It's amazing what one can get used to.

Heydricus introduces Tau, and takes Prisantha aside to gloat.  "We have a cleric!" 

Prisantha regards Heydricus stonily  "He's Pholtan."

"Undead _hate_ clerics."  Heydricus says with a gleeful smile.

Prisantha sighs.  "He's a ranking Pale theocrat."

"We attack tomorrow."

The discussion is made to use a _teleport _spell to get into the Iuzian-held mines, then cut a swath of destruction while trying to save any of Heydricus' followers who might yet be living.  It's a good plan, and Pholtus willing it would have worked.  But the God of the Blinding Light must have been angry with Heydricus for cheating at Seers and Sovereigns, because Prisantha's _teleport_ lands the party half a mile away from the mines, in a badly exposed flatland.

Tau suggests that he transport the party to the etheric plane, and there they can wait while the assault is delayed a day.

The next morning, Prisantha coolly ignores Heydricus' questioning glance, and confidently _teleports _the group to the border etheric, just outside of the room where Pris and Elijah first discovered the spectre.

They pass ghostlike through the doorway, and find the room empty.  A nearby guard room is passed through, with none of the warriors the wiser.  A pair of strange fleshy statues are examined, and then the group is within the main Iuzian complex.  Shortly thereafter, they spot another spectre.

This spectre is, like the other, dressed in the garments of ancient Tenha royalty, but unlike the other, this one is armed.  Unfortunately for the archaic weapons scholars amongst the group, they never got a chance to see the sword, as it's bearer was cut into ribbons of mist before it could draw the blade.

Tau incants softly as he points his staff skyward.  A pendant dangling from the end of the staff swings against gravity, pointing in a direction that indicates the presence of undead.  They must be non-corporeal to be detectable from the etheric.  The remaining Five Terrors.

"Follow me" Tau says.

The party is forced to join hands as Tau follows the straightest path to the undead - through the 'rock' of the mines.  Upward and southward they go, until they find themselves within a large, circular room.

The Tenha have always held the circle to be a sacred shape.  It represents for them the ways in which life always turns on itself.  The Tenha hold all of their sacred observances within circular chambers like this one.  Unfortunately, like far too many Tenha temples these days, this one also has been _desecrated_, and given over to the worship of Iuz.

This day, the place is crawling with worshippers.  At the altar (a second circular depression that represents the Womb, now of course, the Barren Womb) a handsome well-dressed human faces a room full of mixed Iuzian and Stonefister faithful.  A gnoll is the lone humanoid, and stands alone.  An older man, dressed in the raiment of the Iuzian clergy also observes the rite.

The disturbing part is the five spectres positioned equidistantly around the circle.  That and the fact that the man addressing the faithful also appears solid, indicating that he is at least semi-real in this plane.  The spectres, the Iuzian and the Liberators all notice one another, and for a brief moment that seems to stretch on forever, nothing at all happens.  Then suddenly, everyone is in motion.

The man at the altar casts a spell and suddenly begins to move very rapidly.  A second spell follows immediately on the heels of the first, and he disappears. As the spectres close in on the party, Tau repulses a pair of them with a positive energy burst, and Heydricus goes looking for the mage.

He finds him soon enough.  The mage re-appears in the center of the room, and leads with his best spell:  a grotesque burst of black, cloying death pulses out from the middle of the party's formation.  Prisantha gives a short sigh and falls to the ground, lifeless.  Tau and Elijah manage to resist the death spell, but the spectres seem to be bolstered by the wicked spell.

The ritual attendees begin milling about in a confused way, providing a ghostly backdrop for a desperate fight.

The Iuzian laughs as Heydricus attacks him.  Heydricus' weapons pass harmlessly through the fell necromancer, and he rains spells down on the group at a prodigious rate, blasting Heydricus and Tau with a _lightning bolt_, and draining Elijah with a ray of _enervation. _

Tau struggles against the spectres that are swarming Elijah, tearing at her armor, and driving their putrid flesh-incrusted fingernails deep into her skin.  The spectres seem to be drawing her very breath out of her body, and savoring the cruel torture.

Heydricus, meanwhile falls back to where Prisantha's corpse is floating and attempts to harm the Iuzian mage with _magic missiles_, but to no avail.  The missiles pass harmlessly through the man, as if he were himself an apparition.

Elijah gives a small cry, and perishes, overwhelmed by the spectres and their cold touch.  The mage laughs and watches, unconcerned, as Tau and Heydricus grab the corpses of their fallen and _plane shift _away.  In the heat of battle, the first destination that pops into Tau's mind is the plane closest to his own heart, Mount Celestia.

The Plane of Total Law and Perfect Goodness.

-----

Next:  Tau holds the fate of his fallen companions by the thread of his Faith!


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## (contact)

Coldeven 11

*19:  Wherein a Diefic Personification appears for the first time in this tale.*

The Seven Heavens.  Some say there is no better place.  For those who love Love and do good for Goodness' sake, for those who Obey their Rightful Lords (yet always Govern their Subjects with Temperance), and for those who know that Perfection is Inevitable, there can be no more truthful expression of their ideals than Mount Celestia.

Mount Celestia is a tall mountain, some say impossibly tall.  The petitioners here are engaged in an endless climb to prove their Purity.  The very top of Mount Celestia is as much a spiritual state as it is a physical place.  To the petitioners on the Mount, it is called the Perfection of All Things.  A petitioner reaching the summit can finally exalt his or her soul in a joyful reunion with the essence of Law and Good.  Along the way, one's ability to ascend the heights is determined by his or her level of Devotion and Understanding.

(Editor's Note -- Mount Celestia demands more capital letters than your average plane of existence.)

In this case, Tau has brought the party to a level where his soul feels comfortable, respectably high and far along the Path.    After taking a moment to gain their bearings, and acclimate themselves to the golden glow given off by everything around them, Heydricus and Tau discover that they are very near a small shrine to Pholtus.

Now, the Lord of the Blinding Light does not Himself dwell in the Seven Heavens, but He is certainly not above sending a few of His planar priests to Mount Celestia to help the petitioners there understand the necessity of Obedience.  And quite frankly, after a tour proselytizing in Sigil's market ward, the assignment seems like heaven.  Literally.

Tau and Heydricus make their way to the shrine, where a handful of Pholtans are haranguing weary petitioners.  The priests recognize Tau's robes, and greet him cheerily (or what passes for cheerily amongst priests of the Lawgiver).

Tau and Heydricus rest wearily and wait for their blood to settle.  When he has regained his compsure, the Scholarly priest, late of Wintershiven, breifs his compatriots.  They are horrified to hear of his struggle against Chaos, and invite Tau and Heydricus to rest.  

When they discuss the fate of the dead Liberators, it becomes clear that Heydricus will not accept their fate.  He vows out loud (a gesture of Power in Mount Celestia) to do whatever it takes to return the two deadliest women in his life back to life.

The Pholtans from the shrine and Tau put their heads together and return with this verdict:  The two women were killed by death magic, and as such, they cannot be brought back with raise dead.  Stronger magic will be necessary, and no one at the shrine can cast such powerful spells.

The senior priest suggests that Tau might petition Pholtus himself for a one-time use of such power.  The priest leads Tau to the back of the shrine, where even the midday sun seems dimmed by the light beaming from an opening, leading back into a sunlit crevasse in the Mount.

Tau tightens his belt, and steps through the doorway, hoping to convince his God to lay His hand on the brows of these non-believers and bring their souls back to their mortal shells.

Tau is forced to navigate using his sense of touch, as the Light blinds his eyes.  Stripped of sight, he is keenly aware of the subtle changes that take place as he shifts deeper into the Light.  The benevolence of the Seven Heavens fades some, and is replaced by a stern, unblinking certainty.  Pholtus has the Way and the Truth.  Praise His Name that he has set Tau above mortal men.

Apparently Pholtus knows why his faithful cleric has come, for he does not greet Tau by naming his cryptic names, nor does he mince words.  When the Lord of the Blinding Light speaks, Tau feels it through his whole being:  "Tau of Wintershiven, explain to Me why you would have me return these heathens to their former lives?"

-----

Next:  Pholtus tests his priest, and Tau must justify himself to Himself, if you know what I mean . . .


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## (contact)

Meta-game notes:



> Originally posted by (contact):
> *When they discuss the fate of the dead Liberators, it becomes clear that Heydricus will not accept their fate.  He vows out loud (a gesture of Power in Mount Celestia) to do whatever it takes to return the two deadliest women in his life back to life.*




Taking a vow in the Seven Heavens has the effect of putting the oath-swearer under a _geas_ spell.

Elijah, should have become a spectre, but her corpse was transferred to the Seven Heavens before the negative-material energy could do its dirty work. 

Thus, when the two Liberators return to the prime, they cannot take Elijah with them for fear of loosing her forever to the Cold Grip of Undeath.


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## (contact)

Coldeven 11

*20:  Storming the gates of Heaven *

Heydricus rests and examines his wounds.  A young Pholtan priest approaches him, and calls upon Pholtus to return Heydricus to his proper state, in accordance with the Laws of the Body.  In exchange, Heydricus keeps his opinions to himself as the young cleric drones on about Obedience, the Law and Servitude.

After an hour or so (the sun never moves from its position at the top of the sky), Tau exits the Pholtan shrine.  He looks distracted, and reports that Pholtus will not restore Prisantha and Elijah to life.  Tau fends off Heydricus' questions about his divine interview.

Two of the shrine clerics exchange knowing glances, and whisper something to each other about "the Question".

Heydricus takes Tau aside and explains that hope is not yet lost.  King Belvor of Furyondy promised the party a favor in exchange for their information about Thrommel's capture.  Heydricus intends to collect that favor in the form of a pair of_ resurrections. _ Elijah's status as an undead monstrosity awaiting a negative material infusion prevent her from leaving the outer planes, so Tau beseeches the Prelate of the shrine to care for her body until help can be summoned.  Prisantha's body is bundled and prepared for travel.

Tau_ plane shifts _the two childhood friends, hoping to arrive back in the prime material somewhere near Furyondy.  As fate (or Pholtus) would have it, the duo appears on a dusty road near Veluna, the duo's old stomping grounds.

After rummaging through their mostly empty coin purses, Heydricus points out that an old friend of his lives in Veluna who might put them up for the night.

The two adventurers walk into the bustling city, bloody, dirty and burdened by a person-sized bundle slung over the shoulder of the huge sorcerer.  Traveling East from the marketplace, they find themselves in a well-to-do neighborhood composed of small residences surrounding larger villas.  Heydricus leads them to one of the villas, a modest home by Chendl's standards, but palatial to the eyes of the Wintershiven priest.

A young woman, petite and red-headed, is working in the flower-garden that surrounds the approach to the main house.  She stands up and squints at the travelers, silhouetted against the afternoon sun.  When they get closer, the woman barks out "Heydricus!  Gods alive, I thought  you were dead!"

"Hello, Alli," Heydricus says in his warmest voice.

"I'd hoped you were dead, anyway, you rat-loving sloth merchant!"  Alli grips her garden shears in the unmistakable pose of a seasoned back alley knife-fighter.

"It's good to see you too," Heydricus says as he drops Prisantha's body into the freshly planted flowers.  "Is Millia home?"

"She's never home when you come calling, you fatherless dog-scratching vagrant."  Alli growls as she steps forward.

Alli pauses and squints at the bundle in her garden.  "Is that . . . Gods, Heydricus . . . is that a corpse?"

"Not for long,"  Heydricus cheerily replies, and walks up to the porch.  "Come along, Tau, I'll fix us some bitter-sweet water."

"The hell you will!"  Alli starts to say when she is interrupted by a new arrival.

A tall, raven-haired woman, older than Heydricus and beautiful in that way that young women can never be, is standing over the body of Prisantha.  She is dressed in finery, and her jewelry is expensive, if subtly stated.  She stares at the sorcerer and quietly adjusts the neckline of her dress, lowering it ever so slightly.  "Heydricus," she says, and allows the name to linger on her tongue.

"Millia,"  Heydricus says with a smile.  He bounds off the porch in one sure stride and takes her hand in his, kissing it.  "Allow me to introduce my companion Tau of Wintershiven, Loremaster of Pholtus, Mendicant of the Blinding Light."

"You're filthy."  Millia states in a distant and distracted voice as she stares into Heydricus' amber eyes.

"Ah, you remember."  Heydricus whispers.  He turns back to the porch and moves inside.  "Alli," he begins in an authoritative tone, "take the body into the stables, but for the love of Tritherion don't unpack it.  Tau, let's get cleaned up.  Millia, it is my most fervent wish that you will join us for dinner.  Shall we say,"  Heydricus looks at the sun, "sevenish?"

Coldeven, the 12th 

Alli confronts Heydricus once more in the morning, warning him that Millia's_ new _betrothed is an Upright and Industrious man, and certainly won't stand for any of Heydricus' rooting about.  She also points out the dubious pedigree of Heydricus' line, and implies rather strongly that he fornicates with lower beasts.  Heydricus, for his part, assures her that the dagger she has concealed under her shift won't be necessary, as he plans to leave directly, and would she be a dear and pack a trail-meal for two?

As Heydricus and Tau are taking their leave, and as Heydricus is exchanging soft words with Millia under the withering gaze of Alli, a young gentleman of Veluna arrives, replete in a black, stiff, reactionary tunic, and the ruffled collar of the financial servitors of the court.  He is also sporting a pair of jealous eyes that he is boring into Millia and Heydricus, and a sextet of Royal Guardsmen.

"Toban!  At last!"  Alli cries, with a triumphant glance at Heydricus.  To the guards she says, "You can find the_ victim _in the stables, officer!  This will teach you to come nosing about your betters you wretch!"  This last was, of course directed towards Heydricus.  "No offense, Father," she says to Tau.

"Right!"  The Guards-Captain barks.  You two," he says pointing at Heydricus and Tau, "stay where you are!  You," he says to his guards, "search the stables!"

Heydricus' eyes narrow and he steps off the porch, throwing back his cloak and revealing the platinum pin identifying him as a Knight of Veluna.  "What is the meaning of this, Captain?"

The Royal Guard's mouth falls open, and he steps back a pace.  "I . . . Sir!  My Lord!  I was investigating a report of a murder, sir!"

Heydricus stands up to his full height.  "Do you imply that a Knight of the Realm would commit a murder, Captain?"

"No sir!"  The guard barks.

"Then, your work here is done."

"Yes, sir!"

"Captain," Heydricus begins, "I commend you on your zeal to serve the Crown.  My companion and I require transport to Chendl.  It is a matter of the greatest urgency.  Find and commandeer a passenger coach, then return here at once."

"Yes, your Lordship, at once!"  The guard barks.  "Men!  With me!  To the market!"

Heydricus looks at Tau, "That was fortunate."

A few moments later, the guard arrives with a cart and buggy, driven by an older Velunan male, who seems thoroughly unexcited by this surprising opportunity to serve the Crown.  As the coach pulls away from the villa, with Prisantha's ripening corpse secured to the baggage rack, Heydricus watches the scowling and cursing Alli, the frightened and furious Toban, and Millia, a curious dream-like half smile on her face.

"It's good to have friends, Tau."  Heydricus says.  "Now, I stole this wine from the house, what say you we get drunk?"

The coach arrives in Chendl late the next evening.  Heydricus and Tau direct the driver to the High Court, and instruct him where he might find payment for his day's journey.  That settled, Heydricus leads Tau through the maze-like interior of the place, looking for Esril.

They find the swordswoman of Chendl engaged in her devotions to Kelanen.  She is briefed and sets out to find Belvor.  The King is still in his night-gown when he hustles into the training room.

"My Lord the King," Heydricus begins, "I have come for the favor you promised . . ."

Heydricus and Tau, Royal Writ in hand, walk to the Temple of Tritherion and approach Halrond with the Entreaty and Command, signed by the King himself, to "withhold no effort in the cause of the Crown, as commanded by your lawful ruler, to resurrect the Lady Prisantha, and her common companion Elijah".

Halrond reads the letter, and marks the serious look on Heydricus' face.  "Very well," he addresses his under-priests, "prepare the body for resurrection."  Halrond turns back to Heydricus and Tau.  "We will have her back before full moon.  And your Elijah tomorrow.  Prepare an assault squad."

Tau is left in Chendl, but Heydricus is needed to guide the Tritherion band as they_ plane shift _Mount Celestia, knocking petitioners from their path, and raiding the shrine to Law.  Heydricus, while a bit shocked at the commando tactics chosen by Halrond, is nonetheless impressed.  No one is harmed in the careful raid, and by the time Heydricus' head can clear from the_ plane shift _back to the prime, Elijah is sitting up groggily, asking for water.

Heydricus, as excited as he's been since Zinvellon died, exclaims to himself, "Tritherion_ kicks ass!"_

-----

Next: The Iuzians Get What's Coming, and Mayhem Ensues: 35 beings are sliced into ribbons, bludgeoned to death, fully incinerated, flayed severely, roasted with Holy Napalm, and fried with electrical force! Will any of those be Liberators?  Stay tuned!


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## (contact)

Coldeven 14

*21:  Finding Iuzians and handing them pain.*

With the party united and alive, the motion is carried four-against-naught to find that mage and make him pay for the deaths of Prisantha and Elijah.  And Curst of course, Elijah adds after some thought.  Right.  Make them pay for what they didn't do to the accountant.

The party casts defensive spells on themselves, then uses _plane shift_ and to approach the mines ethereally.  Once there, they spot the Artificer Suel, surrounded by the Seven Terrors, hard at work in a large storage room that has been converted into a Necromantic workshop.  The vast majority of the space is covered by an arcane circle, and the circle itself is filled with corpses, strung and stitched together with intestine thread and skin cloth.  Readying themselves in the etheric, the party shifts into reality . . .

. . . and Heydricus attacks from behind and slices Suel into three separate pieces.  Just like that.  Anticlimactic?  You bet, but that rat-bastard had it comin'.

Tau focuses the Blinding Light of Pholtus into a burst of positive energy, and scatters the Seven Terrors to the wind.  A quick_ detect magic _spell reveals that Suel was carrying no less than four magical wands, some leather wrist-bands, a cloak, a ring, an amulet, a scroll and three potions.  Heydricus starts looting the corpse, and apparently, the sight of the Seven Terrors fleeing for their unlives was enough to set off the alarm, as the main doors leading out of the room are flung open by a pair of hill giants.

The giants storm into the room, and start swatting PCs with morningstars made out of logs and track spikes.  Stonefisters come screaming into the room from two other doors, and either take up positions on a cat-walk overlooking the room or charge into melee.

Tau is quick to act, and as Heydricus starts laying waste around him with his sword, the cleric of Pholtus _summons_ three celestial bears to the catwalk to do battle with the barbarians up there.  Prisantha targets a group of ettins coming in behind the Men of the Fist and _charms_ the first one stupid enough to put his heads through the door.  Elijah moves out, and tries to keep the giants from reaching her friends, to little avail.

The party is cornered, and while a _flame strike_ from Tau combined with the steel of Heydricus and Elijah stop the first wave, the second is not far behind.  More hill giants lumber in, along with another pair of ettins. Prisantha protects her flank with a_ grease _spell.

Tau's bears begin throwing Stonefisters off of the balcony with surprising regularity, but the Men of the Stone Fist are no slouches when it comes to slaughtering helpless children . . . er, _summoned bears_.  The Stonefisters finish off the last bear with the help from a _magic missile _spell flying in from the door leading off the balcony.  The _missiles _have the appearance of ghostly crossbow quarrels radiating a black light and dripping with ichor.

As the PCs fight a desperate struggle not to be overrun by giants and barbarians, a withered, desiccated figure limps in onto the catwalk, flanked on either side by thirteen-foot-tall Stonefist warriors.  He is shriveled and wrinkly, his eyes sunken deep into his sockets and glowing with a red, feral light.  His old, threadbare robes are licking with a purple, dancing flame that seems to make his bodyguards uncomfortable.  Martak the Undying, may I present the Liberators of Tenh, avowed enemy of liches everywhere.  

From his point of view, Martak can only see Heydricus, as the remaining Liberators are directly underneath the walkway.  He knows they are there, because he can see the giants attacking them, but he cannot target them with spells, without harming his fodder, er . . ._ junior associates_.  So be it.  You don't get to be six hundred and seventy without learning enough patience to wait thirty seconds or so before blasting off all your_ fireballs_.

And besides, that's what_ cone of cold _is for.  Martak calls the withering storm of ice and frigid air, and directs it at Heydricus, who is at the moment standing alone, having run out of giants to kill.

Did I mention Heydricus kicks ass?

The _cone of cold _surrounds and freezes the Tenha sorcerer, leaving his skin frostbit and his hair covered in ice.  Martak narrows his glowing red eyes in surprise and displeasure.  Someone just survived his _cone of cold_.  There is a first time for everything, they say.

Well, thank Iuz for _lightning bolt_.  

Tau steps out from under the catwalk, and invokes the name of his god, summoning another positive energy burst.  The burst nearly repulses the lich, and Martak screams out the command for his giants to "kill that priest!"

Prisantha, for her part, sets a_ dispel magic_ in the air near where she could hear the high pitched command.  The purple flames disappear from his body, and Martak contradicts himself for the last time:  "Kill _whoever cast that spell_ first!"

The giants and Stonefisters hasten to obey, and in the process turn their backs on Elijah and Heydricus, all in all, not a healthy thing to do.  The battlefield is soon littered with bodies, giant and Stonefister alike, and Elijah is finding it difficult to find her footing in all the blood.

A pair of dire wolves lope into the room, their tongues lolling out of their mouths.  They circle the fight, looking for openings.

Martak, as promised, arcs a _lightning bolt _from his fingertips hoping to incinerate the upstart giant (Heydricus is 12' tall when _enlarged_) in a storm of electrical destruction.  Unfortunately for the lich, Heydricus manages to leap out of the way, avoiding the worst of it.

Elijah backs away from the melee to tend to her own grevious wounds, when she is suddenly struck from behind!  Melting out of the shadows is a gnoll, a hyena-headed humanoid, standing a full seven feet tall wearing studded leather armor and wielding a dire flail.  He mutters, "I'll make this hurt," as he lashes Elijah with the dual heads of his weapon.  She takes a step back and cuts him neatly across the chest, too badly wounded for pithy rejoinders.

Meanwhile, Tao concentrates on his faith and strikes Martak with the_ purifying flame _of Pholtus.  A milky, whitish flame leaps into being, covering the lich and burning him terribly.  Worse yet, it does not extinguish itself, but continues to burn him with righteousness.

Martak looks through the large double doors into the hallway beyond, and screams "Ra-Mohn!  Don't just stand there, _fight them_!"  Tau follows the liches' gaze, and thinks he might see a faint outline where an invisible creature could be standing.  Following Prisantha's lead, he casts _dispel magic_, revealing the form of a massive figure, wearing full plate armor and carrying a disturbingly large two-handed morningstar.  

His armor is marked with the holy symbol of Iuz.  Ra-Mohn is humanoid, but covered in black scales.  A pair of bat-like wings protrude from his back, and a row of small horns line his face.

To Tau's eyes, he looks diabolical, but Heydricus knows better.  Memories of the fight with Lareth in the fens outside of the Moathouse come to mind, and Heydricus recognizes where the being's reptilian features come from:  His black dragon father.

No doubt, Ra-Mohn would have been a fearsome opponent.  Had he received an opportunity to use his divinely-granted gifts in battle, surely the Iuzians would have won.  As things played out, however, once Tau's _dispel magic_ revealed the lurking priest, Prisantha promptly _feebleminded_ him.

Ra-Mohn suddenly forgets what the big, black stick he was carrying is for, and sits down to examine the shine on his boots a little more closely.

As Ra-Mohn suddenly finds himself exploring the axiom _ignorance is bliss_, the gnoll lashes out at Elijah, raking both heads of his dire flail across her torso, shredding skin and breaking bones.  Elijah falls to the ground with a sharp cry, her life's blood oozing forth.

Heydricus, enraged, finishes off the giant he has been whittling down, and with the same mighty stroke, slices one of the dire wolves almost completely in two.  The Master Inquisitor howls in agony and grief, and in a weird barking voice curses Heydricus and challenges him.

Heydricus turns and starts striding toward the gnoll, lashing out as he does so at the second dire wolf, severing its spine and killing it instantly.  He takes a giant-step (apologies to Coltraine), and strikes at the Master Inquisitor, rolling not just one, but a double critical, smiting the torturer and imbeds his sword in the gnoll's chest, by way of his forehead.

As the _grease _spell dissipates, Prisantha rushes over to Heydricus' side.  Martak, able for the first time to actually see all of the adventurers attacking him, unleashes his ace-in-the-hole, a _chain lightning_.  He targets Heydricus as the primary recipient, with bursts arcing out toward the other PCs.  Elijah and Tau are sorely wounded, and in Tau's case, it proves to be the second to last straw.

The last straw being a Stonefister greatsword.

Tau and Elijah are both lying (rather uncomfortably) in rapidly-growing pools of their own blood, and Prisantha tells Heydricus "I'm out of spells."  Heydricus is debating the moral consequences to abandoning his friends using a _teleport _spell, when Prisantha decides the issue.  

Reaching into Heydricus' backpack, Prisantha removes one of Suel's wands.  She points it at the burning lich and mentally closes the gap between the wand's potential and it's effect.

Prisantha fervently hopes she didn't pick the _invisibility_ wand.

A ball of red-hot flame begins at a point just in front of Martak, and spreads until it has engulfed the lich, both of his giant bodyguards and the lone Stonefister remaining on the catwalk.  The Man of the Fist probably gave a scream as he fell from his perch, but it was drowned out by Martak's cry of impotent fury, and his desperate attempt to flee the catwalk.  Unfortunately, in the confusion, he runs into his massive bodyguard, and is unable to reach the door.

Heydricus is laying about him with his sword, cutting down the remaining Stonefisters and ettins with a gleeful expression on his face.  He doesn't verbalize it, but it is obvious to Prisantha that with each blow, he is thinking "Take that!  And that!"

Prisantha coolly aims her new favorite wand and sets off another _fireball_, then another, until the villains on the catwalk are nothing more than smoldering corpses.

As the last of the Stonefisters fall, Heydricus looks at his two fallen companions, and after a moment's hesitation, rushes to Tau's side.  He opens a healing potion, and pours it down the cleric's throat, breathing a sigh of relief as Tau sits up.  Tau examines Elijah, and is able to cure her wounds by reminding Pholtus of the Ancient Pact between Priest and Master.

As Tau empties his spell repertoire mending Elijah's broken bones, knitting the tears in her skin, and restoring her lost blood, Heydricus shuts the large double doors to the room, and begins searching the battlefield for magical loot.

Tau peeks out the doors and sees that Stonefisters are mustering in the courtyard outside.  The party determines to do the following: Prisantha can _teleport_ only two other characters to safety.  Elijah, of the four of them, has the best chances to escape on foot.  Thus, Elijah drinks a potion of _spiderclimbing _and is made invisible.  Within moments, the Stonefisters begin battering down the doors and Prisantha whisks her men away on the wings of a spell.  Elijah waits until the Stonefister's initial battle-rage dies down, then sneaks into the dungeons beneath Cur'ruth. 

Guarding the entrance to the Tenha mines (facing the Tenha, of course), Elijah discovers a pair of disturbing things.  Statues, or so it would seem, made from men.  Many different men, apparently - an arm from one, the torso of another, and head of another still.  Fortunately, they do not spot Elijah (if they are, in fact, animate, and not some ghoulish ruse to frighten the Tenha into obedience).

Elijah creeps _invisible_ and unheard through the mines, observing the gentle Tenha as they go about their daily tasks.  She finds the Aiman, and whispers into his ear "All the hill giants are dead.  A score of the Fisters are dead.  Suel is dead.  The Master Inquisitor is dead, Ra-Mohn might as well be dead, and Martak 'the Undying' needs a new name. 

"We'll go back tomorrow for the rest of them, but you had better get your people into hiding, in case some drunken scumbag decides to go on a killing spree.  We'll _scry_ you, and tell you when it's safe."

-----

Next:  Cur'ruth falls to the Liberators of Tenh! . . . Unless it doesn't.


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## (contact)

Coldeven 15

*22:  "Hokaay!  I re-looaded!"*

That evening, expecting to sleep the untroubled sleep of the vindicator, Heydricus finds himself having a strange dream.  In it, he is watching Halrond, who is dressed in unfamiliar ceremonial robes and leading a ritual service in a part of the temple Heydricus has never been allowed in.  In the dream, Heydricus knows that the ceremony, including its locations and trappings, are very secret, and quite rare.  Somehow, he is permitted, no -- _commanded_ to be present.  While Heydricus is not in the room, he is watching the event, and strangely enough, Halrond and his under-priests are all directing their attention toward a pile of adventuring gear:  Heydricus' gear.

Waking from the dream, the huge hero slowly readjusts to his surroundings.  Tau is up and reading, Pris is practicing drawing her _feeblemind _components from the series of pouches she wears across her chest, and Elijah is staring at him.  "Tea's ready," the hard-bitten ranger says as she gets up and leaves the cave.

"I need to go to Chendl."  Heydricus states.

This causes a brief flurry of objections and arguments.  What about the mines?  What about the possibility that your men are alive?  Heydricus explains that he received a vision from Tritherion in the night.  When a God commands you to jump, you don't say "not now".  (Unless that god is Iuz, and then you say "What?  I'm sorry, I couldn't make that out.  Did you say 'put my priesthood to the sword'?")

But weighing the urgency with which he awoke against the possibility that some of his men might survive puts Heydricus in the mood to compromise:  We'll attack Cur'ruth in the morning, and I'll _teleport_ to Chendl this afternoon.

Tau quietly suggests that before they go, they consult with Pholtus.  The party puts their heads together and comes up with a list of questions for the Big Guy.  The Liberators are primarily concerned with the lich Martak, and the possibility that they may not find his phylactery.  The fate of the Seven Terrors is a concern, as is the disposition of any remaining constructs.

Tau sits comfortably, chants a few paragraphs of the Wintershiven  Civil Code to set the mood, and casts his_ commune_.  

He begins with "Once he reforms, does Martak plan to stage an immediate assault here?", to which Pholtus replies,

"Tau of Wintershiven, is this how you greet your Lord and Master?"

Tau feels the Scolding Voice of Pholtus throughout his whole being, and goes silent.  The other Liberators look at one another, and politely wait for Tau to continue.  After the spell ends, Tau looks up, pale and shaken.  The scholar of Wintershiven, who fought the first real battle of his life last night, reports the following:

Martak will reform, but currently does not exist.  He will not reform sooner than three days from now.  His phylactery is within a one-mile radius of the mines, and is hidden well.  The Stonefisters are ready to defend the mines, but fortunately the constructs are not under direct control.  There are less than five constructs remaining.  None of Heydricus' captured followers live, but the Cur'ruth Tenha themselves are in no immediate danger. 

A mixed bag, if mostly good news.  Many of the party's suspicions were confirmed.  But the last news may very well be the worst.  When asked "Are the spectres in control," the reply from Pholtus was "No, those who command the spectres are."

The party prepares themselves, and with Elijah in the lead, reverts to their traditional ToEE approach - sneak in through the back door.  The Tenha-controlled section of the mines is empty of people, as the Aiman promised.  

Tau uses his staff to search for undead, and it indicates that while there are undead nearby, they are above the party and to the south - the direction of last night's battle.

As they approach the guard room where Elijah spotted the two strange fleshy constructs, the party prepares itself with magic.  Heydricus casts_ haste _and_ enlarges _both himself and Elijah (much to her delight), while Tau _blesses_ the group and Prisantha causes_ mirror images_of herself to spring into being.

Thus readied, the Liberators of Tenh charge into the guardroom, striking the golems with fire, and unleashing a whirlwind of sword blows down upon . . . the statues.  The 'golems' wither and fall apart under the assault of the heroes, revealing them to be nothing more than fleshy sculptures, placed here as scarecrows to keep curious Tenha from the Iuzian quarters.

The door they guard is a thick stone door, but it proves to be no match for Heydricus' magically enhanced strength.  The giant-sized Liberator puts his shoulder to the door, shattering it's hinges and propelling him into the room beyond . . . 

. . . where he is immediately attacked by a pair of real flesh golems!  Elijah leaps into the room beside him, preventing either Tau or Pris to get much of a look at the battle.  Tau covers their back and readies healing spells, bolstering Elijah, who is struck once and again by huge fleshy fists.

Fortunately, these golems don't seem to be made very well, and after a few sword swipes, they fall in pieces to the stone floor.  The party examines the door beyond, this one  only of wood, and Heydricus confidently smiles over his shoulder as he rushes the portal, shattering it into splinters with one mighty blow.

What happens next can only be termed a massacre.

The party finds themselves at the base of a long stairwell leading up.  They charge up the stairs and emerge in the large circular chamber_ desecrated_ and made unholy to Iuz.  (The very same chamber where they suffered their worst defeat in Tenh at the hands of Suel the Artificer.)

This time, they are in the material plane, as are all of their foes:  twenty Men of the Stone Fist stand in small groups around the room, a few of which are sharing some sort of unholy intimacy with an Iuzian priest.  A handful of ettins guards the far door.  A lone spectre slips out of the room through the wall.

Every head in the place has turned to the sound of the door splintering and footsteps pounding up from where no footsteps should come.  As the Liberators of Tenh emerge into the room, there is a brief pause that is broken first by one, then ten, then ten more cries of rage as every Stonefister in the room charges the heroes.

Bad call.

With all of the small groups converging on one spot, Tau calms his mind and calls into being a_ blade barrier. _ The whirling disk of razor-sharp blades begins at a spot near the center of the room, and spirals outward in a staccato frenzy of sharp smacking sounds, blood-spray and screams of pain. In a gore-spattered instant the spell finally stops expanding near the base of the stairwell, covering the backs of the Stonefisters attacking Heydricus with their companion's viscera.

The pathetic ettins, who had the furthest to charge, are hamstrung, two of them falling into the razor-blade whirlwind, and the other two stumbling clear.

Clear, that is if you call covered in blood and cringing in front of an_ enlarged, hasted_, Heydricus 'in the clear'.

Prisantha _slows_ the combatants on this side of the _blade barrier_ reducing their offensive capability to almost nothing.  Elijah and Heydricus chop and slash into their foes with a zeal that could only be described as Cuthbertian.

When Heydricus feels a familiar tingling sensation and suddenly realizes his_ haste _has been dispelled, he looks up across the_ blade barrier _to see the one enemy that didn't charge them.  This fellow is a Stonefister to be sure, of Suloise stock like the rest, but he is dressed in the robes of an Iuzian priest, and he just_ dispelled _Heydricus' _haste_.

"Spellcaster!"  Heydricus yells, pointing with his sword toward the back of the room.

Prisantha calmly pulls out one of Suel's scrolls, and reads the_ cloudkill _spell the dire Artificer had meant for her.  With a flourish, she directs the cloud of roiling, poisonous gas to congeal around the priest, choking him and the Stonefisters surrounding him, and turning the skin of their corpses black.

A pair of Stonefisters raise their hands in surrender, and back away from Heydricus and Elijah, only to walk into the_ blade barrier_.  The surviving Fisters turn tail and flee, albeit at half their normal rate.  The only survivors are those who were prevented by the_ slow _spell from ever getting too near the melee.  

As Tau heals Elijah's wounds, the group watches the surviving Stonefisters -- four from an original twenty-one -- run at a comically retarded pace.  In no hurry, the party edges around their own deadly spell-effect areas, and follows the_ slowed _barbarians.

The fleeing men lead the Liberators through the top-level of the complex and finally come to ground in a chamber just to the south of the catwalk that Martak burned to death on.  Carefully stepping over the puddle of sticky_ purified _goo, the party is displeased to note that the victims of yesterday's battle have not been moved.

The Stonefisters retreat into a corner of a long room that is covered on one side by arrow slits.  While Heydricus and Elijah try to figure out what "Uthul alaha nam Imsh!  Imsh al Skurge alaha!" means, and convince the Fisters to surrender like civilized barb . . . well, give up their weapons, the rest of the group have a look through the arrow slits.

As if the morning hadn't been strange enough already, Pris and Tau see another score of Stonefisters trying to build siege weapons.  Siege weapons?  Who ever heard of barbarians laying siege to their own fort?

"No matter,"  Prisantha begins as she removes Suel's wand of_ fireballs _from the hem of her dress.  "This will discourage them."

And four_ fireballs_ later, she is proven right, as the Men of the Fist flee into the rising sun.  As the light gets better (partially due to flaming siege towers) the group can see that the Stonefister tent city is nearly gone, having been burned and sacked during the night.

Heydricus finally gets frustrated with his captives, and chases them off, figuring that every minute he spends trying to communicate with them is another minute he can't spend looking at whatever Prisantha is _fireballing_.

As near as anyone can tell, the following occurred during the night:  The two score Stonefisters mustering to attack the party after their midday raid must have split into two drunken groups, fighting one another over the complex.  

The 'inside' barbarians versus the 'outside' barbarians, and here come the Liberators of Tenh to kill you all.

-----

Next: Tau discovers a life altering secret, the Liberators travel back to Curruth only to recieve tragic news, with Frightening Overtones and Heydricus follows his dreams into the presence of a God.


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## (contact)

Coldeven 15

*23:  A Step Forward*

As their breathing returns to normal, the Liberators watch the barbarians at the gate flee for their lives, ducking _fireballs_ from Prisantha's New Favorite Wand all the way.

The small matter of control over the mines at Curruth has been resolved in the most irrevocable and decisive fashion possible.  Their enemy's blood still damp in their hair, the party turns its attention to keeping the vile Iuzian lich Martak in his shallow grave.

Divinations have led them to believe that Martak's phylactery is nearby, but a thorough search turns up only the plundered wealth of Tenh's northern regions.  There is not enough looted gold in all of Dorraka to buy a good night's sleep when the soul of the foul necromancer is not at rest.

Tau shifts the group into the border etheric in order to search for hidden chambers.  They find a recessed shrine to the Flan pantheon that somehow escaped the notice of the occupying Iuzian priests.  In the shrine, Tau is overjoyed to discover a fully-intact book on Flan folk worship, dating back hundreds of years!

In addition to the secret chamber in the westernmost guardian statue, they discover that the easternmost statue is also hollow, but has no passageways connecting it to the rest of the complex.  It is apparently only accessed via transportative magic, or inter-planar travel.

The area directly inside the statue's head is connected to a much larger chamber leading back into the cliff face.  It is certainly the lair of the lich, and the detritus of many abominable and unspeakable experiments litter the place.  While monetary treasure and the lich's spellbooks are readily found, there is no sign of the phylactery.  Fortunately, Elijah spots a masterfully concealed hollow in the floor, and after Tau _dispels_ the wards surrounding it, the group finds their target:  a small scroll, covered in runes of necromantic evil, inside a sculpture crafted to resemble a human heart.  Or a human heart treated to resemble a sculpture.  It is difficult to tell.

One _flame strike_ later, problem solved.  


_Metagame note:  The secret chamber was found only with a DC 30 search check, made on the number, and was warded with both a _slay living_ and a _feeblemind_ spell.  Tau was fortunately able to _dispel_ the magical trap._

The other object with the phylactery is a book-- not a spellbook, but obviously magical, and crafted from human skin and bone.  Prisantha carefully gathers the fell tome into a cloth and stores it away for later examination.

Heydricus asks Tau and Elijah to keep a watch at Curruth, explaining that he must go to Halrond and the Temple of Tritherion, in accordance with his dream of the previous night.  They hope to gather Prince Thrommel from his _ressurection_-bed and free Jespo from the debtor's gaol.  Elijah looks less than pleased at spending time alone with the solemn scholar, but acquiesces easily enough.

This time, Prisantha's _teleport_ is right on the number.  She and Heydricus arrive hand in hand outside of Esril's chambers in the King's palace at Chendl.  They immediately notice a pungent herbal smell in the air, and looking about, they see that the place is uncharacteristically neat and tidy.  Worse, Esril's belongings are not present.

But why on earth would she leave?

The duo move out into the hallways of the Swordplay Wing, and encounter an old laundry-woman cursing at the bundle of clean sheets she has dropped.  They question her about Esril's whereabouts, and are answered with a pitying gaze from the woman's rheumy eyes. 

"Oh dears," she clucks, "noone's told you?  Miss Esril passed away three days ago.  I'm so sorry, honey, you must be her relatives come for her things.  You missed the wake, shame of it all.  Weren't nobody but some of us servants there to mourn her, no proper family.  She was always so kind to us, never a cross word."

The old woman goes on to explain that Esril's belongings defaulted to the King, as she died without any known relatives or heirs.  When questioned about the circumstances, the woman makes the sign against pox. 

"Disease, I'm afraid.  Came on so suddenly, and she died within days.  The King's own physician was with her, but he couldn't help it.  So sad."

Heydricus and Prisantha search Esril's quarters carefully, but find only the much-scrubbed bloodstains on the mattress and headboard as proof that Esril ever lived there.  Apparently, the sword-mistress of Chendl bled profusely from her mouth and ears before she passed on.  Prisantha grimly removes the charm against disease stuffed between the mattress and the wall, and looks at Heydricus.

"Death is only a condition," he says.  "And I'm not convinced that she is dead.  After all, the King doted on her.  Belvor himself could have cured her disease, if it came to that.  Something strange is afoot here."

Prisantha suggests that they wash as much Iuzian blood out of their clothes and hair as they can before presenting themselves at the temple of Tritherion.  After turning the clean towels pink, Prisantha and Heydricus use their _hats of disguise_ to finish the job.  They quietly slip out of the palace, and into the Chendl night.

The home of Halrond, Prolocutor of Tritherion, is in the Old Post quarter.  An edifice dating back to when Furyondy was an outpost of the Great Kingdom, its' open-air sprawls echo the architecture of a much warmer climate.  Uncharacteristically, there is an honor-guard standing at attention outside the villa.

"Sir Heydricus!" the watch-captain barks.  "We are expecting you."

Apparently, Tritherion has sent dreams to everyone involved, and when Heydricus and Prisantha enter the villa, they find Halrond dressed in his faith's formal uniform along with Dabus, Ruton, and Benwyn, the three other top-ranking clerics of the Tritherion faith in Chendl.

They take Heydricus into an adjoining room where ceremonial objects have been prepared.  Halrond explains that Tritherion has instructed him to lead Heydricus in a ritual of investiture, where he is to be made a holy warrior of the faith.  It is a calling, not a choice, Halrond explains, and all the priests regard Heydricus with a mixture of jealousy and awe.

Prisantha, meanwhile, is made comfortable on the divan in the open-air courtyard, and fed delicacies.  At her request, books from Halrond's personal library are made available, but as the hours drag past with no further sign of Heydricus, Prisantha dozes off.

Fifteen hours from the moment he entered the sanctum, the Lazy Sorcerer of Dyvers emerges, resplendent in silver-gold chainmail and carrying a new sword and long-spear.  He stands over the sleeping Prisantha for a moment, and then picks her up in his arms, trying to be gentle, but waking her nonetheless.

Prisantha's eyes flutter open dreamily, and realizing her position, she leaps from Heydricus' arms, blushing deeply.  The two are led to a room where a feast has been prepared, although the food has grown cold waiting on the overnight vigil to be complete.

Heydricus eats like a starving man, almost single-handedly emptying the feast table, and relates the tale of his investiture:  

As the priests invoked the name of their God, chanting secret passages, Heydricus became aware of a misty world coming into being around him.  He found himself at one end of a massive audience hall, its walls lined with Titans standing at military attention.  Seated on a throne at the hall's far end was a glowing figure of a man that dwarfed even the Titans, with a long sword across his knees, a spear in his left hand and a scepter in his right.  The weapons were covered in dried blood.  On the God's right shoulder perched a hawk, and at his right side sat a massive hound.  Curled about his left leg was a sea-serpent with its head in his lap.

The visage was perfectly still for what seemed like an eternity, then Tritherion spoke, his words vibrating through Heydricus' very soul.  "Heydricus of Dyvers, son of Shamish and Henna, do you wish to come into My service as a Holy Liberator?"

Heydricus replied that he has never wanted anything more.

Tritherion continues, "Heydricus of Dyvers, you may have no family other than Me.  Will you now renounce your parents and those that raised you?"

Stunned, the Sorcerer of Dyvers balked, and asks Tritherion does He intend Heydricus to disrespect his own family?  The God of Liberty replies that He does not do his family any disrespect, but a Liberator may have no ties before his Duty.  Heydricus agrees.

"And do you renounce your nation, your lands and all fealty ties, as you may have no Nation before Me?"

"I do," Heydricus replied.

At that, the sea-serpent unwound itself and undulated across the hall, flowing toward Heydricus like the ocean tide.  The serpent seemed to shrink as it grew closer, and began to constrict itself around him, pouring water into Heydricus' lungs.  As Heydricus began to black out, sure that he was drowning, the hound crossed the gap between them with a mighty bound, and swallowed the human whole.


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## (contact)

Coldeven 16

"And with that," the new Holy Liberator of Tritherion says between mouthfuls, "I came to.  My equipment and gear were gone, I was wearing this armor, and I had these new weapons in my hand."  Heydricus reflects silently on the fact that he was given the arms of his God, save one-- the scepter of office.  To his mind, the meaning is clear:  If he is to rule, he must earn it himself.

The other Tritherion priests have listened attentively, enraptured by the tale of the Liberator's meeting with their God.  Suddenly, Dabus leaps to his feet and throws himself to the ground before Heydricus.

"Wherever you go," Dabus exclaims, "take me with you!  Let me stay by your side and fight your enemies.  Let me take the field with you and do battle!"

"Why, of course," Heydricus says with a smile.  "I would like nothing better."

If Halrond seems displeased that his number-two man wants to jump ship, the ensuing argument can do nothing to convince Dabus otherwise.  Tritherion demands free will in all things, and in the end, Halrond is forced to acquiesce.  Dabus will go where Heydricus goes, in the name of Liberty.

After the meal, Prisantha asks about the whereabouts of King Belvor, and is told that he is touring the South of Furyondy, meeting with his Southern Lords, and trying once again to convince them to back his plans for war.   Benwyn is dispatched to work her contacts in the Court, and determine Belvor's exact whereabouts.  She returns, saying that he is meeting with Baron Butrain in Willip.

In the meantime, Halrond tells the party of a small township situated outside his ancestral estate just west of the Bandit Lands and South of the Occupied Shieldlands.  Halrond's cousin has been helping the Church of Tritherion funnel weapons and money out of Furyondy in order to arm and train Shieldlander refugees who might be interested in making a push north to liberate their homeland.  Now that the mines of Curruth are producing for the cause of Good again, perhaps Halron (the township, not the cleric) would make a suitable destination for the ore.

Heydricus and Prisantha take their leave, and use her one remaining _telelport_ spell to transport themselves to a roadside inn half an hour's walk from Willip's gates.  They head for the city, and run into an able-looking Captain of the Guard by the name of Thurvil.  Thurvil tells them that he is a veteran of the Great Crusade, and was part of the forces that liberated Crockport.  He witnessed first-hand the depredations that Zinvellon reveled in, and wants to take a minute to shake the hands of the adventurers who killed the vile cleric.  His admiration is plain on his battle-scarred face, and Heydricus tells him that he will be issuing a general call to arms.  Heydricus explains that he will need one hundred stout fighters to hold the mines at Curruth, and the old campaigner instantly offers to join up, bringing with him as many men of Willip as will come. 

Thurvil bustles them past the security-points in the palace, and within minutes, the King has called a recess to his audience, and the Liberators of Tenh are allowed in the room.  Belvor sits with Magister Illipse, one of "The Four"-- the arch-wizards charged with advising and protecting the ruler of Furyondy.

Belvor is shocked by the news of Esril's death, and suggests that if the Liberators want her body, the Academy of Magic at Chendl can use a long-forgotten law to order an exhumation.  

But the King has news of his own.  Thrommel is back, _resurrected_ and well.  He is kept in a safehouse near the palace, and awaits only the arrival of the Liberators to be turned over to their safekeeping.  Belvor voices again his hope that Thrommel may prove himself through adventure, and relates this shocking secret: When the Prince returns to Chendl, Belvor intends to abdicate his rule, and pass the crown to his son.

Belvor looks Heydricus and Prisantha in the eyes, and tells them that he is not only entrusting them with the life of his son, but the integrity of Furyondian succession as well.

At Belvor's request, Magister Illipse gives Prisantha a secret letter for the Dean of the School of Magic, instructing him to aid her in any way he can, including giving her the requisite gold necessary to pay Jespo Crim's debt.  Illipse also belittles Crim, pointing out that once Thrommel becomes King, the boy will have The Four to look after him.

Pleased with their success, Heydricus and Pris spend the night in Willip and take in the play Six Halfling Brothers (a slapstick farce meant to illustrate the halfling virtues of Inquisitiveness and Loyalty), while sitting in the box with Baron Butrain himself.

Prisantha spends the play arguing with the Lord about his non-involvement stance relating to the war up North.  She destroys his argument at every point, but he is stubborn, and refuses to abandon his core contention: The King overestimates the threat Iuz poses to Furyondy.  Disgusted, Prisantha bids Baron Butrain a cold farewell once the final curtain falls.

The next morning finds the two adventurers back in Chendl, reunited with Dabus and knocking on the office door of the Provost Marshall Reine, with forty thousand pieces of silver, weighed in gold, and Heydricus in the lead.

The Provost-Marshall proves even more obsequious than the party remembered him, and in his haste to convince Heydricus to dine with him at his home, practically forgets to stir the unbelievable amount of cane sugar he pours into his watery tea.  Reine obtains a reluctant (but charming nonetheless) acceptance, and drafts the papers releasing Jespo personally.

When a beaming Heydricus and Prisantha arrive to free him, the bumbling summoner practically leaps from his cot to embrace his friends.  "I simply _knew_ you would come for me!  Oh joyus day, I'm free at last!"

"You smell worse than an ogre's hindquarters, Jespo," Prisantha says, wrinkling her nose.  "And this ill-kept beard does not suit you at all."

But Jespo does not seem to hear her, so preoccupied is he over a reunion with Fräs.  Tears well up in his eyes as he blathers on about Fräs' goodness, steadfastness and virtue.  Heydricus leads the group to the estate of the wealthy widower Maia, and as they near the place, Jespo can make out a high-pitched mewling, and he practically bowls over the seneschal in his mad rush for the door.

He emerges a few seconds later, trying to hold on to a squirming Fräs.  Fräs, for her part is trying to leap from his hands.

"Yes, Fräs," Jespo stammers, "Of course I haven't . . . Well, they don't _have_ baths in . . . but it's _supposed_ to be barbaric!  . . . Yes, I know your sense of smell is ten times . . . but, _Fräs_ . . ."		

The Baroness Maia, is overjoyed to see Heydricus again, and after instructing her servants to see to Jespo's hygiene (using whatever force they deem necessary), the voluptuous mistress of the manse coyly inquires as to how Heydricus plans to spend his afternoon.  "Why, right here with you, of course," is the reply.

Pris and Dabus round up Jespo and Fräs, and prepare to leave.  Pris casts a dark glance over her shoulder at the licentious Baroness, and boards her carriage with a "hmpf!" and a toss of her hair.  Jespo is dropped off at his house, where he takes an inventory of his belongings (all gone) and determines what the Provost-Marshall has left him (nothing).

"Alas, Fräs!  We are penniless!"

Pris and Dabus travel to the Court's graveyard and present their disenterral order to a pair of lecherous grave-diggers who ignore Dabus' disapproving gaze and do their level best to look up Pris' skirt at every opportunity.

Meanwhile, Heydricus is woodenly smiling his way through the most excruciating torture of his young life:  Dinner with the Provost-Marshall Reine, his hen-pecking miserly wife and his horse-faced daughter.   That the lass did not wish to attend the dinner is obvious, but after gazing at Heydricus' noble features and heavily muscled body, she warms up quickly enough.

The dinner is a drawn out water-torture of limp jokes, self-important name dropping and the kind of congratulatory conversation reserved for those public officials who, like Reine, achieved their position only by being the least threatening candidate in the eyes of everyone involved.

Heydricus debates stabbing himself in the knee in order to duck out early, but manages to keep his hands off his sword.  As onerous as a dinner with him may be, the Provost-Marshal has a unique position in that he regulates the finances of Furyondy _almost completely without oversight. _

Thank Tritherion for the crucible of the Temple of Elemental Evil, or else Heydricus' willpower would not have received the temper necessary for him to make it all the way to dessert without committing violence.

-----

Next, Tau suffers a crisis of faith, the Liberators have an Unplesant Reunion, and we find out which one of the Liberators _doesn't_ have amorous designs on Heydricus.  The answer may shock you!  Read on!


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## (contact)

Coldeven 17, CY 593

*24: The Long Walk Home*

These early summer evenings in Chendl are the province of merry-makers and lovers.  The more ribald celebrations that will dominate the later summer weeks have not yet begun, as the late planting is still underway.  Chendl's working folk are tucked away in bed, resting up for the coming day, freeing up the streets for the idle rich, and the destitute.

Jespo and Fräs, however are wide awake, taking stock of their missing belongings.  Jespo is cursing the name of Reine, while Fräs monitors his language, hissing where appropriate.

"We have nothing.  Worse yet, we have no money.  Fräs-you are a destitute alley-cat!"

As Fräs is patiently trying to explain to Jespo _why_ money doesn't matter, there is a knock at the door.  Jespo walks to the door warily, and calls out "Who goes there?"

"Is this the home of Jespo Crim?" comes a woman's voice.

"Perhaps . . . or perhaps not!" Jespo wittily replies.  Fräs hisses.

"Jespo, is that you?  It is I, Keriann Croller!  Let me in, you rascal!"

-----

Heydricus stands under the lintel of the Provost Marshall's home, pretending to be both sleepy and well-pleased at the same time.  He thinks to himself, looking at the wretched family, how much he wishes Lucius Maturin were with him.  After finally dragging himself free of the clutching bureaucrat, he picks up his pace and makes a bee-line for Jespo's house.

-----

"Keriann!" Jespo exclaims as he opens the door.  "Why, what are you doing in Chendl?"

"I have left the nunnery," Keriann says.  "And come to Chendl hoping to see all my friends.  Why, where are Heydricus and Prisantha?"

"Ah, Heydricus is having dinner with _that man_.  And Pris is disinterring Esril.  She died, you know."  Jespo leans forward conspiratorially.  "We suspect foul play."

Keriann pauses, regarding Jespo with a curious gleam in her eye.  "'That man', Jespo?  Who do you mean?"

"Reine, the Provost Marshall.  Vile little man."

"Ah.  I see.  Jespo, why don't we go get dinner together, right now?"

"Keriann my dear, I must regretfully decline.  I expect my friends to arrive any minute now, then we are off to Curruth, this very evening."

"Curruth," Keriann mutters.

"But perhaps you might rap upon the kitchen door of the holstery at the corner." Jespo continues, anxious to show off his worldly sophistication.  "If you awaken the kitchen servants, you can force them to make you food.  Why, I used to do so all the time-just use my name, or Thrommel's."

"Is the Prince with you Jespo?" Keriann asks.

"Thrommel is quite safe, I assure you," Jespo says with a smug twist of his mouth.  "But beyond that, I cannot say.  Do get some food, dear, and hurry back.  Heydricus will be so surprised!"

"Surprised, yes," Keriann whispers distractedly.  "Thank you, Jespo.  I shall return shortly."

-----

"Open it," Prisantha commands.

Prisantha and Dabus are standing over the coffin of Esril, Sword-Mistress to the Royal Family of Furyondy.  The filthy gravediggers hasten to obey, their step lightened no doubt by the gold piece Prisantha gave each one for their troubles.

There is a dead woman in the coffin, but it is not Esril.  The woman is older and heavyset, with calluses that betray her status as a common laborer.  She could not have been dead for long, as her eyes are still whole.  

Pris and Dabus cycle through a battery of divinations, but discern nothing unusual about the woman's corpse.  Pris scrutinizes the woman's clothing.  Her dress marks her as a 'provincial' - the name used in Chendl to refer to anyone from the South of Furyondy.

They make a note of her distinguishing features, and instruct the gravediggers to take the corpse to the Academy of Magic as planned, but return for it the next day.  

"Let us join the others, we have much to discuss," Prisantha says.

The two make their way through the Chendl streets, and are met halfway to Jespo's home by a wandering minstrel who mistakes them for a pair of lovers and offers to serenade them.  Dabus grows embarrassed, and seems about to send the man along, but Pris offers him a silver coin, and he begins to strum a lively tune.

The unlikely trio make their way to Jespo's neighborhood, where they see a strange sight:  a farmer's wagon and its draft-oxen have parted ways, and during the farmer's attempt to re-harness the stubborn beast he has managed to turn the ox sideways, completely blocking the narrow street!

"May I be of assistance?" Dabus asks, as he steps forward.

The farmer looks curiously at the heavily armed and armored cleric stepping toward him out of the darkness, but his look turns to complete shock when Dabus enacts his _Feat of Strength _and bodily lifts the oxen over his head, setting the beast down out of the way!

The onlookers are so shocked by this that every mouth hangs open for a few seconds before the minstrel yells, "What are you waiting for?  Kill them!"

-----

Heydricus is taking a shortcut through a particularly quiet stretch of the city when he hears a soft whistling and is struck by a crossbow bolt fired from a nearby rooftop.  As his muscles around the wound clench convulsively, he gasps "Poison!" and draws his sword.

A thick, cold mist begins to rise up from the cobblestones around Heydricus as he fights against the bitter venom coursing though his blood.  Through the haze, Heydricus notices a vaguely familiar silhouette running down the wall of a nearby building with disturbingly unnatural nimbleness.  Worse, a sense of vile, unthinking malice pervades the area as it is suddenly _desecrated_.

As the hidden crossbowman glides into view, he is joined by a heavily armored fighter emerging from an alleyway, and to Heydricus' rear, another armored individual appears, his arms and armor bearing the unholy symbol of Iuz.

The cleric behind him has a telltale swatch of skin missing from his forearm, and the duo approaching from the front both have strange angles to their faces, as if their skulls were vehemently compressed in some unnatural past event.

Heydricus, of course, recognizes the corpses of Lucius, Egil and Aelniir when he sees them.

-----

Next:  The Liberators meet a few dead friends.


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## (contact)

*Interlude:  A Quiet, Still Place of Doubt.*

When the Flan arrived in Tenh, they brought their Gods with them.  The Tenha built their structures and dwellings around shrines that are as old as anything man-made in the area.  Generations of Flan priests recorded the names of these Gods, and the rites designed to invoke their favor.  Over time, the books themselves became objects of devotion, absorbing the faith of all the clerics who turned their pages over the years.

In the mines at Curruth, far from the alleys of Chendl, Tau rises from his cross-legged meditation.  Try as he might, he simply cannot draw his higher-level spells into his mind, a sure sign that Pholtus is displeased.  Despite himself, he wonders how long he will have before he is put to The Question.

The thought provokes a small bitter laugh from Tau, as does the realization that he would likely have trained all the clerics sitting in judgment.

Tau paces about the small room that formerly served as the study for Suel the Artificer and tries to compose his whirling emotions.  His vision is drawn to the small devotional manual he found in the hidden shrine, and the secret it contains.

Tau of Wintershiven was a scholar long before he became an adventurer, and comparative religion was his specialty.  He used to believe that he knew the names, icons and rituals of every deity worshipped in the Flannaes, but now he knows this is not true.

The manual is old, ancient even, and he has had to handle it with care lest he crumble its aging pages.  The book is open to a section that describes a traditional Flan deity previously unknown to the Pholtan cleric:  A God of Duty, Order and Law.


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## (contact)

Coldeven 17

*25:  Sometimes You Miss Your Old Friends, and Sometimes You Crit Them.*

Heydricus fights against the poison blurring his vision and grits his teeth.  He studies his foes for a moment, while debating how to best attack.

His former companions display an abnormal quickness and strength.  Their eyes gleam with a sort of inner fire, and their skin seems stretched and shiny.  .

Heydricus _hastes_ himself, then whirls on his toes.  He levels Prisantha's New Favorite Wand at Aelniir, and is pleasantly surprised when the resulting _fireball_ completely immolates the undead crusader, and Aelniir's very skin catches fire!

Lucius and Egil wade into Heydricus, flanking him and cutting him badly.  Lucius' voice is whispered and raspy, no doubt due to the massive crushing head blow that ended his natural life.  "Surrender to this death, Heydricus, and lead us again in the next life."

-----

"Why, Keriann," Jespo says as he answers his door. "Back so soon from your dinner?  Did those rapscallions refuse you service?  If those wastrels . . ." Jespo trails off.  "What was that you said?"

Keriann is standing in the doorway, staring at Jespo with a level gaze.

"Daern," comes a voice from behind her, out in the night.  

"What!  Who said that?"  Jespo backs away from the door as Fräs hisses.

A trio of _magic missles_ arc out of the night and sear into Jespo Crim as a familiar voice taunts him.  "It should have been you, Jespo.  You're the reason I died!  Daern!  Daern!  Daern!"

Keriann raises her hands above herself and mumbles a vile litany of Iuzian blasphemies.  A stinking pit of negative despondency opens out away from her, poisoning the air with its invisible command to despair.

As Keriann finishes the _desecration_ of the area, Fräs leaps into her face, hissing and clawing for all she is worth.  The former nun of St. Cuthbert shrugs aside the ferocious feline, and grins wickedly at Jespo, who is fumbling for spell components and desperately wishing he still had a magic item or two.

As Jespo completes his spell, a radiant hound-headed celestial appears with a righteous fury in its eyes, and steps to the door-lintel swinging a glowing two-handed sword.  As the hound archon attacks Keriann, it is leapt upon by a hidden halfling wielding a pair of short swords.  The halfling curses as he misses, and melts back into the darkness without a sound.

Keriann steps away from the door, just as a _lightning bolt_ rips through the air, passing harmlessly through the archon's _minor globe of invulnerability_ and striking Jespo square in the chest.  "Daeeeeeeern . . ." comes the moaning cry in its wake.

"Talk about holding a grudge," Jespo mutters as he tries to catch his breath.

At that moment, Keriann calls upon the Old One and _dispels_ the hound archon, laughing all the while.  "Just die, Crim and save us all some bother.  I don't even think you're worth reanimating, you pathetic little man.  I never did like you."

Jespo screws up his courage and _summons_ the poor overworked archon for a second time.  "I will not be undone!" he shouts, rather unconvincingly, as the hound archon charges forward again.  Fräs leaps back into the fray herself, hoping to _smite_ Keriann, but finds the nasty nun's taut skin to be hard as stone.

A second group of _magic missiles_ veer around the combatants and burn into Jespo, sending his system into shock.  Fräs cries out as Jespo collapses to the ground, his breathing shallow.  The archon is forced to step back and _lay on hands_, absorbing a terrible blow from the evil cleric as it does so.

Jespo rises to his knees and calls _Evard's Black Tentacles_ to him.   The area around the doorframe extending both into the house and into the street is filled with writhing black pseudopods that grow out from the floor to blindly grasp at any nearby movement.

Keriann has seen this spell kill Jespo's companions before (Gnomishic in the battle with Zinvellon), and she wants no part of it.  

"Rest well, Crim," she taunts as she retreats, "knowing that we are coming."

-----

Heydricus cleaves into Egil, putting his sizeable weight behind each blow, using his _haste_ and _true strike_ to ensure that each attack counts.  Egil stands toe-to-toe with Heydricus, but not for long.  Egil's features are severely marred, despite whatever _regeneration_ magics were used as part of his reanimation, and Heydricus almost has trouble recognizing his former ally's features.

Almost.  A word that applies to most of Egil's adventuring career as well as this phase of his unlife.  Egil wounds Heydricus, almost enough to force the Liberator to desist.  Egil repulses Heydricus, almost enough to have some effect on his morale.  And in the end, Egil almost survives Heydricus' third and final blow.

Lucius has found his poisons lacking, and as Egil's body looses animation for a second time, the Iuzian assassin whispers, "We'll meet again," before _spider climbing_ up and over a nearby building.

Heydricus pauses for a minute to catch his breath, then picks up the corpses of Aelniir and Egil and places them over his shoulders.

-----

The minstrel rasps a fencing-sword from the hollow of his lyre and swipes at Prisantha.  The four other highwaymen, including the farmer, were so surprised at Dabus' feat of strength that they lost their ambush!  But they are still quick on their feet, and they leap to the offensive, sneak attacking both Pris and her new friend.  A furious melee ensues, and Pris is cut deeply before she can activate a _stoneskin_ spell.

Dabus calls upon the grace of Tritherion and summons His _righteous wrath_, growing to giant size and vowing Retribution. Dabus looks quite at ease battling these would-be muggers, but he is completely taken aback when the farmer's ox snarls like a giant cat and pounces upon him, biting deeply into his flesh and raking him with its back hooves.  Raking him?

As Dabus staggers back, his attention is drawn by a frightened cry from above him.  A young boy, no more than ten years old, is watching the fight from a second story window, his eyes the size of dinner plates.

Prisantha swiftly _dominates_ one of the rogues and turns him against his fellows, shrugging off several sword blows as they scrape against her stony flesh.  Dabus is held down and mauled by the ox and stabbed again by one of the thugs, but manages to win free and retain his feet.

Prisantha _summons_ a celestial lion to the fray, and it pounces upon the ox, who rears up on its hind legs and lets out a lion-like roar of its own and tangles up with the great cat.  The thugs back away warily, unsure how to proceed.

Prisantha is distracted by a soft giggling from a nearby rooftop, and turns just in time to be on the receiving end of a _magic missile_ spell released from the fingertips of a young straw-haired lass.

Pris, of course, does not recognize Tisha the invoker, nor the half-orc warrior who steps into view at the other end of the alley, hoisting a greatsword in one hand, and a steel shield in the other.

Dabus, shaken and badly bleeding, _heals_ himself in the name of his God, and readies his spear.  Pris swiftly _feebleminds_ one of the thugs, sending the now-moronic lass stumbling into the night.

As the lion and ox wrestle with one another, the half-orc woman strides into the melee, and is backed up by a human female wearing light leathers and wielding a flaming longsword.

Prisantha has the thugs wrapped up, and her _summoned_ lion is holding its own, but unfortunately, her defensive spells cannot protect her from the _lightning bolt_ set upon her by the straw-haired lass.  The electricity rips through Prisantha, and she falls to the ground with a soft sigh.

Dabus focuses his faith, and releases a positive energy burst that overwhelms the three undead adventurers, and sends them fleeing into the Chendl streets.  At this moment, the massive ox rips the throat from Prisantha's lion, and as it is about to pounce on Dabus, it suddenly disappears with a throaty howl, leaving behind a silver circlet that radiates magic.

Dabus fends of a pair of feeble sword-blows from the two remaining thugs, and _cures_ Prisantha, mending her burned skin and restoring her to consciousness.  As she rises to her feet, the two thugs scatter and flee, but not before Dabus can strike one of them in the back with a ray of _searing light_, killing him.

"You struck him from behind!"  Exclaims the boy in the window.

"And he had it coming, too," says Dabus.  "Now close that window and go to bed!"

Pris and Dabus dash back to Jespo Crim's house, only to find the front of it surrounded by _black tentacles_.  "What on earth is going on here?" Pris asks.  She swiftly _dispels_ the tentacles and tries the door, only to find it locked.

"Who goes there!" a frail voice demands from behind the door.

"Jespo, it is Prisantha, let us in."

"Prove your identity or suffer the consequences!" Jespo screeches.

"Well," Pris thinks for a moment.  "When we were fighting Zinvellon, you tugged upon the sleeve of the celestial and demanded that he _raise_ your Fräs from the dead."

"And what did he say?"

"He demanded that you fight.  'Not now, Crim', he said.  'Fight evil!'"

The door flies open.  "Oh Prisantha, it was terrible! Keriann is dead, and she had Anton with her!  I am sure that dastard Reine was behind all of this.  Why Fräs, someday we shall have our revenge . . ."

Dabus and Prisantha step inside, and Dabus begins _curing_ the group until all are whole again.  Pris _scrys_ Heydricus, hoping to warn him about the ambushes.  She spots the new Holy Liberator of Tritherion at the door of the Provost Marshall's home.  Heydricus responds to her _message_ with the terse reply that he is aware of the ambush, and has just now convinced Reine to let him hide the bodies of Egil and Aelniir in the Provost Marshall's wine cellar.

That night, Dabus returns to the Temple of Tritherion, while Prisantha _teleports_ Heydricus, Jespo and herself to the mines at Curruth.

"Once I scribe _reduce_ into my books," she says, "I will be able to take us all along.  Be well, Dabus.  We will return for you soon."

-----

Elijah's first reaction to the _teleporting_ trio is to rip her swords from their scabbards, but she relaxes when she sees the familiar faces of her friends.  Heydricus bounds over to her and wraps her up in a bear hug, which she stiffly wrestles free of, frowning slightly.

"There's been no further trouble here, Heydricus."

"Well then," Heydricus says as he glowingly looks over the remaining carnage.  "Let's go get the Aiman and set these Tenha free!"

-----

Next:  An arrangement is made for Curruth, and the Liberators circle their wagons.


----------



## (contact)

Coldeven 17, CY 593

*26:  The New Order*

The Aiman is overjoyed to hear that the Iuzians at Curruth have been beaten.  He and his Tenha slowly filter up from their near-underdark hiding places and wander through the mines, re-examining parts of their home they had been forbidden from for the last ten years.  Many of them joyfully take to the outside, dancing and singing, reveling in their new freedom.

The Aiman is introduced to the other Liberators, and gleefully thanks them, clutching their hands in a grateful vicegrip.

"I will thank you not to take liberties with my hand, sir!" Jespo huffs as he regards the disheveled Aiman with a suspicious glare.

Unfazed, the Aiman takes Heydricus into a small chamber, and the two of them hash out a rough plan for sharing the mines.  A Council of Rule will be established, in the old Flan manner.  There will be a triad of leadership:  Spiritual, led by the Tenha clerics; Secular, led by the Aiman and his wise-folk; and Military, led by Heydricus and the Liberators of Tenh.

Heydricus will be allowed to use Curruth as a base for guerilla action throughout northern Tenh, and the Tenha here will work the mines for the war effort.  In exchange, Heydricus must protect the Tenha from any further Iuzian deprivation, and funnel a part of the proceeds from the ore back into the lives of the miners here.

For his part, Heydricus must agree to undertake classes instructing him in Tenha culture, history and values.  The Aiman stresses that if Heydricus is to be a Tenha, he cannot do so in the shape of a Marklander.

The Aiman and Heydricus agree that what they really need is better intelligence about Tenh; who rules, who thinks they rule, and who opposes them?  There are rumors of a Pholtan army, liches, troll-hordes and leftover orc brigades rampaging the south, but very little is known about the north of Tenh.

During the party's latest meeting with Belvor, the King's advisor indicated that Heydricus should "look to the mountains", implying that some sort of threat was lurking just next door to the mines.  The Aiman admits that while he has a strong grasp of Tenha history, he knows next to nothing about current events.  He tells Heydricus that there used to be several villages in the mountains that were never recorded on any maps, known only to the locals.  Other than that, the only fearsome things up there were some giants who kept to the most inaccessible heights, leaving the lowlands alone.

-----

The Iuzian plan for revenge against the Heroes of the Temple is clear:  retrieve the bodies of the fallen, murder the living and raise them all into a horrific undead state.  Thrommel is safe enough, but sadly, for Esril it is too late.  The next order of business then, is to gather the remaining Heroes of the Temple who cannot be accounted for. Gnomer, Gnomishic, Ethel and Ren Qi are warned via the _scrying_ pool.

Prisantha next _scrys_ Cmin, and finds the elven rouge in a makeshift tent, preparing a wounded companion for travel.

Heydricus, Dabus and Pris ready themselves for battle, and prepare to _teleport_ in.  After her first _teleport_ goes awry (again!), Prisantha's second attempt hits the mark, and with a rush of air, the Liberators find Cmin discussing strategy with a group of her fellow Knights of the High Forest.

After a surprised Cmin recovers from her fright, she tearfully embraces her former companions remarking that they certainly couldn't have come at a better time.

The handful of shaken and wounded Knights are all that remains of a support detail that has been making trouble in Dorraka, Iuz's capitol and stronghold.  They are unclear as to the greater purpose of their mission, but they know that they were sent to distract the Iuzians while a second strike-force assaulted the city.

"I know why you're here," Heydricus said.  "The Prince was captured, and you have made a way for his rescuers to free him.  They were successful, and that's two he owes you, Cmin."

The small band of High Forest Knights have been fighting a retreating maneuver, taking losses along the way, and trying to make it out of the lands of Iuz.  A force of orcs and giants, led by a fiendish sorcerer, has pursued them this far, and even now are encamped in a nearby ruined fort.  Their foes are cruel, and have seemed content to whittle down their numbers.

"This sounds like the Liberators' kind of fight," Dabus says.

"Let's go get those bastards," Heydricus chimes in.

-----

Next:  Leave your saving throws at the door, please.


----------



## (contact)

Coldeven 17, CY 593

*27:  Heroes, like their history, are named by the victors.*

The plan is simple.  Cmin will accompany Heydricus, Prisantha and Dabus.  The four of them will attack the Iuzian forces, kill them all, and provide an opening for the remaining Knights of the High Forest to retreat.  After all the Iuzians are sent to their new home in the Abyss, they will take Cmin back to the relative safety of Tenh.

Or as they say in the Great Kingdom "A bloodstain threatens no Rule of Law".

The four adventurers creep toward the ruined fort, and find it a simple affair, likely of orcish construction:  A lone building surrounded by a palisade wall, now crumbling in places, the whole likely _desecrated_.  A small tower is built out of one end of the roof, though it has certainly lost some of its higher levels to the ravages of time.

Preparatory spells are cast, Prisantha is _stoneskinned_, and the entire group is protected in a _magic circle against evil_.

Prisantha casts a _message_ spell, allowing Cmine to stay in touch as she scouts ahead.  The elven rogue uses this magical communication channel to report back her findings-several fat and complacent orcs are making a half-hearted attempt to patrol the walls.  Likely, the Iuzians are waiting for nightfall to attack.

Prisantha calls out for Valor, her celestial hound archon friend, and _summons_ him to the walls, near the orcish sentries.  The celestial does what he does best, smiting orcish evil, and beating them off the walls.  The sentries sound an alarm, and within seconds a band of ettins and trolls led by a pair of human mages are charging forth from the fortress.

Heydricus drinks a potion of _flying_, and snatches Prisantha in his arms, speeding for the compound's roof.  He is met by Dabus (who has to climb the walls the old-fashioned way - oh, the indignity!), and by the time the giants and wizards have sent Valor back to his home, the Liberators are above them, raining spells down into their ranks.

If the ettins didn't like Heydricus' wand of _fireballs_, the trolls absolutely hate it, and they attempt to scrabble up the loose stone of the compound to get at the Liberators, but they are betrayed by faulty orcish craftsmanship, and huge chunks of the wall come loose in their grasping claws, foiling their attempt.

Too bad for the trolls, as they say hello to Heydricus' little friend.  The rubbery beasts just can't take two _fireballs_ a round from a _hasted_ sorcerer with enough wand for everyone.

After the smoke clears, a pair of ettins almost make it to the front doors of the place before they are slain.  The mages were barely able to get off a spell apiece, so taken in were they by their own blood-lust at the sight of a celestial.

Cmin (who is much better at climbing walls than the trolls were) makes her way to the roof, and the party is about to enter the tower at the back end of the place when the tower's wall is smashed open from the inside by a furious ettin who wields a pair of greataxes like hatchets!  He charges Prisantha, laying in to her with a series of vicious swipes, and the popping noise as her _stoneskin_ wards off the bulk of the damage sounds like rain on a brass roof.

Worse yet, this ettin is obviously a trained fighter, and he is using Halrim's Double Method, a school of fighting developed in the fallen Sheildlands, and shunned by honorable sword-masters (like Esril) for it's reliance on deception and low-blows.

As the ettin makes its charge, a more sinister figure emerges from the ruins.  This winged abomination looks like a man who has consorted too long with nightmares and pain.  His eyes are over-large and yellowed, and the light coating of scales along his back form into a pair of Abyssal wings that seem to be a patchwork of filthy feathers and sinew.

The half-fiend is _hasted_, and casts a pair of spells in succession with no visible effect.  Both Heydricus and Cmin feel a powerful and hostile mental presence enter their minds, but suffer no noticeable consequences.  Cmin maneuvers her way toward the fighting giant, and Heydricus readies himself to charge the fiendish sorcerer.


_Metagame Note:  Heydricus and Cmin both failed saves against a _domination_ spell, but as they were warded by a _magic circle against evil_, they are not subject to the feind's mental commands.  This is, of course, a situation that will soon be remedied by the malicious spellcaster. _

Dabus sizes up the situation, and summons a whirling field of invisible knife-like blades.  His _blade barrier_ shreds the legs of the ettin, and cut deeply into the fiend, forcing him to take flight on his frail-seeming wings.

Prisantha has had all of this giant she is willing to take, and levels an _eyebite-fear _spell at the brute's smarter-looking head. The creature obviously doesn't have a smart head, as both immediately gaze at the petite wizard with an expression normally reserved for Iuzian clergy-utter fear and revulsion.  The ettin turns to flee, not even pausing to leap off of the roof, falling instead to the blood-and-fire stained battlefield on the ground below.

Heydricus _flies_ forward and attacks the enemy sorcerer, but finds that the fiend is only partially present.  One of his blows strikes true, however, and a thick ghastly ichor stains his blade.

The vile sorcerer responds by flying further away from the battlefield and targets the area with a _dispel magic_.  His spell is successful, and within an instant Cmin and Heydricus are subject to his mental commands and sit placidly, watching as the cruel arcanist turns his attention to Pris.

"A taste of your own device, milady?" the thing croaks in a wretched mockery of courtly grace as it subjects the enchantress to a cone of _fear_.  Prisantha suddenly comes to the conclusion that the only reasonable course of action would be to flee to the edge of the fortress, where she cowers and whimpers to herself.

Dabus is baffled by the strange behavior of his formerly staunch companions, but refuses to surrender.  He produces a wand of his own, and attacks the flying fiend with a _searing light_ burst, discovering, like Heydricus before him how difficult it can be to pierce this beast's magical defenses.

The sorcerer laughs at the land-bound cleric, and begins striking him with a series of _enervations_- each one weakening Dabus, and shattering the core of his faith with the cold touch of negative material energy.

Dabus refuses to give up the ghost and attempts to throw his spear at the creature, but when it bounces harmlessly off of the sorcerer's hide, Dabus says a silent prayer for those about to die, substituting his own name.

Strangely enough, the fiend laughs and flies down into the reach of Dabus' grasp, but only long enough to cast a pair of _vampiric touch_ spells that suck the very soul's-blood from the weakened priest.  

Dabus cries out, and with his last living act, grabs the fiend bodily and charges forward-hurling the both of them directly into the thick of the _blade barrier_.  It is the final act of a hero, and one hopes that in his last seconds before being rent flesh from bone by his own spell, Dabus believes that his tactic worked. 

Which, of course, it did not.

Bolstered by the life-force he drained from the cleric, the fiend staggers out from the blade-swarm and surveys his situation.  In the distance, he can see his dim-witted giant companion shrugging off the _fear_ effect and returning to his side.  He orders his _dominated_ thralls to remove their magic items, bind the cowering enchantress and bear her inside where he can ponder his plan of torture at his leisure.

-----

Next:  The Liberators are defeated!  Can they pull thier fat from the fire?


----------



## (contact)

Coldeven 18, CY 593

*28:  Wevenge, twue wevenge.*

The three surviving Liberators are securely bound and stripped completely of wealth and weapons when it happens.

The fiend, who is consulting some sort of Iuzian torture-on-the-go field manual, looks up with a cross expression, and manages a sort of hiss as his _vampiric touch_ spell expires.  He seems to cave inward on himself just a bit, then a gash opens across his forehead.  The fiend reaches up to dab at the wound when a half-dozen cuts appear on his body, followed by a dozen more, then another dozen, and suddenly the sorcerer is whirling in shock as he sprays his life's blood all over his _dominated_ captives.

Dabus' final ploy worked, although the life force the foul fiend drained from him gave the sorcerer another hour of false security before the wounds of the blade barrier took effect.
With the _domination_ instantly dispelled, Heydricus uses this opening to bluff the ettin.   
"This is the fate of all who cross my arcane might!  Even bound, I can kill your master with but a glance!  Flee, wretch, before you suffer the same!"

The ettin seems to know what side his bread is bloodied on, and he takes to his heels instantly, but not before scooping up the _portable hole_ with an entire adventuring party's worth of loot.

Bound hand and foot, the Liberators of Tenh watch the two headed beast trot off into the sunset with all their money, magic and gear.

-----

A few minutes pass, as Cmin struggles to wiggle free of the ropes she is tied with.  Finally, Heydricus flexes his muscles and rips through his bonds, and swoops the still bound Cmin over his shoulder.  He rushes out to the roof where he spots Prisantha, tied hand and foot where she was left cowering in _fear_, and within a moment, both of his companions are over his shoulders and the Holy Liberator of Tritherion is bounding down the stairs to the ground level.

After making quick work of the ropes tying Pris and Cmin, the Liberators creep out into the blood-stained paving-stones of the area outside the door and cautiously look over the scene of the previous hour's carnage.

It is surprising how cold the nor'easter blowing out of Dorakka can seem when you are completely without the comforting warmth of your magic items.

"The giant has my spell books and components," Prisantha says, suddenly realizing why that familiar weight was off of her hip.

"And my infiltration gear," Cmin says with a resigned sigh.  "Thank Mayaheine we don't have to walk back to Tenh, right Pris?"

"My only _teleport_ spell is on a scroll right now, in the giant's pouch," Pris says, and under her breath she adds, "I got a little lost on my first attempt."

"The giant has my weapons and armor of investiture," Heydricus states flatly.  "We're going after it."

The group ransacks the bodies of the dead Iuzians for salvageable equipment, and prepares the new gear after cleaning as much of the blood and charred gobbets of troll flesh off of them as possible.

Prisantha's _eyebite_ fear effect is undoubtedly still active on the ettin, but a brief mental inventory of her spells bears disheartening fruit.  She has little offensive capability left, without her spell components.  _Charm person_ is available, but of little use against giants.  Cmin is without her magical weapons or elven garments, and Heydricus, of course, feels practically naked without all of his clothes.

The ettin proves remarkably easy to track, even by the untrained eye.  The bad news is that the beast's path is careful and sure, straight toward the road leading into Dorakka-a thoroughfare paved by slave labor, and built of stone mixed with the crushed bones of the innocent.

The ettin seems to have made for a sinister-looking way-tower looming over the highway like a diseased carrion bird.  The group sends Cmin ahead to scout, and she makes her way into a position where she can spy on the interior of the place.  Her report is grim.  The party's quarry is in there all right, and he appears to be bargaining with the master of the place.  They are speaking in Abyssal, and while Cmin's Abyssal isn't what it was while she was in school, she is still able to make out the gist of it: The ettin wants to trade Prisantha's spellbooks to the way-tower's master in exchange for the human's protection, and the loan of some troops.  The troops in question are a half-dozen hill giants under the thrall of this wizard, billeted in the nearby woods.  

In addition, the outpost itself has a few human fighter-types present as an official Dorakkan guard.  (Or unofficial Dorakkan spies, things being what they are in the lands of Iuz.)

Cmin is confident that she can make it inside the place, if the group wants to stage an assault.  Pris excitedly points out that her _charm person_ spell will work on the wizard, if he can be drawn out.

Prisantha's _message_ spell is still active, and Cmin is able to creep indoors and deliver an ongoing whispered commentary about what she sees there.

After the Iuzian negotiations threaten to break down into violence (as expected), the two negotiators finally reach an agreement.  The ettin seems to have gotten the short end of the stick, thanks to the foot-in-mouth style of exchange favored by the left head.   He delivers Prisantha's spellbooks as well as her arcane scrolls into the hands of the way-tower mage.

In the meantime, Prisantha and Heydricus have positioned themselves by the building's exit and await their opportunity.

It isn't long in the coming, as the wizard greedily hustles the ettin out the door, intending to introduce him to the hill giants (who are to then take the ettin half a fathom up the road, kill him, and deliver whatever other magical treasure the two-headed imbecile might have on him to the mage.  Of course, the hill giants could smell a payday when they step in one, and would abscond with the loot, leaving the mage alone in the way-tower with the four fighters, two of whom are actually hired killers sent by the mage's superiors in Dorakka to torture and assassinate him).  Luckily for some, and unluckily for others, the mage and ettin do not quite make it out of the door before they spot Prisantha.

The Enchantress of Verbobonc tosses the evil duo her most fetching grin, and winks slowly.

All at once, the ettin screeches out a two-toned peal of fear reminiscent of a halfling schoolgirl confronting her first mouse in the temple's cloakroom.  As the giant shoves him aside (the better to flee at full speed away from Pris), the Iuzian mage gathers his robes about his waist, and slinks toward Prisantha, offering her his best courtly smile and bow, muttering something about ". . . sure we've met before.  Do you attend the end-of-year bonfires?"

"Ah, _charmed_, I'm sure," Pris replies as the Iuzian (who introduces himself as Durmer) sloppily kisses her hand.  "But make haste sir," Pris continues, with a sense of urgency in her voice, "that foul giant hoped to betray you.  You are lucky I arrived in time."

And then things go downhill for the fleeing ettin.  The mage turns toward his hill giant retinue, now stumbling from the nearby wood to investigate the commotion, and commands them to kill the two-headed giant.  A Large-Sized footrace ensues, and Heydricus flies to the hill giant's aid, casting _magic missiles_ at the ettin.  Eyebitten or no, the ettin isn't about to go down without a fight, and he turns to confront the half-dozen hill giants bent on his murder.  The ensuing melee is brief and vicious, and when the blood sprays clear, there is one less academy-trained ettin fighter in the world.

Heydricus makes sure to snatch the _portable hole_ off of the fallen giant, and removes several of the group's magic items that the beast had equipped himself with.

"Ah," the Iuzian mage coos, "your lackey returns with our spoils my dear.  Shall we retire to my chambers and . . . _divide_ our loot?"

"Lackey?" Heydricus says to himself as he flies to Prisantha's side.  

"Of course," Pris says in her best imperious tone.  "Heydricus, inside with you."

"Heydricus . . . that name seems familiar," the mage says.

"It should," Heydricus says as he shuts the door on the hill giants, who are still mustered outside, poking at the ettin's corpse, perhaps hoping for more sport.  "Because after all," Heydricus says as he unsheathes his sword, "I killed Zinvellon at the Temple of Elemental Evil!"

The mage gasps.  All of his years of service in Iuz' armies, and to be taken in by the most basic of treacheries!

Heydricus cleaves the mage once, then twice, as the fellow reaches into his pouches and backs away, scalding the Holy Liberator with a burst of lightning from his fingertips.

At the sound of the _lightning bolt_, Cmin springs from her hiding place in the tower's upper level, and sneak attacks one of the guards stationed there, and then runs down the stairs into the main chamber of the ground floor.

Prisantha readies her spell components as best she can, but has no real need of them, for wizards are just not built to withstand surprise attacks from skilled swordsmen-the Iuzian perishes swiftly, his final _curse_ dying on his lips.

The three surviving guardsmen exchange a round of missile fire before realizing that their goose is cooked, its liver already made into foie gras and served on herbed toast to the Liberators of Tenh. 

The guardsmen surrender their cause with an alacrity that would shame even a Sheildlander Knight.

Cmin relieves them of their weaponry while Heydricus and Prisantha sort through the _portable hole_ and reacquaint themselves with their lost equipment.

A short overland trek later, and Dabus' body is in the _portable hole_, and the group is _teleported_ without any trouble to Tritherion's Grand Temple at Chendl.  Heydricus petitions Halrond to return Dabus to the living, should his soul and its Lord be willing.

At the least, the Liberators will have one more night to sleep in comfort before returning to the fight in Tenh.

-----

Next:  Hail, hail-- the gang's all here!


----------



## (contact)

Coldeven 19, CY 593

*29:  Practice Makes Perfect*

The next morning, Heydricus and Halrond examine the body of Dabus, the fallen cleric’s skin flayed from his bones by his own spell.  Halrond tells Heydricus that as a Holy Liberator, the onus of petitioning for the return of Dabus’ life must fall to Heydricus, as he is both Dabus’ field commander and his spiritual mentor.

While Heydricus is guided through the purification ritual and fasting, Prisantha _teleports_ to the Academy of Magic, to speak with her associates there, and check in.  In the library, she encounters Gwendolyn, her rival and all around unpleasant wizardess.

Gwendolyn, is as usual, dressed to the nines in the height of courtly fashion, and she sniffs disdainfully as she regards Prisantha’s battle torn and sweat-stained clothing.

“You’ve been . . . busy, I see,” Gwendolyn says through a stiff smile.  

“Yes,” Pris replies.  “We’ve been fighting Iuzians.  And quite successfully I might add.  Yourself?”

Never one to back down from a contest of one-upmanship and name-dropping, Gwendolyn says, “Oh, I’ve been working very closely with the Council of Four.  Thrommel’s dead, haven’t you heard, and the search for a suitable successor has become paramount.  In fact, I daresay it’s _the_ issue facing our Kingdom, and I’m honored to have been hand-picked by the Four to lead the search.”

“Facinating,” Pris says.

“Yes.  It really is.  I’ve been spending quite a bit of time in the South with the Baron Butrain.”

“Oh, I know him,” Prisantha says.  “In fact, I was just there myself, as it happens.”

“Really,” Gwendolyn sniffs.  “Well. I myself just returned from an evening at the theatre there.  Butrain is quite the patron of the arts, you know.”

“Yes.  We took in a play together,” Pris snaps back.

“As did we.  Of course, _we_ saw the new show.”

“Yes, the Seven Halfling Brothers.  Butrain took me to opening night.  He must have really enjoyed the performance, to go a second time with you.”

Score one for the Enchantress of Verbobonc.  Chastised, Gwendolyn takes a tense farewell, shooting daggers at Pris with her eyes as she goes.

That evening, Pris relives more carefree days, falling asleep studying in the library as was her custom over the long Summer of peace.  She dozes at her study desk in the library, four books open around her, and if no one notices that the one directly in front of her is _A Handbook of Ladylike Fashion_, by the Viscountess Trill, it is because Pris has slipped the book inside a larger tome, _Fundamental Principles of Transubstantive Drift, revised third edition_.

Heydricus, meanwhile has been left to his vigil over the body of Dabus in Halrond’s personal chapel.  As he prays and meditates, Heydricus is struck by the sensation of dampness about his feet and knees.  Opening his eyes, he sees that the small chamber is rapidly flooding with water.  He wets his fingers, and tastes the liquid—saltwater.

In a dream-like haze, the room fills with an ocean swell, and the walls of the place seem to fade out to the horizon and disappear, leaving Heydricus floating in a sea not of this world.  A large shape appears in the distance, breaking the surface again and again, each time drawing closer.  Then suddenly, Heydricus is confronted by the maw of a massive sea-serpent that swallows him whole in one ferocious attack!

As the Liberator of Tenh descends into the belly of the beast, he is filled with an unusual sensation—at once comforting and overwhelming.

A voice wells up from the depth of Heydricus’ being, and echoes in his mind.  “I am your father, and your mother.  I am your child and your sibling.  I am your nation, your liege-- and all your loyalty is due to me.  What you are, I made you.  What you have, I gave you.  What you do, I set you to.  Name Me, Heydricus and Know Me.”

“You are my Lord Tritherion, my God,” Heydricus replies.

“What would you have of Me, Heydricus Tritherionson?”

“I would have a brave fighter returned to my side, Lord.  I would have his spell and arm fight with me against our enemy.  Now, more than ever, we need him in the world.”

“What you ask of Me cannot be done, Heydricus.  A pact was made before the essence of you was created.  Those of my clergy who die in honorable combat against tyranny are to be set above all others in My realm.  Dabus sits at my right hand, and I cannot break my vow.”

Heydricus is crestfallen.

“Yet you please Me, Heydricus, so I will do this great thing for you; I will set time back, and return you to the morning before your battle.  If you can face your foes honorably, and retain his life, he is yours.”

“You honor me, Great One,” Heydricus says.

“And because you are Mine, I will tell you this—_beware, for your enemies are multiplied, and they have discovered the knowledge of one another._”

And with that, Heydricus finds himself standing in the mines of Cur’ruth, looking over Pris’s shoulder, as she _scrys_ C’mine.

This time around, Prisantha’s first _teleport_ is successful, and they arrive several hours earlier than they had the last time they lived through this day.

C’min is as surprised to see them the second time as she was the first, and her sword leaps from her scabbard before she recognizes her old friends.  She is tending the wounds of her feverish and delirous companion, but this time the fallen Knight of the High Forest is not yet dead.  Heydricus introduces Dabus, and the priest of Tritherion _heals_ the dying knight.

Of everyone in the dingy tent, only Heydricus and Prisantha realize that they have been here before.

Heydricus briefs C’mine on the happenings since she took her position with the High Forest Knights, and surprises her with his knowledge of the fell sorcerer that has been dogging her heels, playing with her small band like a cat with a mouse.

Surprised, C’mine says, “You know much Heydricus.”

“More than I can tell you, my old friend,” is his reply.

C’mine, the former Hero of the Temple of Elemental Evil becomes a Liberator of Tenh in that moment, as the four adventurers plan their assault.  This time, they intend to take full advantage of their surprise.

Preparatory spells are cast, and the adventurers _fly_ invisibly toward the Iuzian encampment in the ruined keep.  Heydricus carries Prisantha in his arms, apparently oblivious to her new glamorous hairstyle, and the fashionable cut of her new adventuring blouse.

The group’s _invisible_ movement is unnoticed by a pair of eyes belonging to a severed head that lies on the damp ground, concealed among the rocks a few yards from the elven encampment.

They steal up onto the roof, and are shocked to hear an otherworldly and anguished moaning emanating from within the place.  Shivers of dread worm their way through the nerves of the battle-hardened adventurers.  Of the trio, only Heydricus and C’mine have heard a more fearsome noise—the banshee’s wail that ended Heydricus’ first life in the Temple of Elemental Evil.

They press on, creeping into the ruined tower, and as they descend the stairs into the keep proper, a bizarre and terrible sight unfolds before them.

The main hall of the keep is pitted and crumbling, and most of the interior walls have collapsed.  The few walls that remain are little more than chest-high to a giant, although the ceiling is unusually tall for an orcish fortress.

The horrible wailing is coming from a spectral being, dressed in ancient orcish tribal regalia, and it is kneeling before a broken shield on the ground.  The shield radiates a Bright and Pure light, and the apparition is crying out in anguish as it is repeatedly forced to place its hands into and _through_ the Holy shield.

The feindish sorcerer is standing in front of his spectral victim, his filthy wings opening and closing rhythmically as he clutches a wicked-looking barbed medallion and concentrates on his torture.  

The sorcerer’s ettin bodyguard stands behind him, one head keeping an eye on the room, the other smirking at the spectre’s pain.

C’mine is the first to react, opening the festivities with a pair of shots from her bow that strike the fiendish sorcerer just below the ribs and directly into his shoulder-joint on his right side, crippling him.

The ettin is quick to defend his master, launching a devastating volley of thrown javelins with both hands, striking C’mine to the ground, and wounding Dabus.

But not wounding him enough to disrupt his _holy smite_.

A wave of Tritherion’s Virtue cascades through the area, heartening the Liberators, and scattering their foes.  The spectre, freed from its bondage, wisps away into the darkness, while the fiendish sorcerer screeches an altogether inhuman litany of unholy curses.

Curses that rapidly degenerate into child-like Abyssal babbling as the fiend is _feebleminded_ by Pris.

Heydricus leaps forward to strike at the half-fiend, and cuts him deeply twice.  As the sorcerer falls to the ground and shudders in his death-convulsions, Heydricus takes his guard position with his Spear of Tritherion, readying himself to meet the charge of a half-dozen ettins and four trolls rushing the group from the other end of the compound.  Unfortunately for the giants, they charge directly into the path of a _blade barrier_, courtesy of Dabus.

Things go downhill for the Iuzians from there, with several of their number forced back into the _blade barrier_ by Prisantha’s magical compulsions, and when the dust clears, the day has played itself out quite differently from the first encounter.  This time, the Liberators of Tenh have achieved a resounding victory, and have very little of their own blood to show for it.

As the group is picking through the remains of their fallen foes, they notice a strange sight—the severed head that was positioned near the elven camp is hovering over the body of the half-fiend sorcerer, muttering to itself in Abyssal.  Its face was never handsome in life, but in undeath, the head’s normally gaunt features are uniquely horrific.  His face is heavily lacerated and small bits of jagged metal are driven into the skin and bones, at the pain centers of the face.  In addition, the skull is pierced through the back of the cranium with a wicked-looking spike of dull black metal.

Heydricus, ever the friendly sort, strikes up a conversation with the head, who introduces himself as Misath, a former lieutenant in Iuz’s elite Dorrakan Irregulars sentenced to this horrific state for Insubordination in the Face of the Enemy.

Misath is appropriately humble, and expresses what must pass for gratitude in his mind for the Liberators having, well . . . liberated him from his bondage to the half-fiend.  Apparently, Misath is looking forward to re-establishing himself as a Very Important Head in the Iuzian ranks, hoping to become the commanding officer of an internment camp.

The Liberators let the thing go about its way, and Misath implies that someday they might meet again, when the Marklands have finally fallen under the Indomitable Tyranny of Iuz.

The group returns to Chendl with C’mine in tow, and they brief her on the happenings of the last few months.  She gladly offers to join the cause in Tenh, and pledges whatever support she might be able to give.

While the four heroes are relaxing in the noonday sun, newly clean and enjoying fresh figs and summer wine, a young acolyte of Tritherion interrupts them, explaining that a message has been delivered for Heydricus, Prisantha, and Jespo Crim.

“Dearest friends,” it begins.

“Consider this note a friendly reminder from your former compatriots.  Your ties to life make you vulnerable through your effeminate attachment to sentiment.  Surrender yourselves to our clutching gloom, and spare your loved-ones any unnecessary suffering.

“Make yourselves seen, and come unarmed, why don’t you?  Your families, of course, will thank you for it.

“Best regards,

“Anton, et al.”

-----
Next:  Family Day for the Liberators.


----------



## (contact)

Coldeven 20, CY 593

*30:  Practice Makes Perfect*

While the other Liberators were smashing Iuzian forces near Dorraka, Jespo Crim has been slowly but surely _teleporting_ Heydricus’ new followers from the Temple of Tritherion in Chendl to the mines of Cur’ruth.  This day, as he makes his morning trip to Chendl, he is called into a meeting-room off Halrond’s personal wing.

There he finds Halrond, Heydricus, Prisantha, C’mine and Dabus, standing about a mantle, drinking mulled wine and exchanging stern expressions.

“If this is about my words with that Tenha, Heydricus, I will thank you to remember who voted for you to be _resurrected_ in the Temple.”  Jespo shoots a look at Prisantha. “It wasn’t unanimous, you know.”

“Jespo, do you have any family in the Marklands?” Halrond asks.

“I am an only child, sir, not that it is any business of yours.  My mother passed away from grief when I enrolled in Summoners’ school, and my father is not known to me.”

“Jespo, the Iuzians are threatening to hurt our families,” Prisantha says.

“But we’re going to stop them,” Heydricus chimes in.

“The same rascals who attacked me?” Jespo asks.

“The same,” Heydricus says.

“Dastardly,” Jespo states.  “Have I told you, Dabus, how I defended myself from the concentrated assault of four of the fiends?”

Dabus regards Jespo with an even gaze, and then turns to Heydricus.  “If Crim can defeat four of them on his own, perhaps we should just equip Prisantha’s grandmother with an enchanted cudgel and be done with it.”

Before Jespo can retort, Heydricus tells him to remain here at the Temple until further notice.  Heydricus, Dabus and Prisantha will _teleport_ to Hommlet and secure the safety of Prisantha’s relatives, then the Liberators of Tenh will take the battle to the Cadaverous Ones, and Tritherion willing, settle the matter once and for all.

Hommlet here we come.  But Prisantha’s _teleport_ spell mis-fires, and the trio find themselves standing knee-deep in threshed grain, just outside of a farmhouse somewhere very far to the South, judging by the sun.

“Gods above Prisantha, when will you learn this spell?” Heydricus exclaims.

“It is an inexact science, I’ll have you know.  Now be quiet and show some respect.  I am _not_ one of your fawning minions, Heydricus.”

Dabus opens his mouth to protest, but is interrupted by Prisantha’s second _teleport_.  This time, they find themselves standing on top of a baking-table in a farmhouse kitchen.  A young dairymaid is standing in the doorway, a basket full of eggs in her arms, staring open-mouthed at the trio of adventurers.

The scene is still for a moment, and then the table collapses, sending a cloud of flour into the air.  The dairymaid screams and drops her eggs, which shatter on the floor.

“Damn your fumble-fingered teleports!” Heydricus screeches.

“I’d like to see _you_ try the spell!” Prisantha snaps back.  “Do you suppose it is easy?”

“My armor!  I’m covered in flour!” Dabus complains.

The dairy-maid faints.

-----

One _teleport_ scroll later, the three heroes appear in the yard of Prisasntha’s grandparents.

“. . .  if I had!” Heydricus is shouting.

“As if you’d know!” Prisantha shouts back.  “That does it!  I’m not speaking to you!”

“Is someone talking, Dabus?” Heydricus asks.  “I thought I heard a voice.”

“Grandma!” Prisantha yells, “you’re all right!”

Pris’ matronly grandmother is standing in the farmhouse’s doorway.  “Pris, honey?  Is that you?”

“Gran, how would you like to come with us?” Pris asks.

“What?  Where?  I couldn’t.”

“It’ll be a vacation,” Heydricus says pushing past the old lady into the house, “where’s your husband?”

“But I don’t want a vacation,” the old woman says.  “I can’t afford it,”

“I can Gran, let’s pack your things.”

Heydricus comes back to the porch.  “We’ll put you up in the Temple of Tritherion, and you can have mulled wine served to you all day by the acolytes.  It’s great, you’ll love it.  Let’s go.”

“But, what about my things?” the old woman protests.

“We’ll buy you new ones,” Pris says.

“What about the farm?”

“I’ll buy you a new one,” Heydricus says.
Meanwhile, Dabus, who has been examining the back of the farmhouse, returns and stands in front of the confused old woman.  “Ma’am, have you seen any sign of the Iuzian assassins?”

Grandma faints.

-----

Before they _teleport_ back to Chendl, Prisantha leaves the following note on her grandparents’ kitchen table:

“Anton, et al, 

“You probably won’t be around to read this, but just in case, we will meet your challenge and defeat you once and for all.  You always were a poor excuse for a sorcerer.  I never did like your lousy _fireballs_, and I intend to make you pay for threatening our loved ones.

Prisantha”

-----

Upon their return, grandma and grandpa Pris are billeted in luxurious quarters, and assigned acolytes to see to their needs.  The Liberators gather together to discuss their next move.

“It’s simple,” Heydricus says, “I will make myself visible in a public place, and when they take the bait, we kill them all.”

“That’s right,” Jespo says.  “I killed him once and I can do it again.  _Daern_.  

“Daern, indeed.”

-----
Next:  A reunion for the Heroes of the Temple, courtesy of Iuz!


----------



## (contact)

Coldeven 21, CY 593

*31:  The Liberators Make A Public Scene*

The Conquering Hero is the name of Chendl's most famous statue and piazza, after the apocryphal founder of the city.  The fact that the sculpture in the center of the square is actually a portrait of the sculptor's nephew (who later cuckolded him, then was murdered for his trouble) and was intended to represent the Great Kingdom's heroic past, is a fact lost on the throng gathering here to soak up the morning sun.

Several wineries and bistros face onto the piazza, and the Liberators of Tenh are sitting in them, spaced out around the square, either _invisible_ or in disguise.  Heydricus, however sits casually and undisguised on the base of the Conquering Hero, sipping from a flask of wine, and cleaning his fingernails.

High overhead, Heydricus' hawk familiar circles and watches the street traffic, looking for old companions.  After an hour or so, Heydricus receives a telepathic communication warning him that a group of heavily armed former Heroes of the Temple are racing through the crowd, bearing down on the piazza.

"Here they come, be ready," Heydricus relays to Pris through a _message_ spell.  Prisantha passes the warning on to Cmin, Dabus and Jespo Crim.

"I see them," Jespo says.  It is Augustin, with Tisha . . . that must be Egil, he has no face left.  There's Lady Amyryth and that one girl, the fighter . . . er, the one who was rended to bits by the fiend."

"Which one that was rended to bits by a fiend?" Heydricus asks.

"The tall one, kind of quiet-she adventured with us right before the sacking of Knulb."

"Esril?" Prisantha asks.

"No, not Esril.  The other one.  Brown hair, not too tall,"

"Amyryth?" Pris asks.

"No, not Amyryth, the other one.  You know, um . . ."

"The one with the flaming sword?" Heydricus asks.

"Yes, that's her!  Daern!  What _is_ her name?"

"I know," Pris says, "Daniella!  Or, Darleena."

"Oh, Daniere!" Heydricus says, "I remember her!"

"Yes, that's the one," Jespo says.

"She wasn't killed by a fiend, Jespo", Pris says.

"Yes she was."

"No she wasn't.  She was killed by giants."

"No, no.  You're thinking of Keriann."

"Am I?"

"I think so, Pris," Heydricus says. "Daniere was the one who . . ."  But Heydricus' is interrupted by a sickening sensation, felt deep in his marrow- the tell-tale discomfort of an _unhallow_ spell.

"Tritherion's blade, they are upon us!" Heydricus yells.

As he does so, a pair of arrows whiz by his head, flying far wide of the burly sorcerer.  For a moment, Heydricus thinks he has been targeted by an errant archer, until the arrows sink into nearby citizens, provoking screams from the crowd.

"Poison!" an old woman yells!  They've killed Kendry.  You . . ."

The next few seconds are an absolute chaos, as people begin to flee from the square, grabbing possessions and loved ones as they go.  Heydricus leaps to his feet.  "Hold your positions!" he yells to his companions, sussing out the Iuzian's strategy-to draw the Liberators from their hiding places by murdering innocents.  Heydricus snaps his sword from his scabbard, and scans the crowd.  He locks eyes with a familiar figure-Sister Keriann, once a nun of St. Cuthbert, now something . . . _other_.

The old woman smiles and clutches a calcified humanoid forearm, swinging it like a mace.

Jespo Crim swiftly leaps to his feet, overturning his fruit and cheese plate, and _summons_ a pack of celestial wolves into the path of the Iuzains charging the piazza.

Prisantha steps out from behind a doorway, and casts a _stoneskin_ upon herself, as Dabus counters the Iuzians _unhallow_ with a _hallow_ spell of his own.

Heydricus hears an anguished cry from behind him, and wheels in time to notice a jolly looking halfling standing over the crumpled body of the old woman, Kendry's mother, his dagger buried between her shoulder blades.  The halfling cheerfully waves at Heydricus and smiles a cherubic smile, at once familiar and frightening.

"Hullo, Heydricus," Pippin chirps.  "How've you been?"

A trio of _magic missiles_ arc into the golden-haired sorcerer in that moment, as Anton Rex shimmers into view on an adjoining balcony.

Little Leaf, of course, remains behind his snipers blind, covering Lucius Maturin as the undead assassin moves unseen into position behind Prisantha.

On the other side of the square, the charge of Augustin, Egil, Lady Amyryth, Tisha and Old What's Her Name runs full into a swarm of _summoned_ monsters, as Jespo frantically calls more celestial aid to the fray.

Cmin creeps into position nearby, awaiting the first Iuzian to reach the plaza, hoping to deliver a sneak attack.  Unfortunately for her, the Iuzian is Egil, and the undead monster is not fooled by her concealment, and strikes her twice, forcing her to retreat.

Tisha sends bolts of _lightning_ through the summoned monsters as Daniere and Lady Amyryth open a path for Augustin to leap upon Jespo Crim.

But the wily conjurer has an ace up his sleeve, in the form of a hound archon he _summons _directly in front of the Fallen paladin.  The archon wounds Augustin, but is cut down a moment later.  Fortunately, the archon buys Jespo Crim enough time to flee.

Meanwhile, Heydricus leaps at Pippin, smiting the halfling mightily, forcing the diminuative dead rogue into an altogether unfair fight.  By the time Keriann can reach the brawl, Pippin is no more.

Dabus targets Anton Rex with a burst from his wand of _searing light_, and the red-robed invoker bursts into flame.

As this is happening, the _summoned_ wolves at the East end of the square, take Tisha to the ground, and rip her throat from her undead body.  

Prisantha finishes her personal protection, just as Lucius Maturin steps out from the shadows and attempts to bury a poisoned blade into the base of her neck.  The weapon bounces harmlessly off of Prisantha's toughened hide, and is followed an instant later by a pair of arrows from Little Leaf.

Lucius turns to flee, but is thwarted by a _web_ called into being from Prisantha's fingertips.  The nimble assassin leaps free of the web, but Little Leaf is forced from his hiding place, and stumbles, falling to the ground.  Dabus seizes his opportunity to _flame strike_ the undead elf, destroying him utterly.

Heydricus turns to face Sister Keriann, and the two exchange blows, but it soon becomes obvious that deprived of her back-up, she is no match for the golden-haired Liberator of Tritherion.

"This is unnecessary, and moot, Heydricus," the matronly undead croaks.  "You would be the greatest among us, should you submit to the Gift."

Heydricus considers a reply, but determines that the best answer for that kind of offer is usually an overwhelming burst of violence, which he supplies.

Dabus races toward the sound of Jespo Crim's frightened screeching, and confronts Augustin.  As the two face one another, they lock eyes, calling upon the might of their respective deities.  Augustin is wreathed by a shimmering black null-light, as Dabus grows to twice his normal size.

Cmin, meanwhile, is playing cat-and-mouse with Egil, ducking under tables and trying to catch the fighter with an unexpected blow.

Prisantha looses sight of Lucius, a worrying prospect as the assassin ducks inside the opening to a bath house.  She _summons_ a celestial lion to hunt him, and glances over her shoulder in time to see Heydricus striking Keriann to the ground.

Dabus leaps toward Augustin, and after a moment is joined by Heydricus and Pris.  The three Liberators attack Augustin and Egil, and are successful enough to bring Jespo Crim out from under the overturned table he was hiding behind.

"Ha, ha!" he yells, "take _that_ you fiend!"

A moment later, Pris' celestial lion shambles over, dejectedly shaking its mane.  Lucius is gone.  Only Daniere and Lady Amyryth remain in the fight, but they do not last long against the combined might of the Liberators.  Cmin' is discovered unconscious, slumped over an overturned chair.  Fortunately, she is still alive, despite Egil's worst intentions.

As the Liberators gather themselves, Heydricus reminds the group that the undead _regenerate_, and begins to gather the bodies.  Pris and Dabus make a quick search of the bathouse, only to confirm what they already suspected:  Lucius Maturin is gone.

After the bodies are gathered, whatever _healing_ can be delivered is given to the citizens of Chendl.  Shortly thereafter, men and women of the day watch arrive on the scene, and the Liberators are confronted by one very frightened and angry Watch Captain.

He orders his men to gather the bodies, but Heydricus informs him that the corpses will be taken to the Temple of Tritherion, instead.  This provokes a tirade from the captain that produces as much spittle as bluster, and he orders the Liberators arrested.

Before Jespo can yell "You'll never take me alive-I ain't goin' back to jail," Prisantha steps forward.

One _mass suggestion_ later, the heroes are loading the still-unmoving undead carcasses into a wagon, helpfully provided by the magically compliant Watch Captain.

When they reach the Temple to Tritherion, and take the bodies onto Holy ground, the undead melt like ice in the hot sun, disappearing before the eyes of the bedraggled adventurers.

-----
Next:  The Liberators get a new accountant!


----------



## (contact)

Coldeven 22, CY 593

*32:  Back to the Mines*

The next morning, the Liberators gather in the temple’s palatial meditation room, to _scry_ the Provost Marshall Reine.

They discover that he is alive, and apparently kept drugged in what looks to be a common root cellar.  Heydricus, Prisantha and Dabus ready themselves for a fight, then _teleport_ to the scene.

But there is no fight to be had, and Dabus _heals_ Reine, clearing his system of the sopoforic.  Reine stirs and regards the party with a frightened expression.

“Relax, Provost Marshall,” Heydricus says.  You are safe now.  We need you to remain quiet, and stay here.”  The group cautiously searches the farmhouse above the cellar, only to find it empty.  After a brief journey outside, they discover that they are in the South of Furyondy, within walking distance of Willip, and the estate of Baron Butrain.

“Let’s pay a visit to the Baron, shall we?” Heydricus says.

When they arrive at Butrain’s keep, they are informed by the seneschal that Butrain is meeting with emissaries from Chendl’s Great School of Magic, and after a short wait, the Baron arrives, with none other than Gwendolyn herself in tow.

The unpleasant wizardess looks shocked to see the group, and regards Prisantha with a poisonous gaze.

The party tells the Baron of their recent battles with Iuzian undead, and warns him that a dangerous cell might be operating out of Willip.  They are underwhelmed by the Baron’s seeming lack of interest in this news, and another argument begins about his lack of support for Furyondy’s war with the Old One.

Before direct accusations can be leveled, Heydricus diplomatically ends the meeting, and the Liberators _teleport_ back to Chendl, with the Provost Marshall in tow.

Dabus and C’min are dispatched to search Reine’s home, and return with dark news.

“There’s no sign of his wife or daughter, Heydricus,” Dabus says, keeping his voice low so that Reine cannot overhear him, as the Provost Marshall’s soft sobbing can be heard from the next room.  Dabus pauses, and says, “there was a lot of blood, Heydricus.”

“We’ll need to scry them, Dabus,” Heydricus replies.  “Get Prisantha, and . . .”

“No, Heydricus, I don’t think you understand.  There was a _lot_ of blood.”

-----

Reine is left to whatever consolation the priests of Tritherion can give him, and that afternoon, Heydricus, Prisantha and Dabus pay a visit to King Belvor to update him on the situation.

Heydricus assures the King that the Iuzian undead have been dealt with, or as he gleefully puts it, “we killed them all, sir.  _We killed the s--t out of them_.”

Belvor congratulates the heroes, and points out that while he is truly sorry for Reine’s loss, the Provost Marshall simply cannot go missing for any amount of time, and while he was gone, his office was filled.  Permanently. Reine is now the ex-Provost Marshall Commerce for Chendl.

“Well, Heydricus,” Prisantha says, “we do have an opening for an accountant.”

Arrangements are made to ferry the newly _resurrected_ Prince Thrommel to the Temple of Tritherion, and from there, the Prince is to be taken to Tenh, far from the eyes of his enemies, and placed under the protection of the Liberators.  Hopefully, while there, he can sow his adventuring oats and not be killed.  The King repeats that phrase:  Not.  Be.  Killed.

Prisantha gifts her grandparents with 500 gp, enough for them to buy out the Paddyfoot halflings and further expand the family farm.  Halrond assigns several junior clerics to guard the farm, to ensure that no further Iuzian deprivations take place.

------

And so it is that C’min, Jespo Crim, Prince Thrommel and the former Provost Marshall Reine join the ranks of the Liberators of Tenh.

When he is informed of the new additions to the roster, Jespo is less than pleased.

“Reine?” He sputters.  “That backstabbing, unprincipled rapscallion!  Absolutely not!  Have you forgotten so soon who had me imprisoned?”

Jespo is eventually calmed, and assured that Reine was merely a puppet, played for a fool by the conspirators against Thrommel, and has suffered greatly.  Fräs and Jespo argue vehemently, and in the end, Jespo looses the point.  Reine is to be given quarters in the mines at Cur’ruth, and set to oversee the mine’s finances.  Jespo pouts, but acquiesces.

When they return to the mines, the group lays out a basic strategy:  Prisantha wishes to take several months off to research new spells and create her dream item:  a _crystal ball of true seeing_.  Heydricus will take the time to organize his troops, bring in new recruits, and assess the military situation in Tenh.  In the meantime, Jespo Crim and Dabus will undertake the task of adding enchantments to Heydricus’ spear—his symbol of investiture from Tritherion.

C’min and Elijah will take the time to thoroughly scout the area surrounding the mines of Cur’ruth.

But upon their arrival, they are greeted with yet another mystery.  A note from Tau has been left for Heydricus.  In his note, Tau discusses his recent investigations around the mines of Tenh.


From chapter 23:  _“Tau shifts the group into the border etheric in order to search for hidden chambers.  They find a recessed shrine to the Flan pantheon that somehow escaped the notice of the occupying Iuzian priests.  In the shrine, Tau is overjoyed to discover a fully-intact book on Flan folk worship, dating back hundreds of years!”_

Tau has been thoroughly reading the book, and is troubled to discover that there is mention of a God he has never heard of—a minor Flan deity devoted to Knowledge, Order and Law.  The fact that Tau, as a specialist in Comparative Sacrilegious Faiths for the Libraries of Wintershiven has never before encountered this deity is troubling.  

As part of his investigation, Tau searched the mines from top to bottom, and found an unusual depression on the cliff directly above the mines.  He grew convinced that the depression once contained a third statue—similar to the pair of massive sculptures that flank the opening to the mines of Cur’ruth.  What happened to it is unknown.  There is no sign of either an excavation or collapse.

To add fuel to the mystery, the Tenha at Cur’ruth claim no knowledge of the statues’ origin, purpose or symbolism.  The Aital, spiritual leader of the Tenha, has been no help.  She was unaware of the existence of the hidden worship chambers in the mines, indicating that they must be older than even the mining operations in this place.

Tau had since determined that more research was the key, and returned to the only place he knew to undertake the project, the Libraries of Wintershiven.

As she ponders these events, Prisantha is struck with a sobering thought:  why would a powerful cleric like Tau need to research in a library when he could use divinations to gain answers?  Her conclusion is that Tau must not have access to his higher-level spells, a sure sign of Pholtus’ displeasure with His cleric.

-----
Next: The Liberators begin projects, and get a little Spring Cleaning done . . . bloodily!


----------



## (contact)

Planting 27, CY 593

*33:  Bigger is Better*

The Growfest holiday comes and goes, and a full month passes as the Mines of Cur'ruth slowly transform into a war-camp, under Heydricus' direction.  Elijah and C'min return several weeks after the beginning of their scouting mission to report that they have spotted a giant-sized wooden fortress nestled into the mountains that overshadow Cur'ruth.  Prisantha cannot be disturbed from her studies, and Heydricus protests that he must oversee the organization of his fledgling army.  

Elijah is called forward to assemble a strike-team to explore this gigantic stronghold, and deal with any threat it might represent.  Elijah selects C'min to help her scout, and the two of them call out Dabus, Jespo Crim and Thrommel for fighting support.

As the group travels up into the mountains, toward the wooden fortress, they encounter a man-made trail.  Man-made if men were ten feet tall, that is.  Elijah informs the group that the trail leads in two directions, deeper into the mountains and directly toward the hidden fortress.  The fact that giants made the trail is obvious to all.

Elijah and C'min break off from the rest of the group to follow the giants' trail toward the fortress and have a closer look.  A half hour or so after they leave, the remaining heroes hear the sound of booming giantish voices engaged in some sort of debate approaching from the opposite direction.

Before the Liberators can fully ready themselves, four huge brute-men have appeared through the trees.  These foul-smelling reprobates seem genuinely surprised (and perhaps a bit amused) to see the adventurers.  Most likely, none of them could clearly articulate their visceral joy, or the childlike giddiness they feel when imagining the Medium-Sized head wounds that are soon to come.  

Of course, they never get the opportunity to record these last moments of life for posterity, as the Liberators rarely transcribe their enemies' dying words.

The smartest giant of the group holds up his hand to tell his companions bide a moment, while he searches these unknown humans for markings that would signify them as servants of Iuz.  After a brief pause, the giant is satisfied that these adventurers are truly strangers, and therefore fair game.

But by this time, the Liberators have their wits about them, and Jespo Crim conjures a field of writhing _black tentacles_ that grow from the ground and entangle the giants, constricting their torsos and legs.  One of the giants bursts free, and is met by Prince Thrommel (who, save for the fact he stumbled upon an exposed root, would have certainly charged into the center of the writhing tentacles, despite Jespo Crim's warning), and the Heir to the Furyondian throne smites the giant with a blow that would make his father proud.  

The other three giants, fully entangled by the tentacles, are left unable to defend themselves against Dabus' _blade barrier_, and after the last syllable of the invocation is complete, a staccato series of wet _thap, thap, thapping_ sounds is accompanied by a spray of blood from the legs of the creatures.

The giant standing toe-to-shin with Thrommel can give as good as he gets, and after a moment, Jespo Crim _summons_ a pair of celestial lions to come to the aid of the Prince.  Dabus strikes another giant with a _flame strike_, even as the thing tears Jespo's _black tentacles _ up from the ground by their pulpy, oozing roots.

Within moments, the wounded giants are free of both the _tentacles_ and the _blade barrier_, but all the fight has been leeched out of them, and after a few more spells and blows are exchanged, all four giants lay dead-- one of them lying where he was struck down as he tried to flee.

-----

As this fight is happening, about two miles up the trail, C'min and Elijah are getting their first good look at the giant stronghold.  The entire structure resembles a crudely built human fort, at double proportions.  It sits atop a steep hill, and the wooden palisade encircles the hilltop to a height of approximately thirty feet.  From their vantage point, the two women can see three elevated guard platforms rising above the level of the wall, and at least one of them is manned by a human-sized figure, looking outlandishly small in the giant-sized structure. 

As they patiently observe the place, the massive front gates swing open, and a pair of staggering hill giants emerge, carrying slop-buckets and singing blearily.  The first red-eyed giant flings his slop down the hill, but stumbles as he does so, and tumbles head over heels down the slope, crashing into the treeline, his hairy legs exposed from the thighs down.  His companion laughs out loud at this, and  douses the fallen giant with the fetid contents of his bucket.

The standing giant yells something, which C'min translates for Elijah as meaning roughly "now you smell like you look, you drunk bastard."

The giant who fell does not get up, and after a moment, loud snores are heard coming from the beast.  His companion shrugs half-heartedly, and closes the gate.

Sensing an opportunity, Elijah unsheathes her swords and C'min slips in behind her as the wild-woman of the Adri forest moves toward the sleeping giant with murderous intent.

-----

A thin, dark elf is also stalking the fallen giant through the trees, and observes as Elijah slips her weapons up underneath the giant's chin, and deep into his head.  C'min grunts sharply when the convulsing giant kicks her with his filthy fur-wrapped foot as he dies.

The elf emerges from his hiding place and quietly makes himself seen.  Had either of these women had any experience with drow, they might have marked how unusual it is to see weather-worn dark elven skin. 

After a brief moment where C'min and Elijah recover from the shock of actually being snuck up on, the elf introduces himself as Elenthal-- a ranger of the mountains, sworn protector to the Flan settlement of Windswhistle Peak.

Elijah haughtily introduces herself as the personal ranger to Heydricus Tritherionson, Liberator of Tritherion, and future Lord of Tenh.  When Elenthal laughs out loud at the preposterous title "Lord of Tenh", Elijah bristles.

C'min, however, retains her diplomatic skills, and coaxes Elenthal's story from him.  The ranger has lived near Windswhistle Peak for the last 10 years, after arriving in Tenh from the land of Geoff after "nosing about a bit underneath Castle Greyhawk."

Elenthal's Flan settlement is high enough in altitude that it was spared Iuzian or Stonefist deprivation.  In fact, until recently, he believed himself free of political entanglements, if not free of danger.  While Iuzians were scarce in his part of Tenh, he has long struggled with a particularly fecund band of hill giants, stalking them and killing them when he could catch them alone.

But recently, he discovered Dorakkan currency amongst the usual detritus of the giant's bags, and after watching their encampment for several weeks, he spotted strange giants, dressed like the Men of the Stonefist, coming and making supplication to the tribal chieftain.

Concerned that these giants were in league with Tenh's occupiers, Elenthal followed them back here.

"And that," he says, turning to Elijah "is when I spotted _you_."

"You wouldn't have spotted me at all if I wasn't elbow-deep in giant brains," Elijah mutters under her breath.

"You are in luck, friend ranger," C'min says.  "Not only are we here as the vanguard of an army of Liberation, we have come here today to kill these giants, and thereby eliminate the risk that they might infect _your_ giants with the blasphemous doctrines of Iuz."

"You two are going up against a giant tribe?"  Elenthal scoffs.

"Yes," C'min states.  "But we are not alone.  We have three others with us; a conjurer, a priest and the Crown Prince of Furyondy".

For the second time, Elenthal bursts out laughing at the ridiculous story, but this time, both women are staring at him evenly.

"And the King has charged us not to let him be killed, so you'd better stay on your toes," Elijah says as she slips away from the fort.

-----
Next:  The Liberators call up the reserves, and mayhem ensues!


----------



## (contact)

Planting 27, CY 593

*34:  Giants look so peaceful when they’re dead.*

Returning to their companions, Elijah and C’min step around the heavily lacerated giant bodies and introduce Elenthal to the group.  The dark elf states that he is a specialist in giant-fighting.

“Yeah, me too!”  Thrommel gleefully states, admiring the corpse of one of the giants.

The six adventurers retrace the scout’s route, and once in their vantage point amongst the trees, they form a plan:  [t]invisibility[/I] spells will be placed upon the three who can’t sneak, and the group will make their way into the fort.  And then?

“We kill them all,” Thrommel says.

“We kill as many as we can until we have to retreat,” Elenthal corrects him.

Thrommel seems ready to argue, but Jespo whispers into the Prince’s ear, and quiets the young fighter.  Fräs purrs from her satchel.

“That’s right Fräs,” Jespo chuckles.

The group locates an exposed livestock pen, built out from the fort, with an unguarded gate leading into the compound.  The pen is surrounded on three sides by a steep cliff, but the climb proves no trouble, once C’min reaches the top, and can assist the others.

Inside the compound, the top of the hill is divided sharply along its center by a ledge, some fifteen feet high.  Beginning at the side of the ledge the heroes stand near, a trio of wooden longhouses sprawl against the cliff, and at the opposite side, rough stairs are carved into the rock against the palisade wall.  All three guard towers are on the raised level, but only one appears occupied, by a lowly orc.  A pair of giants stand on an elevated platform, where they watch over the main gate.

C’min creeps through the lower compound, listening at the doors, and returns with the following report:  At least three, but no more than five giants are within the longhouses.  That’s seven giants accounted for, and one orc.

“I like our odds,” Thrommel says.

“So do I, my Prince, so do I,” Jespo whispers portentously as he pulls a carved gemstone from his pouch.  “This gem will soon be the repository of a giant’s soul, and I will possess the creature’s body thanks to my _powerful magics_!”  Jespo looks ready to cackle maniacally at this declaration, but is silenced by a hiss from Fräs.

“Quite right, Fräs.  Of course,” Jespo whispers.  Jespo turns toward his companions.  “When that giant,” Jespo points toward one of the guards, “raises his fist, it will be your sign to attack!”

Jespo clutches his gem between his palms and mutters an arcane phrase, then suddenly, the conjurer of Chendl drops to the ground, limp.  At that moment, the giant he indicated shakes its head, does a little dance of glee, then raises its fist, with an altogether incongruous grin on its hairy, bestial face.

Dabus needs no further prompting, and becomes suddenly visible as he calls down a _flame strike_ on the other giant at the gate.  Elijah, C’min and Thrommel fire a volley of arrows into the poor surprised brute, and the giant now possessed by Jespo Crim strikes him a two-handed blow, toppling the brute off the palisade wall, and into the compound proper.

The giant on the ground begins screaming, and within moments, the group has finished off the unlucky fellow with ranged attacks.  But the orc on the wall has a bow of his own, and strikes Dabus three times, with devastating effect.  “Gods preserve me!”  Dabus gasps, as the longhouse doors burst open.

Of course, C’min was right—five giants emerge from the houses with clubs at the ready and murder on their minds.  What she could not hear through the door, however, is the unnatural (even for a giant) size of one of the monsters.  The thing is easily fifteen feet tall, and his limbs are twisted unnaturally.  Even more disturbing, the creature bears the scars of ritual torture; a sure sign of Iuzian experimenting.

“To arms!”  Thrommel yells somewhat unnecessarily, as Elenthal leaps upon the nearest giant, his sword and shield style frustrating the creature.  Thrommel also lays in with his sword, and Dabus levels another _blade barrier_ into the midst of the giants charging toward the group.  If the whirling blades weren’t enough to blunt their charge, the possessed giant (with the mind of an anemic Conjurer) leaps at them from the rear, smashing another giant across the shoulders with his club.

Two of the giants turn on their traitorous companion, and the three beasts are soon obscured by a mist of sweat, flailing clubs, blood and spit.

Despite Jespo’s success, the adventurers still fighting by the livestock pen are hard-pressed, and the orcish archer on the guard tower proves to be a deadly sniper.  Within seconds, it becomes clear that unless they take cover, the group will be picked apart by his accurate bow-fire before the giants even get a chance to smash the interlopers.

The party’s ranks are broken, and Dabus is forced to retreat to a hidden position and _heal_ himself.  The giant possessed by Jespo falls underneath the crushing clubs of his former allies, and suddenly, Jespo Crim’s body shudders, and the Conjurer stands up, breathing heavily.

“Why, now I know what Keriann must have felt like!”  Jespo exclaims.

“And Little Leaf,” C’min corrects him.

“Oh yes, of course Little Leaf, and Egil, for that matter,” Jespo says.

“God’s Blood, Crim, _shut up and fight_!”  Dabus yells, as another volley from the orc punches through his armor.

Elenthal and Thrommel have finished their giant, and are creeping along the base of the longhouses, taking cover from the archer while trying to get at another giant without exposing themselves.

Jespo steps out into the compound in order to see where Dabus is pointing, and a razor-sharp barbed arrow whistles through his cloak, just inches from puncturing his kidney.  “Take cover, Fräs!”  Jespo yells, as he summons a trio of Heavenly lions right at the feet of the orc sniper.  The orc calmly steps backward, just before he is seized by one of the great cats, and within seconds, two of the lions have fallen beneath his bow fire, but not before they wound him somewhat.

Freed from the devastating arrow fire, Dabus is able to weave through the melee, healing his companions, and bolstering them against the giant’s blows.

After a few seconds of this, Jespo summons a writhing mass of _black tentacles_ that spring from the top and sides of the guard tower, snatching the orc and the surviving celestial lions, and crushing the life from them.

Thrommel and C’min charge forward to assist Elenthal, as the drow proves good to his boast—against giants, he is a fearsome opponent.  By this point, only a pair of giants remain; the unnaturally large creature, and a more ‘normal’-sized brute.  They look dispirited, and perhaps are re-thinking their hasty attack, but they are heartened as a bellowing horn-call sounds from somewhere on the upper compound.

“We need to flee!”  Elenthal cries, as he slices into the gangling giant, and dodges an energetic blow.  Thrommel and Dabus move in to assist the dark elven ranger, and the rest of the group support the brawl with missile and spell fire.

Within seconds, the sound of giantish yelling comes from the direction of the horn blast, but there are only human and elvish ears to hear the cries.  As swiftly as they came, the Liberators of Tenh retreat down the hillside and into the surrounding woods.

------
Next:  The Liberators vs. the Steading of the Hill Giant King (Reprise)!


----------



## (contact)

Planting 28, CY 593

*35:  Some massacres are called ‘a battle’, but others are more properly termed ‘adventuring’.*

Flush with their victory, the Liberators of Tenh use a _pass without trace_ spell to ensure that they won’t be followed, and Elijah scouts out a suitable campsite.  Long into the night, they discuss their tactics, and determine to return immediately the next morning, in order to retain the initiative.

While the other Liberators plan and sleep, Elijah keeps a watch over the giant compound, in case the creatures send out a reprisal in the night.  They do not, but during her watch, Elijah is intrigued by a steady sound—a _thwock, thwock, thwock_, like some pulpy mass falling from a great height onto stone.

In the morning, C’min and Elijah return to the fort, this time climbing over the wall and carefully scouting the entire compound.

There is another orcish sentry, they report, standing on the bloodstain that used to be his companion—he is joined on watch by a single giant guard at the gate.  The longhouses in the lower compound are empty, and the remainder of the giant clan must be inside the single larger structure that occupies the upper compound.

When they listened at that door, however, they heard no sounds of life.  They did hear a strange whistling and rattling noise—altogether too delicate a sound to be coming from the home of a hill giant.

More disturbingly, the bodies from yesterday’s battle have not been removed.  Rather, they have been hacked apart at the scene, and their parts carefully loaded into several un-hitched carts, looking for all the world like bloody, shredded firewood.  Two of the giants have been completely dismembered, another three have lost only body parts, while the two most badly burned by Dabus’ _flame strike_ have been unmolested.

The scouts return to the group with their news, and all agree that the remainder of the giants certainly must be laying in wait for them inside the longhouse.  They make adjustments to their plan, then begin to prepare spells.

Individual casters prepare their combat retinue—Jespo casts _mass haste_ and _invisibility 10’ radius_, while Dabus places the group under a _wind walk_ spell.  The group _wind walks_ invisibly toward the orcish sniper’s position, and rushes onto his watchtower.  The sniper hears their approach however, and demonstrating a grasp of magical tactics, fires arrows into the two most heavily armored (and loudest) Liberators—Thrommel and Dabus.

But the arrows are not enough to hold back the heroes’ advance, and suddenly C’min, Elijah, Thrommel and Dabus all appear in front of the orc, their blades whistling into the creature, wounding him deeply.  The orc leaps backward off of the watchtower in a spray of his own blood, firing arrows as he goes, and crashes onto his back fifteen feet below on the roof of a longhouse.

As this happens, Jespo Crim also appears, and he points his finger at the hill giant on watch, _holding_ it.  C’min leaps from the watchtower, and runs toward the giant, intending to take its life before it can shake off Jespo’s spell.

The orc starts to move, but is stopped by its wounds, paralyzed from the waist down from damage taken during its fall.  The creature casts its bow aside, and stares into the eyes of its foes, who are readying bows of their own, and aiming at him.  The orc lifts a hunting-horn to his lips and blows a single, clear note that is cut off when Thrommel sinks an arrow into the orc’s throat.

“The alarm!” Thrommel cries.  “They will be upon us!  I will charge yonder longhouse, and with Fragarach in my hand,”

“My lord,” Jespo coos toward Thromel, even as he meets eyes with Dabus.  “Your prowess with Fragarach is already known to these filthy beasts.  Would it not be grand to teach them that the Scion of Furyondy is also to be feared at any range?  Perhaps an archery demonstration is in order.”

“Yes, you’re right, Crim.” Thrommel says.  “I am quite a fine shot.”

“And I will provide you with an _acid fog_ to assist your shooting, as soon as they emerge,” Jespo says reassuringly.

“And I will provide you with a _blade barrier_ once they are trapped within Crim’s _acid fog_, as we discussed last night, my lord,” Dabus states.

“Very well, you know what you are to do.  Let us make ourselves ready!” Thrommel exclaims.

After a few moments, the doors to the greathouse burst open, and a most fearsome giant emerges—a hill giant, to be sure, but dressed entirely in the ceremonial regalia of a Stonefister chieftan.  The creature’s spit flecks in his thin, patchy beard, and he howls a cry of rage and fear as he charges through the opening.  Directly behind him is the remainder of his clan, filling the doorway, and the building beyond.

None of them get more than ten feet from the door, as Jespo’s _acid fog_ slows, then stops their movement altogether.  Dabus’ _blade barrier_ appears within the fog cloud, but its steady chopping sound is rapidly drowned out by the anguished screams of the giants trapped within.  Inside a burning acidic fog, they are cut hundreds of times until they bleed out and die.

The Liberators watch in a fascinated horror from their position on the watchtower as the giants struggle against the solid fog, and die slow, painful deaths.

“That.  Was . . .” Dabus begins.

“Their due.  Nothing more.” Elijah finishes.  “Now let us get in there and finish any survivors before they can regroup.”  In a flash, she has leapt from the tower, and is running toward the greathouse.

But there are no survivors.  The giants at the rear of the group were the weakest, and the first to die.  Their acid-scarred and shredded corpses clog the opening to a tunnel that leads beneath the greathouse—apparently the only escape route.

The remaining giants could not bolt for their underground lair, and lie in various states of painful disfigurement, some twelve giants in all.  

The rest of the group stares at the mangled corpses, but Elijah is scanning the interior of the greathouse.  The majority of the place is badly damaged by the _acid fog_, but one corner remains untouched.

“That’s it,” Elijah says under her breath.  In the area untouched by acid, several humanoid skulls dangle at the ends of ropes suspended from the ceiling.  They are carved and fluted, marked with strange runes and symbols.  A breeze from the open window (and the massive holes torn into the structure by the _blade barrier_) causes the skulls to rattle lightly against one another as the wind whistles through them.

The group clears the giant corpses from the opening, and after listening carefully, C’min slips into the caverns beneath the hill giant’s fortress, and disappears from sight.  A few minutes later she reemerges.

She reports that a trail of blood from the opening leads deeper within a series of caverns, indicating the presence of surviving giants.  The blood leads into a curious cave that is dominated by a wooden frame surrounding a well—a chaotic patchwork of beams and ropes set into the floor, walls and ceiling of the cave.  The whole structure creaks ominously, although there is no wind, and the back of it is obscured in darkness.

The Liberators approach cautiously, but as they near the contraption, a volley of arrows flies forth, striking Dabus and Thrommel.

Dabus and Thrommel respond by charging into the cavern, where they are met by a half-score of orcish elites—four heavy skirmishers with pole-arms, and five archers perched among the beams of the well-frame.

Jespo Crim (who is _hasted_) _summons_ a pair of celestial lions, and a second later, has cast _animal growth_ upon them.  The lions rocket out to ten feet in length and leap into the melee, pouncing and overbearing one of the orcish fighters.

Dabus calls Tritherion’s _righteous might_ into himself and wades forward, crushing bones with each blow.  Elijah and C’min move from hiding place to hiding place, taking cover where they can, and trading arrow fire with the orcish archers.

To the back of the room, a voice can be heard chanting arcane phrases, and Thrommel determines to do something heroic.  On the back of a _phantom steed_ (summoned by Jespo), Thrommel charges through the melee toward the chanting, his lance at the ready.  Around a corner and down a short hallway, he spies the source of the spell-casting—a lion with the upper body of a human woman, and an entirely wicked expression on her beautiful face.

But it is not the Lamia that frightens Thrommel, it is the three surviving hill giants who lurk next to her.  The giants spot the Prince and leap forward, smashing him repeatedly with their clubs.  Within seconds, his armor is a twisted scrap containing bits of pulped flesh,the metal unable to contain the leaking blood.  For the second time in as many months, Prince Thrommel lies dead at the feet of Iuz’ servitors.

“My Prince!” Jespo cries in frustration, as the Lamia steps forth from the shadows, and attempts to _hold_ Dabus, to no avail.

Dabus finishes off the orc in front of him, and _flame strikes_ one of the wounded giants standing over Thrommel’s bleeding corpse, as C’min and Elijah sink arrows into another one.  Neither giant can take any further punishment, and fall across Thrommel’s body, no longer a threat.

Jespo Crim clutches his precious gem to his chest and invokes his _magic jar_.  Once settled into the body of the Lamia, Jespo orders the remaining giant to turn on the orcish archers in the rafters.  The stupid brute is as clumsy as he is gullible, and while he can’t hit the orcs, he does a fine job of smashing the lattice-work all to pieces.

That settled, the Lamia charges forward and throws herself head-first into the well.

Dabus and Elijah gang up on the surviving giant, while C’min harries the retreating orcs, who by now have had enough.

After the last blow sinks into giant flesh the room has grown quiet.  The remaining Liberators are gathered around Prince Thrommel, gingerly removing the body from its armor when Jespo sits up.

“Well, I don’t think I’ve ever fallen in a well before.” Jespo says.  “So that’s what Lucius felt like.”

-----
Next:  The Liberators knee-deep in snow and gore!


----------



## (contact)

*Planting 28, CY 593
36:  Flying High Into the Night.*

Thrommel is swiftly returned from the dead, via Tritherion’s grace, and abashedly promises that he will Try Not to Die in the future.  Jespo speaks with the Prince at length, trying to impress on the young fighter the Grave Responsibility of his Important Station.  Fräs chimes in with well-placed purrs and hisses.

While Thrommel is receiving his lecture, the rest of the group searches the chambers nearest the well, and discover that the Lamia was (as suspected) an agent of Iuz, and had a special charge amongst these giants.  

A handwritten note from a being identified as “Festering” charges the Lamia with “converting and transforming all giant supplicants, willing or no” and “harvesting any dissenters”.  The group concludes that “harvesting” is a metaphor for gathering body parts, as the grisly butchery C’min and Elijah witnessed seems to indicate.  The note further instructs the Lamia to deliver any “harvested” giants to an excavation site, and bring them “before the Bleeding Stone”.  The note gives directions for a caravan to follow a trail further North and East, into the heart of Tenh’s Northern mountain range.

The party searches the remainder of the hill giant’s fortress thoroughly, and then loads the valuables into one of the giant’s carts.  Of particular note, the Iuzian orcs were all in possession of _potions of healing_—the majority of which went mostly unused thanks to the Liberator’s swift assault. Using the giant’s beasts of burden, the party travels with the treasure back to the mines of Cur’ruth where Jespo and C’min begin the process of cataloguing and _identifying_ the loot.

Elijah disappears into the wild of Tenh for several days, returning with a trio of massive dire wolves in tow.  She introduces the animals to the mines of Cur’ruth, and explains that she and the wolves have “reached an understanding”.  Apparently, that understanding includes terrifying the former Provost Marshall Reine, who refuses to go near the creatures, much to Jespo’s delight.  

The Cur’ruth Tenha prove more open to the presence of the animals, and the Aital explains that dire wolves are revered by the Tenha as divine emissaries—in Tenha legend, ancestor spirits often appear to lost travelers in the form of a wolf to lead them to safety.

Heydricus, for his part, humors Elijah, and extracts a promise from her that her wolves will not maul any of his followers.  Thus assured, he returns to his task of shaping his forces into some kind of fighting shape.

Meanwhile, Elenthal rides into the mountains on the back of one of his trained griffons, and following the directions indicated in the Lamia’s note, discovers a crevasse high up on one of the frozen mountain peaks.  The crevasse is obviously occupied, as several plumes of smoke rise skyward, dissipating in the thin mountain air.

The cart trail does not reach the peak, however, ending several hundred feet beneath the crevasse.  Where the trail ends, a huge one-room structure stands, bordered on one side by the mountain face.  The building is manned by a lone blue-skinned giant who tends to a pair of massive giant eagles.  Each eagle is some fifty feet in length, and they are both tethered to the building with long chains.  The eagles are outfitted to carry either riders or cargo, with gigantic saddles lying nearby.

When Elenthal returns with his report, the Liberators form a plan.  Elenthal will return to the site and scout a suitable hiding place along the cart-trail, from which the group can stage a raid on the eagle’s aerie.  In three days time Jespo is to _scry_ Elenthal, and _reduce_ then _teleport_ the remainder of the group to his side.

This process is accomplished without a hitch, and once the heroes are returned to their normal size, C’min, and Elijah move toward the aerie, while Elenthal flies overhead on his griffon.  Jespo huddles with Dabus and Thrommel, explaining that as soon as he is brought near enough, he will take over the body of the giant, and ferry the entire group up to the crater on the back of one of the eagles.

C’min scouts up the left flank overlooking the aerie, while Elijah approaches from the right, across the face of the building.  Elijah creeps forward as quietly as a mouse, but the eagle tethered out front spies her immediately, then spreads its wings and pounces on the surprised ranger!

The eagle clutches Elijah with its claws, piercing her flesh, but lets her fall into the snow as it reaches the end of its tether with a sudden jolt.  Elijah grunts once as she lands in the snow, trying to clear her head and suppress the pain from her wounds.  The eagle hovers there, casting its massive head to the side, searching for its snack.  Elijah buries herself in the snow in an attempt to hide from the gigantic bird of prey.

“Crim!” Thrommel shouts anxiously, disturbing Jespo’s cackling recitation.  “My mount!”  

The chain tethering the hovering eagle goes slack, as it is released from the inside.  Freed from its restraints, the giant eagle flaps its wings once, then twice, and takes to the sky, leaving a swirling cloud of snow and ice shards behind.  

Jespo casts _mass haste_, preparing his group for battle, and then summons a _phantom steed_ directly underneath Thrommel, who closes the visor on his helm, and levels his lance, readying himself for his charge toward the aerie.

Within her makeshift igloo, Elijah drinks a _potion of healing_, and emerges from the snow.  But her predicament only deepens as a second eagle emerges from the aerie, with the blue-skinned giant on its back.  The giant is a fierce-looking creature, covered head and shoulders with ice-encrusted hair, its pale-blue eyes beaming forth from its bearded face with a light of their own.  The giant guides his eagle with reins that it keeps in one hand while brandishing a wickedly barbed spear in the other.  A large axe dangles from a harness at its back, its razor edge catching reflected light from the snow.

As the eagle emerges, it spots Elijah crawling away from her hiding place, and begins to beat its massive wings, creating a blizzard underneath itself as it hovers over Elijah.  Elenthal nudges his griffon into a dive, and charges the giant with his sword whistling through the thin, frozen air.  

Unfortunately, the cloud of icy shards and snow completely obscures his sight, and as Elenthal charges into the thick of it, he passes through without finding his target.  Elenthal’s griffon pulls up from its steep dive and climbs as swiftly as it can, but to Elenthal’s horror, the eagle – slow at first – begins to gain on him.

Thrommel charges forward on his _phantom steed_ and arrives at the aerie just seconds after the eagle leaves it.  The prince curses into his helmet at the cowardice of some monsters, then fires a pair of bowshots at his fleeing foe.

Dabus levels his _wand of searing light_, and sends a pair of beams streaking toward the giant on the back of the eagle.  As he does so, the eagle catches up with Elenthal’s griffon, and lashes out viciously with its claws, but Elenthal manages to coax his griffon to dip just underneath the eagle’s razor sharp talons.  The giant eagle bends over double to snap at the griffon beneath it with its beak, and as it turns, the giant on its back is able to bring its axe to bear, striking Elenthal twice, and knocking the ranger from his saddle!

Dabus’ _wand of searing light_ does not miss, however, and after another moment, the giant slumps forward, limp and unconscious on the eagle’s back, strapped into his saddle and unable to help himself as he slowly bleeds out, circling the sky aimlessly, his reins clutched tight in his dying grip.

Elenthal, for his part, is _feather falling_ to the ground, unconscious and dying.  Dabus marks Elenthal’s limp form as it drifts to the ground like a fall leaf, first sliding to the left, then the right as the cross-winds buffet him.

Fortunately, by the time Elenthal reaches the ground, he is stable, and after a trio of curing spells from Dabus, the stoic ranger is back on his feet.

The group watches the two eagles, and the rider-less one dives lower, apparently still fixated on Elijah as a potential snack.  The creature dives into a withering rain of missile fire, including a _searing light_ spell from Dabus and an _acid arrow_ from Jespo.  The bird goes from wounded and angry to crippled and terrified within a span of several seconds, and the gargantuan eagle fails in its feeble attempt to check its now out-of-control dive.  The bird smashes into the mountain-side, sending up a huge cloud of snow and debris and leaving an impact crater large enough for a family of halflings to live in on the spot where Elijah was standing just a second before!

For the second time, Elijah pulls herself out from under the snow, but this time, she is no longer in fear of her life.

“That was something,” she says.

“Yes,” Elenthal agrees.  The two rangers regard one another as the rest of the group climbs toward the aerie.

------
Next:  The Liberators take on the Frost Giant Jarl (no, its not what you think)!


----------



## (contact)

Flocktime 6, CY 593

*37:  Against the Giants of the Frozen Wastes.*

"The eagles were outside of my spell ranges, but next time, I will _crush their wills with my irresistible power_!" Jespo tells Dabus.  Fräs hisses.  "Well, I will bend their wills with my Spellcraft," Jespo clarifies.  Fräs hisses.  "Wills _can so_ be bent by spell craft," Jespo says.  Fräs hisses.  "Well, Prisantha could."

The group searches the building, and discovers a narrow (by giant standards) stairway cut into the back of the building, tunneling up through the mountainside at a steep slope.  Following the stairs, the party emerges in a wide s-shaped cavern, with ten foot tall ledges running along either side and a third ledge at the opposite end, slightly higher than the others.  Stalactites of mineral and ice hang from the ceiling, and the party's torch-light is reflected back to them from a thousand glittering points.

C'min, Elenthal and Elijah form the group's forward scouting faction, and creep into the cavern unseen by a pair of giants, who are staring intently at the opening behind the scouts, from which the party's light illuminates the room. Elenthal and C'min move toward the giants, readying themselves for a surprise attack and as the rest of the group enters the massive cavern.  The resulting fight is quick and dirty.  The giants seem unimpressed by the characters at first, gleefully moving toward the group hoping for a moment's diversion.  

They are diverted all right, and after the blood sprays settle, the party moves toward a side passage.

As they near the opening, a voice echoes out from within, "Who comes to visit me, here in my refuge?  _Who comes to die today_?"

A frost giant's face emerges from deep shadows, it's eyes wild with pain and it's mouth filled with sharp teeth.  The head is attached to a long, snake-like neck, covered in snowy scales.  The creature opens its mouth, and blasts the party's scouts with a cone of super-cooled air and frost shards.  Elijah cries a warning, then charges forward.

She is the first to see the whole creature, a twisted amalgamation of giant and serpent-the thing has four legs and vestigial wings, but it also sports a pair of giant arms sprouting from its snaky neck, arms that are clutching a huge greatsword.  

The party moves forward, but their advance is blunted by the thing's tremendous reach.  Elijah and C'min hang back, attacking with missile fire, while Thrommel runs forward, shouting "For Furyondy!  For the . . ." before he is struck to the ground.

Jespo _summons_ a pair of celestial lions to the thing's back, confusing it and forcing its head to whip from the front to the rear, leaving openings for the fighters to get close enough for melee.  Elenthal moves toward its side, but is struck with a devastating cut from the thing's greatsword, and the stoic ranger falls to the ground, wounded near death for the second time today.

Things look truly dire for a moment, but once the group is able to fully surround the creature, its end is assured.  Whatever it is, it bleeds, and can be killed.

The group recovers themselves, and tends to the wounded, restoring Elenthal and Thrommel to health.  After a quick assessment of their current strength, they decide that they have enough left to push forward.

Beyond the s-shaped cavern, an ice-cave winds deeper into the mountain, and upward.  At regular intervals, strange obelisks are set into the ground-formed from some unrecognized rock, and carved with winding sigils, in an unrecognized alphabet.  A faint humming can be felt in the air here, like some massive thing just beneath their feet, slowly breathing in and out.  As the group draws near each obelisk, they feel brief lances of fear or anguish pierce their minds.  

Just past the obelisks, two more frost giants are lounging near a narrow opening.  The group engages with them, and defeats them, but determines that they can take no more.  They retreat to their camp, and await the dawn, huddled together against the cold.

The next morning, Elijah and Elenthal return to the Aerie, but discover that the passage into the giant's lair has been blocked by a massive chunk of ice, placed into the opening-apparently, the giants have chosen to seal themselves in, but for what purpose the party does not know.

Elenthal flies over the summit on his griffon, and reports that the peak has been excavated-a huge bowl-shaped cut carved out from the top of the mountain.  He can see that the giants have built a supporting structure in the depression, and several of them are working in the base of it, cutting into the rock with pickaxes.

After hearing Elenthal's report, Dabus casts _wind walk_ on the group, and they travel to the excavation site.  On the rim of the excavation, a crack in the earth radiates heat and a thin, wisping smoke.  C'min, made like a draft of smoke herself by Dabus' spell, oozes down into the crack and witnesses a gory scene:

The fissure opens into a large cave, and directly beneath the opening, a wretched-looking hill giant tends a grisly pyre.  Several giant bodies are laid out like firewood on a skull-shaped rock and are alight with a greenish arcane flame.  The fire gives off heat and some smoke, but does not seem to consume the bodies.

The hill giant tending the fire is thin and sallow, covered with open sores along the length of his neck and shoulders.  He is also heavily marked with scarring, a pattern indicating that he has been the victim of Iuzian ritual torture.  The giant sweats and groans softly as he turns several large metal spikes in the flame, heating them to a white-hot temperature.

Further into the cavern, a lone human, naked from the waist up, is driving similar spikes into the bodies of several patchwork creatures-parts of giants and humanoids are sewn together seemingly at random, and the human lovingly strokes his creation as he works a spike deep into its torso.

Worse yet, at the opposite end of the chamber, a huge pit is filled with the dismembered body parts of uncountable creatures-the whole of which is being turned like a great compost pile by another diseased hill giant.

Passing unseen through the chamber, C'min discovers a pair of adjoining rooms, one containing an alchemical laboratory and workroom, the other a lavishly appointed bedchamber, sized for a human.

C'min reports her findings back to the group, disgust plain on her elven face.  "These foul ones need to die now," she says, somewhat unnecessarily. 

Dabus says, "The spell that has transformed us cannot be rapidly dispelled.  For this reason, we shall split into two groups.  The first wave will consist of myself, Jespo and Elenthal.  C'min Elijah and Thrommel shall form the second wave."

Thrommel objects, "The second wave?"

"Oh, no sire," Jespo says, shooting a look at Dabus, "you shall be in the first wave, with C'min and Elijah.  The second wave will go in first, to prepare the way for the first wave."

"That's more like it," Thrommel says.

The second wave is to be made _invisible_ by Jespo, then drift unseen into the room.  They will become corporeal, with the first wave following suit if necessary.

They are not necessary.  Jespo lays the giants out with a chained _Tasha's hideous laughter_, and Dabus levels the might of Tritherion's fury at the human, obliterating him completely with a _destruction_ spell.  Before the second wave can fully materialize, Elenthal has killed the helpless giants.

Thrommel says, "Gods of Good, what a stench in here!  Jespo, can't you do something about it?"

"No, my liege, unfortunately I cannot," Jespo says.  "We must all take care to be cured of disease when this is over.  This whole place is festering with rot."

The group searches the human's quarters, and discovers a sizable treasure in the form of a prodigious research library, as well as a cache of freshly minted platinum coins, stamped with a seal from Riftcrag, in the Bandit Kingdoms.

Better yet, the human has a large stack of correspondence, detailing his mission here in the mountains of Tenh.  The party takes the coinage and the letters, intending to study them at their leisure at a later time.  They identify the dead mage as none other than Festering, the lamia witch's dread master.  Festering is charged in the letters with overseeing the operation to convert Tenh's native giant population over to the worship of Iuz, and recover an artifact called the Bleeding Stone-no doubt the object of the giant's excavation.

-----

Next:  The Liberators encounter an ancient artifact, and taste their own blood!


----------



## (contact)

Flocktime 7, CY 593

*38:  The Bleeding Stone.*

The group leaves through another opening in Festering’s workroom, and has a brief moment of worry when they discover several completed giant and human patchwork creatures, propped into alcoves along the passages’ length.  Fortunately, whatever motive power the things must have had is gone, as they silently watch the group’s passage and do not stir.

As they travel down the passage, the party becomes aware of a soft humming—a vibration that seems to fill the air, and whispers in their minds with a sound like rustling leaves.  The sound is altogether unpleasant, and the group shares a sense of dread.

The passage connects to the base of the excavation.  A series of rough-cut concentric circles widen as they rise in height, and the chamber is exposed to the frigid, thin air.  The group stands on the largest circle—a ledge some forty feet in width, running around a circumference of several hundred feet.   In the center of the chamber, a support structure of posts, pillars and cross-beams is built into the ice and stone.  Ropes and pulleys dangle from the construction, and three frost giants stand upon it, pulling up huge loads of stone and ice, or hacking into the mountain with pick-axes.  Another giant supervises the work, hands on his hips.  This supervisor is heavily tattooed, but the giant is too far away for the party to make the designs out.

At the center of the bowl-shaped tier excavation, a massive obelisk rises half-exposed.  The obelisk is composed of a material so dark as to absorb the light, dimming the scene around it.  The thing is covered with fine traceries that glow like pulsing phosphorescent veins along its length.  When examined, the thing seems to shunt the viewer’s gaze off to one side, and directly looking at the obelisk causes the vibratory sensation to grow in strength.  Elijah is sure for a moment that the traceries are not veins, but rivulets of blood, innocent blood—children’s blood, enough blood to . . . she averts her gaze before her morale degenerates any further.

Just at that moment, all of the giants in the room raise their heads in unison and stare directly at Elijah.

Elijah, meet the Bleeding Stone.

As the supervisor giant comes screaming into the party’s torch-light, the group notices that his tattoos are actually cut-marks—hundreds of them, covering his mostly naked body from head to toe.  The cut-marks duplicate the twisted traceries of the Bleeding Stone, and appear to be self-inflicted.  The giant bellows forward and literally runs over Thrommel before coming to a stop in the midst of the spellcasters.  Where he stops, a thick, noxious mist rises from the ground, obscuring all sight, rising to the height of his chest.

The worker giants in the depression also charge toward the group, drawing attacks from Elenthal, Elijah and Thrommel.  Jespo _mass hastes_ the group, and flees from the mist, but in doing so, he is struck with a backhanded axe blow from the tattooed giant!  Jespo rolls out of the cloud, tears streaming from his eyes, and levels his thin fingers at the beast.  “Take this, you fiend!” he cries, but whatever spell he had intended for his foe fails to take affect, and the giant rolls his eyes back in his head, raising his axe for another strike.

Jespo falls to the ground, reflexively curling into a ball, and lets out a thin whimper.

“Damn you Crim, FIGHT!” comes a voice as clear as day from within Fräs’ bag.

 Elenthal, Elijah and Thrommel gang up on one of the worker giants, beating it back away from the ledge, and causing it to tumble into a pool of viscous liquid slowly forming around the base of the Bleeding Stone.

Dabus calls on Tritherion and grows to giant-size himself, then attacks one of the other workers with his spear.

Meanwhile, Fräs’ warning seems to spur Jespo’s courage, but the reluctant _summoner_ takes another blow from the carved giant’s axe before he can make himself _invisible_.  

Elenthal proves once again why he has earned the name Giant Bane, as he slices into first one of the giants, then another, shredding their flesh and tearing the muscles of their legs.  Dabus and Elijah assist him, and the giants’ cause looks lost.

Then suddenly, Elenthal drops to his knees, as long-suppressed memories of his childhood lived deep within the bowels of the earth rise unbidden to his mind.  Elenthal trembles, an anguished primal scream emerging from his throat.

The giant battling Dabus attacks Elenthal at this juncture, knocking him to the ground.  Dabus quickly realizes that the giants are the least of their foes, and disengages from his melee in order to strike the Bleeding Stone twice with rays from his _wand of searing light_.

The last worker looks ready to reach the fray, but stops suddenly and begins to cackle, then chortle, then finally breaks down into peals of booming laughter.  Jespo’s voice emerges from thin air and says “That’s right, Fräs, who’s laughing now?”

C’min creeps directly into the mist obscuring the carved giant, and unseen, strikes the beast several times, bringing it to its knees, then to the ground.

Elenthal’s tribulations at the hands of the Bleeding Stone are not over, however, as he is lifted from his feet by unseen tentacles of force, and is shaken like a rag doll.  Worse yet, his armor and exposed skin begin to smoke and boil as a powerful acid etches marks into his hide.

Thrommel pauses to regard Elenthal just before he is also grasped by the ephemeral coils, and begins to burn.  Unlike the ranger, however, Thrommel is not made of stern enough stuff, and the Prince of Furyondy, bleeding from several wounds and mortally burned, drops to the ground, lifeless.

“Oh for the love of . . .” Jespo says.  “Somebody kill that Stone!”

“I’m working on it!” Dabus yells, as he empties charge after charge from his wand into the terrifying obelisk.  With each spell, the viscous liquid forming around the Stone’s base grows in volume, and begins to give off a noxious smoke that stings the eyes and lungs of the Liberators fighting on the ledge.  Dabus calls for a retreat, just as Elijah kills the last of the fighting giants.  The party is forced to flee back into the passage from which they entered the excavation site, and have a moment of fear as Dabus realizes that the automatons there may be keyed to attack any strangers emerging from that direction!

Fortunately for the Liberators, the golems were controlled by a magic item in the possession of Festering that was reduced to ash along with his jaundiced body when he was destroyed by Dabus, just minutes earlier.  They remain, now as for evermore, silent and still.

After a few tense moments, the noxious cloud dissipates out through the exposed ceiling, and when it clears, only the bodies of the giants are left in the site.  The Bleeding Stone is gone, nowhere to be seen.

“Did we kill it?” Jespo asks, but his question remains unanswered, with only the icy wind for a reply.

-----
Next:  The Liberators commit mail fraud!


----------



## (contact)

*Interlude:  Information is the currency of power.*

One _raise dead_ spell later, the party is together again, whole and sane.  Elenthal and Thrommel are both marked on their skin from their acid wounds, the scarring looking disturbingly like the marks on the Bleeding Stone.

Dabus shares his doubts about the likelihood that the Bleeding Stone is destroyed, but hopes that in defeating it, they have forced it far away from the Iuzian forces seeking to claim it for their own.  The group returns to Cur’ruth, and examines the letters kept by Festering from his masters in Dorakka. Festering the Diseased was compulsive enough to keep draft copies of all his correspondence to his superiors, enabling the Liberators to piece together details some of the more high-level Iuzian activities in Tenh:

Festering was in correspondence with two of his superiors, Jumper and Althea.  The name of Althea is known to the party as a member of the Greater Boneheart, Iuz' personal servants and high council.  Althea's name is familiar to the Liberators—she is the current High Priestess of Iuz, and most senior of his servitors.  The scrolls from both Althea and Jumper were delivered inside of beautifully crafted scroll-rings, carved with the holy symbol of Iuz, the Great Seal of Dorakka, and a third symbol unknown to the group.

Jumper's letters were primarily concerned with the issue of Festering's command of the Giant Conversion Process—a systematic corruption of the local hill giant tribes with the eventual goal of merging them culturally with the Men of the Stonefist (producing hill giant barbarians) and turning them to the worship of Iuz.  The notes detail the locations of four other hidden bases in Northern Tenh, and mention the former Tenha city of Calibut as a gathering place and meeting ground for the Iuzian leaders in the occupied East.

Althea's correspondence relates entirely to the Bleeding Stone.  According to her letters, the Bleeding Stone is one of seven great artifacts that predate and presage the birth of Iuz in the Flannaes, objects that are considered sentient (if entirely alien) and self-aware.  The Seven Stones appeared in what was to become the land of Iuz, and prepared the tribes there for their eventual unification under his tyrannical rule.  Shortly after his birth, they disappeared, and were assumed to be scattered to the far corners of the Flannaes.  The Stones are apparently resistant to normal divinations, and their locations have only gradually been discovered by Iuzian search teams, operating under the direction of Cranzer of Riftcrag, a member of the Lesser Boneheart.

Althea mentions three other Stones that are in the possession of the Iuzian forces, and levels the threat that the last stone to be reclaimed will result in the death of the official in charge of its discovery.  She hopes that this will spur Festering and the others on toward an ever-greater zeal in their service to the Old One.

Althea states in one letter that the Seven Stones are fractured parts of one great whole—an object of epic power that would “open lost gates” and “hasten the alliances for which we have worked since the Great War”.

Unfortunately for the Iuzians, Festering was apparently embezzling the greater part of the funds allocated to his conversion and reclamation efforts for his own malign research.  Festering's necromantic study was directed toward the creation of greater constructs—disease carrying flesh golems capable of self-aware thinking.  To this end, he was stalling for time, claiming that his work was hindered by the unruliness of his Stonefist associates, and attempting to place all the blame on Martak, of the Curruth mines.

Festering's research tomes further indicate that he was also sharing information with Martak on the creation of necromantic constructs, and that recent Iuzian discoveries in the area of free-willed undead, made by the wizard Maskaleyne, had contributed also toward his foul ambition.

The recent failure of the mines at Curruth to deliver their ore quota was mentioned in passing by Jumper, and Festering was commanded to investigate—a command that he apparently ignored.  

A fatal mistake, as things turned out.  

------
Next:  Powerful divinations, riddles and mysteries.


----------



## (contact)

*Interlude:  Legend Lore.*

Jespo casts several Legend Lore spells, one for each of Festering’s masters, and one for the Bleeding Stone itself.

*Legend Lore:  Althea * 
Her Master craves her worship and bandies for it like a smitten spring lad,
Draping cruelties across her shoulder, and chasing after what pleases her.
Her eyes sweep the East, to fix on the South, and she loves your Prince not at all.
Those who hunt you bow before her, and press their faces into the ground.

*Legend Lore:  Jumper*
His mind is not his own.
His voice is not his own.
His heart is not his own.
Three things Iuz does not know.

*Legend Lore:  The Bleeding Stone*
Birthed through a breech that left the womb barren,
From the blood of His mother, shed against Her will,
Seven Stones called forth the end of the world
They sang Him to being, and sing to Him still.
The stones are the lintel between our now and all fear--
The place that was His before He came to rule here.

------
Next:  Prisantha gets to play with her new toy, but sometimes you just don't wanna know.  Y'know?


----------



## (contact)

Wealsun 12, CY 593

*39:  Plans are made and horrors revealed. *

Prisantha emerges from her study on a balmy spring morning to reveal the fruit of her labors—a _crystal ball of true seeing_.  Heydricus and Dabus cancel their morning activities to bring her up to date on the Liberators’ progress since the battle with the Bleeding Stone.

Dabus has recently finished _hallowing_ the grounds of the mines, warding the place against evil, and strengthening the spiritual bond between Cur’ruth and its residents.

Heydricus has been training his followers, and trying to answer this riddle:  How do two hundred dedicated soldiers conquer and secure an entire nation? 

Heydricus has been meeting with the Aiman daily studying Flan religion, culture and lore, and he and the old man have hit upon what they think is the answer.

The Aiman believes it is crucial that Heydricus position himself as the true Flan ruler.  Duke Eyeh still has a claim to the throne, but his newly discovered faith in Pholtus and loyalty to the Theocracy of the Pale must certainly weaken whatever popular support remains for him in Tenh.  If Heydricus could make himself over as a true Tenha’s Tenha, his efforts against the Iuzians should certainly win popular support.  

Heydricus commits to fighting a war for the hearts and minds of the Tenha populace.  The old Flan pantheon must be restored, and wedded to the worship of Tritherion’s doctrine of personal freedom.  From these meetings, the People’s Liberation Army of Tenh is born.

The Liberators can act as a strike force, eliminating through direct action the pockets of remaining Iuzian occupation, and after the fighting and the thank-yous, will leave behind a small unit of Heydricus’ followers to rally and train a grass-roots liberation army.  With each town scoured of wickedness, Heydricus’ forces will grow, and his fame will spread.  Heydricus loves the plan for its directness and simplicity.  He’ll kill the tyrants, give a rousing speech, and then leave someone else behind to train the army.

The two erstwhile leaders decide upon a pair of most likely targets.  Nevond Nevnend is the old capitol, and a long-standing cultural center for Tenh, while Calibut holds the precious metal mines of the nation, and is Tenh’s greatest economic asset.  Cmin, Elijah and Elenthal are sent out on foot to infiltrate, and gather intelligence on the two cities.

Weeks later they return with a disturbing report.  First, they scouted *Nevond Nevnend*, and the situation there is worse than feared.  Men of the Stone Fist—a large band of petty tyrants and foul murders, still occupy Nevond Nevnend.  These Stonefisters have grown comfortable in their role as masters of the place, and apparently ignored their nation’s withdrawal from Tenh.  They are “led” by an unusual band of renegade Iuzians— “priests” wearing Iuzian robes, but bearing no unholy symbols of the Old One.  

In addition, the worship of Erythnul has taken root amongst the people of Nevond Nevnend, something that no true Iuzian would suffer for even a moment.  But despite all reason, the savage rituals of the Rending Lord have become common.

All in all, the city is ruled by a weak and aimless group of oppressors, easy pickings for sure—but of late, a bandit army of orcish soldiers have moved into the area.  These orcs number some three hundred swords, and are the remnants of a mercenary legion abandoned without pay in the wild steppes of Tenh by the retreating Iuzian forces.  These orcs have since taken up a nomadic life, and over the years suffered great losses at the hands of other bandits, trolls and worse.  The orcs now have set up an encampment that is effectively laying siege to Nevond Nevnend while the orcish commanders negotiate with the “Iuzians” in control of the city. 

As a whole, Nevond Nevnend is a cesspool of neglect and filth.  The rulers care only for themselves, and the Tenha people are largely ignored.  Despite their relative autonomy, the populace of Nevond Nevnend has not fared well since the occupation, and the city is mostly abandoned.  Rampant crime and disease have been the order of the day for years, and the city is a ghostly shell of its former glory.

*Calibut*, on the other hand, exists in stark contrast to the normal occupation practices in Tenh.  Calibut’s population is shrinking, but more gradually, and through seemingly natural means.  Apparently, the people in Calibut are no longer having children, as none of the three scouts could say that they saw even one.  The city’s populace is divided into three camps—those forced to work in the mines or to support the occupation, those too old or weak to work, and those who watch over the other two groups.

Calibut has a strong native militia, and crime is rare.  The people go about their business, not even daring to speak to strangers, and the entire place gives off a sense of hopelessness.  

As Cmin put it, “It is as if the life has been drained from the place.  At times I wondered if I was even watching real people, so quiet are these folk.”  

Calibut, she reports, is ruled by an Iuzian wizard known as Zeflen.  In another stark contrast to standard Iuzian protocol, Zeflen has administered the city since the first day of its occupation, and there is no hint of insubordination in his ranks.  The tyrannical wizard has mandated that all able-bodied youth are to serve a three-year tour in the city’s militia before being released to the mines.  Thus, Calibut’s youth watch its elders in the name of its dread master.

In addition to the two cities, the party knows from Festering’s correspondance that there are five hidden *Iuzian bases* in the mountains of Tenh:  Cur’ruth, the two giant strongholds, and two undiscovered others.  These bases are put on the list.

But what does any of this have to do with Prisantha’s new item, she’d like to know.  After her briefing, the group settles down to do some serious _scrying_.

-----

Prisantha chooses the *Baron Butrain* as her first target.  She knows him fairly well, and the party harbors deep suspicion that he may not be what he seems.  Perhaps, it is suggested, Butrain is a hideous demon who somehow managed to avoid the business end of Heydricus’ sword during the battle against the Temple of Elemental Evil.  Disappointingly, Butrain is what he seems to be; an entirely mortal, if condescending and selfish nobleman.  To Prisantha’s disgust, the onerous Baron is having boils lanced from the soles of his feet when she _scrys_ him.

-----

Her next subject is an individual who has intrigued the party since they first encountered him—the Iuzain *Panshzek the Vile*, the very fellow who was attempting to torture Thrommel’s intelligent sword, and wished the group away when they attempted to kill him.  Her _true seeing_ bypasses the being the _scrying_ is first shunted off to; a captive human boy, well fed but chained to a wall in a small cell.  His _misdirection_ spell foiled, Panshzek is revealed.  

The pale, dark-eyed fellow is seen relaxing in an elaborate alchemy lab, leaning back and apparently absorbed in deep thought.  As she watches him, Panshzek belches forth several great puffs of a thick, yellow smoke.

-----

Next, she _scrys_ *Cranzer of Riftcrag*, the member of the Lesser Boneheart in charge of organizing the various groups searching for the Seven Stones.  Surprisingly, Cranzer is seen lying face-down on a torturer’s table, while a wretched creature stands over him.  His torturer is actually a pair of orcs, joined together at the hip and shoulder.  The orcs share a single misshapen torso, and the rattle in their breath indicates that they suffer from an advanced lung disease.  The orcs are slowly peeling away layers of skin from Cranzer’s back, and anointing the raw flesh with some sort of ointment.  The whole process seems to be putting Cranzer into extreme pain, judging by his pleading screams.

In a lull from his anguished begging, an unseen woman’s voice is distinctly heard.  “Get on with it,” she says.  “I did not order you to _amuse_ yourselves.”

-----

Disgusted, Prisantha breaks the _scrying_  and attunes her _crystal ball_ to her next subject, *Maskaleyne*, the necromancer who was working with Martak and Festering.

This unfortunate wretch is seen to be standing within a soiled privy, holding the door closed and shuddering violently.  The sounds of a large gathering and laughter can be heard through the door.  As Prisantha watches, a vast gobbet of _something_ flows forth from Maskaleyne’s mouth—a gobbet that is entirely composed of writhing maggots.  Maskaleyne does not seem to be vomiting them up, they are fluidly oozing from his mouth as if fleeing his insides.  Just as Pris thinks she has seen the worst, Maskaleyne bends to the filthy ground, and begins scooping up the maggots, swallowing them again in great handfuls. 

That done, the necromancer forces a stiff smile onto his face, and returns to his party—humans and half-orcs stand together in small groups drinking wine, and talking to one another.  Several of the group are dressed in the garments of the Great Kindgom, and proudly wear the unholy symbols of Hextor.

Maskaleyne approaches one of these priests and takes his hand, saying “Welcome to Stoink, your excellency.  I trust your journey was pleasant?”

-----

Heydricus prompts Prisantha to have a look at the leader of the *orcish forces* at Nevond Nevnend.  Prisantha gazes into her _crystal ball_ and sees a huge brute, large even by orcish standards, sitting on his heels in an unlit room, and rocking back and forth.  He sweats profusely, and is intently sharpening a dagger.  The knife has been nearly whittled away to nothing through his efforts, and his fingers are bleeding.  

-----

The leader of the *Stonefisters* at Nevond Nevnend is also _scryed_, and the paunchy fellow is seen sitting at a feast.  But it is a sparse feast indeed.  While there are several dishes, there appear to be only few ingredients—turnips, roots and coarse local meal.  The Stonefister eats with no relish, but great velocity.  

-----

Lastly, Prisantha turns her _scrying_ on *Zeflen*, the ruler of Calibut.  But when directed to him, her _scrying_ acts strangely.  Her sensor shows her first a shuffling peasant, then several more.  The sensor jumps from person to person, as one citizen engages another in mundane business.  Frustrated, Prisantha wills the sensor to find Zeflen, and finally, the vision focuses on a mass of velvet darkness that oozes like mist.  Within this blackness a pair of red eyes appear, and gaze directly at her.  Prisantha feels a mental presence struggle for control of the sensor, refusing to let her break off contact.  

Dabus and Heydricus see Prisantha stiffen, and are shocked to witness a misty smoke rise from the _crystal ball_ and settle on the table, behaving nothing like real smoke should.  Dabus asks “Is this normal?” but answers his own rhetorical question with a _dispel magic_.  Fortunately, his spell is effective, and Prisantha is able to break the _scrying_ as the inky smoke disappears.

“That is quite enough of that,” Prisantha says to herself, as she places the _crystal ball_ back within its case.  “I was going to spy on Gwendolyn today, but I’ve lost my appetite for it.”

-----
Next:  Pris and Heydricus take an afternoon outing!


----------



## (contact)

*What a dumbass!*

So there I was, virtual shears in my hand, all set to do some bump-pruning, when I realized the 'delete' button meant the _entire thread_.  The good news is that it's easy for me to repost the logs, but now all of your hilarious and insightful commentary is lost to the ages.  My apologies to all of you-- while we don't know what you said, let's just say we do and all have a laugh.

If any of you archived the thread, please email me at cklarock@hotmail.com.

Ahem.  Back to business.  Clicky clicky linky linky:

*The Liberators' Past:  The TOEE2 Story Hour thread*.

*The Liberators' Present:  The LoT Rogues' Gallery thread.*

*The Liberators' Future:  The LoT Plots and Pieces thread.*

*What We Game When Prisantha Can't Make It:  The Risen Goddess.*

In addition, I have .rtf versions of all of these logs on my website, the Rekatorium.  Just email me at cklarock@hotmail.com and I'll get you a copy.

----------------
Thanks for reading, and remember-- take it one level at a time, kill everything, and move on!


----------



## Plane Sailing

So, that will teach you to go mad with your Power 

I'm afraid that the only real answer is to write less compelling story-hours. Yep, that's the answer


----------



## Joshua Randall

*Re: What a dumbass!*



			
				(contact) said:
			
		

> *Take it one level at a time, kill everything, and move on! *




I was going to make this my screen-saver quote, but I didn't want to have to explain myself to the director of human resources.


----------



## (contact)

*Wealsun 13, CY 593
40:  Afternoon appointments.*

The next morning, all of the Liberators are gathered for a strategy session.  Jespo arrives sporting a newly crafted circlet (that looks just like Prisantha’s) along with a newly crafted amulet (that also looks just like Prisantha’s).  Thrommel exchanges hearty well-mets with everyone he hasn’t seen since yesterday, and pounds Pris on the back, stating how glad he is to have her “back on the team and pulling in for the big win”, whatever that’s supposed to mean.

Heydricus announces that his hawk familiar has located several small communities of Tenha hiding in the mountains near Cur’ruth.  Heydricus has invited them to join the Liberators in the mines, or at the least to consider the place as a refuge in times of need.

The group discusses their options, and decides that first things are first, and they need to complete their destruction of the Iuzian necromantic troika by putting Maskaleyne to the sword.  After that, who can say, but facing the entity known as Zeflen is definitely out for the time being.  The group debates disrupting the shipping route for Calibut ore, but finally decides that the first they want Zeflen to hear of any trouble is the sucking sound of a sword shoved between his ribs.  (Or whatever it is exactly that he has, since he probably does not have any ribs.)

So Maskaleyne is promoted to #1 on the “to do” list, with Nevond Nevnend a likely second choice.

After the meeting, Pris coyly mentions that she is off to Hommlet for an afternoon appointment.

“What?” Heydricus says, and in case he wasn’t clear, says “What?” a second time.  “An _appointment_?  With whom?”

“Don’t you remember Anon?” Pris asks, “the cleric of Tritherion who gave me that lovely silver dagger the last time we were in Hommlet.  I have a lunch date with him.”

“Date?” Heydricus says.  “What?  The hayseed?  That country bumpkin?”

“No, no,” Jespo says.  “You’re thinking of the commander there.  Prisantha is referring to that tall young fellow, with the cleft chin and blue eyes.”

“They’re hazel, actually,” Prisantha says wistfully.

“What?” Heydricus says.

“If you recall sir,” Dabus says, “we left a contingent of clerics with Prisantha’s grandparents to guard them against our enemies.  Last we saw them, Prisantha’s grandfather had been putting them to work in his fields.”

“Oh I remember,” Heydricus says quietly.  After a moment he perks up.  “That’s great, Pris.  I’ll go with you.  I want to see Hommlet again, and we can go to Chendl after.”

“Fine,” Prisantha says.  “I have some research to do at the Academy of Wizardly Arts, anyway.”

“I’ll cancel your schedule, then, sir?” Dabus asks Heydricus, but there is no reply, as the sorcerer has locked eyes with Prisantha.

“Oh,” Jespo says, breaking the silence.  “I’d love to go, thank you, but I’ve so many things to see to.”

“_Like slaving over the magical forge for Thrommel_,” Heydricus whispers to Dabus.

“But do pass my warmest regards to your family, Pris, and . . . well, that one fellow.  Oh, you know.  The one who used to dig graves for us on commission.”

“You stay here, Crim,” Thrommel says.  “I’ll go.”

“No,” Heydricus says.

“In disguise of course, to blend in with the common folk,” Thrommel states.

“No,” Heydricus says.

“Now look here,” Thrommel says loudly as his face flushes.  “I am your sovereign and your better, and I don’t take orders from _you_.”

Prisantha quietly offers this _ suggestion_:  “You should stay, my lord.  The men need you here.”

Suddenly, Thrommel pauses in mid-rant and says “Well, you’re right again Pris.  No, no, I’m staying.”  He glares at Heydricus and arches his eyebrows.  “The men need me.”

-----

Within minutes, Prisantha and Heydricus are standing in front of her grandparents’ farm.  Grandma is nowhere to be seen, but Anon and another cleric are taking a break on the porch.  They have just come in from the fields, and Anon stands shirtless, one foot on the ground and the other on the porch steps.  He is sweaty and dust-covered, and as the duo approach, Anon is slowly wiping his brow with a cool drink.

“Prisantha!” he says, setting his drink aside.  “Heydricus!”

The other cleric is playing with a turtle, an unusually aggressive beast that keeps charging at the cleric, hissing all the while, only to be pushed back by a broom wielded by the laughing man.  When questioned, he says that the turtle was a pet of some adventurers who rented one of the farmhouses a while back, and was left behind.

“It’s the damndest thing,” the cleric says.  “This turtle’s mean as hell, and all it does is drink whisky all day long and bite people.”

One _dispel magic_ from Prisantha later, Heydricus’ suspicion that the turtle is actually a _polymorphed_ adventurer is proven correct.  The former turtle is a human male—a grizzled and scarred soldier, and claims that he was set upon by his companions, then turned into a turtle and forced to eat lettuce all day.

“Arguin,” Heydricus says after a moment.  “Arguin Medfellow!  We served together in the Furyondian light infantry.  It’s me, Heydricus!”

“Heydricus?” Arguin shouts.  “Well hang me for a deserter, look at you!” Arguin takes in Heydricus’ magical equipment.  “You’ve done well for yourself.”

Heydricus wrinkles his nose at Arguin’s whiskey and lettuce breath.  “You have no idea.  So.”

Arguin takes Prisantha’s hand and gives her his best charming leer.  “You saved my life, lady.  I owe you.  Wherever you go, I will follow, and your enemies are mine until the day I die.” 

“Why thank you, Arguin,” Prisantha says, removing her hand from his.  “That’s very kind of you to say.”  Pris turns to Anon.  “You should clean up.  I’ve come to take you to lunch.”

“All of you,” Heydricus says, “We’re taking you all to lunch.”

“Does the inn serve lunch?” Anon asks.

-----

As it turns out, the inn does not serve lunch, but for the Heroes of the Temple, the staff at Kelanen’s Rest will make an exception.  A grand feast is hastily prepared, and the motley crew of adventurers, former turtles and farming clerics sits down to a meal.  Arguin throws back shot after shot of dwarven whisky, and regales the assembled group with stories of his soldiering days trying to defend the Shieldlands during the Great War, then his service in Geoff against the giants.  As he grows more intoxicated, his stories become more melancholy, and he starts listing the names of all the soldiers who died under his command.

“Have you ever been face down in mud that you know isn’t all mud,” he slurs, “too scared to put your head up out of the filth because the gods-damned wizards are _disintegrating_ everything in sight?  Well have you?”  He pounds on the table, and a lone tear runs down his cheek.  “Do you know what it is like to try to keep the guts of your best friend inside the poor son of a bitch only to look up and see giants overrunning your gods-damned cavalry position?  Do you?”

The clerics of Tritherion nearest him reply that they do not.

“Well, do you?” Arguin asks again.  “Do you?”

Pris tries her best to corner Anon amongst the general chaos, and lavishes attention on the young lad, but Heydricus has interposed himself between Prisantha and the young cleric.  Anon seems unaware of the tension, and spends his time pressing Heydricus for news about his Great Crusade, and asking for stories about recent battles.  Heydricus keeps a wooden smile on his face, but his knuckles are white, and he holds his glass in a death-grip.

Anon mentions that Prisantha’s grandfather insists that each of the clerics guarding the farm work in the fields as well.  He goes into some detail about the farming life, and says the life agrees with him.

“Yes,” Pris says.  “You look well.”

“Yeah, farmers are great,” Heydricus says.  “We can’t all be adventurers, can we.  Shall we go?”  He leans in to Prisantha.  “Let’s ditch the drunk.”

As she prepares the _teleport_, Pris pats Anon on the butt.  “See you soon,” she says and disappears.

-----

Prisantha _teleports_ herself and Heydricus to Chendl, just outside of the Great School of Magic.  She tells Heydricus that she must begin her Important Research, and he agrees to meet her back at in front of the School at sundown.  

But once inside, Prisantha pays only a token visit, dropping in to see her mentor Balin and ask him again about admitting Jespo Crim to the Great School of Magic.

“Pris,” he says, “You know I’d love to, but my hands are tied on the subject.”

“He’s gotten much better, Balin.”

“It’s not an issue of his talent, Pris.”

“I could tell him not to talk quite as much,” Prisantha says helpfully.

Balin regards her squarely.  “It’s not his personality, dear.  Your friend Jespo has many powerful enemies and is disliked in Very High Places.  I couldn’t easily admit him even if I were the dean, which of course, I am not.”

“Then some other school, perhaps.” Pris says.  “Somewhere nearby.”

“Well,” Balin says thoughtfully.  “They have opened a school in Willip now.”

“That’s wonderful!” 

“But it’s not a very good school.”

“Oh, he’s not a very good conjurer.  It’ll be perfect.”

After her meeting with the dean, Prisantha sneaks out the back way and takes a carriage to the _Gilded Swan Boutique and Curiosity Shoppe_, the storefront owned and operated by the very same Viscountess Trill whose _Handbook of Ladylike Fashion_ inspired Prisantha’s most recent make-over.

Inside, Prisantha undergoes a personal consultation, picks up several tailored adventuring outfits designed for her “season” (she’s a Fall, you know), and learns the basics of cosmetic application.  After a coiffure and manicure, the Enchantress of Verbobonc is ready to return to Tenh.

Heydricus, meanwhile has been spending his afternoon smoothing his rumpled ego with an afternoon spent in the company of the Duchess Maia.

As he arrives, Heydricus enters the Duchess’ sun-room and dismisses her staff. 

“Beory’s Gift,” she says, looking at his Flan clothing.  “You’ve gone native.”

Heydricus takes a bite from a slice of fruit on the table. “How’ve you been, Maia?” 

“Lonely,” she says, leaning forward.

“You should come to Tenh some time,” Heydricus says as he pours himself a drink.

“It’s ugly there,” Maia says.

“Not inside the fortress.”

“It’s boring.”

“Not in my room.”

“It’s dangerous.”

Heydricus regards her evenly, and removes his cloak.  “You’re never in danger with me around.”

Maia smiles and says, “Oh, but my reputation is.  Still, I just might take you up on that offer someday.”

-----

When Maia’s carriage finally drops Heydricus off at his rendezvous, Pris is furious.  “You’re half an hour late!” She fumes.  “Where were you?”

“You know, I’m in the process of raising some funds . . . for the boys.  Long term prospects.”

“You look awful, Heydricus.  Your clothes are a mess.”

“Oh yeah, you know these rich nobles,” Heydricus says as he tucks in his shirt.  “You have to take a turn at the tilts with them.  They love to talk money over their sport.”

“You’ve been tilting.”

“Yeah . . . tilting.  Are you ready to go home?”

“Did you raise your funds?” Pris asks pointedly.

“Well, you know, Pris.  Long term prospects, that kind of thing.”

“Maybe you’re not pushing a hard enough sale—maybe you need some help.”

“Oh, no.  No, it’s hard enough.  Let’s get back to Tenh before Thrommel dies again, shall we?”


----------



## Zaruthustran

Brilliant.


----------



## shilsen

(contact) said:
			
		

> *“You’ve been tilting.”
> 
> “Yeah . . . tilting.  Are you ready to go home?”
> 
> “Did you raise your funds?” Pris asks pointedly.
> 
> “Well, you know, Pris.  Long term prospects, that kind of thing.”
> 
> “Maybe you’re not pushing a hard enough sale—maybe you need some help.”
> 
> “Oh, no.  No, it’s hard enough.  Let’s get back to Tenh before Thrommel dies again, shall we?” *



*

Flee! Flee! The puns are coming!!!

BTW, great stuff *


----------



## incognito

I love role-play sessions.

See, Pris has got it all wrong  - what she _really_ needs to do is tell the 'walking organ' Heydricus about her and band camp experiences...  

Poor Jespo, it really _should have been you._

Thanks (contact), you're a solar and a gentle djinn


----------



## (contact)

"So this one time at band camp, I didn't speak to anyone there the entire time, because I really just couldn't relate to them at all.  They meant well I suppose, but they just didn't _get it_.  The other girls were intimidated by my inellect, which of course meant that they ostracized me.  Oh, I wasn't upset.  I understood that they were only superimposing their fragile social order over what amounted to a complete cognitive failure to percieve the situation," she says with a sentimental smile, "so I just spent my time studying some of the more popular approaches to Abjuration magics, which as it turned out . . .

"Heydricus?  Are you sleeping?"


----------



## Barastrondo

You know one of the things I like best about EN World? 

The Liberation of Tenh. 

Watching Mr. "Hey, you're cute and all, but I'd rather not start anything with one of my party members for obscure reasons that probably involve a dread of implied commitment, and therefore I'm going to ignore your obvious charms even though it seems awfully out of character" Heydricus suddenly getting all riled about Ms. "Well, if you're gonna play _that_ hard to get, there's no point in not seeing if I can't get some other hard-bodied young stud or three to give me the kind of fervent affection that I happen to think I deserve, thank you very much" Prisantha's interest in Mr. "Pardon me while I rub a cold mug across my sweaty brow and let the water run down my naked chest in a saucy slow-motion shot, and maybe bend over or stretch a lot" Anon is just plain priceless. (contact), if continually catching Anon (or an ever-changing parade of Prisantha's would-be or will-be boytoys) in some melodramatic, Madison Avenue "ultra-sexy" pose or activity becomes a running joke for a little while, I don't think anyone could fault you for it. 

And let's face it: Any Story Hour where the contenders for "Best Line" include *"It's the damnedest thing. This turtle's mean as Hell, and all it does is drink whisky all day long and bite people."*; *"But it's not a very good school." "Oh, he's not a very good conjurer. It'll be perfect."*; and *"Let's get back to Tenh before Thrommel dies again, shall we?"* — _all in the same post_ — is required reading. Or should be.

Yowza.


----------



## Plane Sailing

Just wanted to say that I loved the turtle, and I'm going to have to try to find a way to use it in my campaign


----------



## Rackhir

Cool. Another update at last!

Hmmm, you know a smart enemy could use that tension between Prisantha & Heydricus to drive a wedge into the party and there are plenty of opportunities for playing up Jespo's political disfavor. Fortunately, however they are facing Iuzians.


----------



## (contact)

Oh, Rackhir . . . right this way.


----------



## incognito

*!!*

Rackhir :

Don't go!  You may _never_ come back!  I got slurped up into helping the evolving story line and...it's...too...late...for...meeee....


----------



## (contact)

Plane Sailing said:
			
		

> *Just wanted to say that I loved the turtle, and I'm going to have to try to find a way to use it in my campaign  *




Ah, the turtle was an artifact from another campaign.  A group of lower-level adventurers was staying in Hommlet, renting a farm-house from Prisantha's grandparents.  (Remember how they keep hitting her up for money to buy the neighboring farms?)

One of their number had a run-in with a _helm of opposite alignment_ and was _polymorphed_ into a turtle for safekeeping until they could figure out what to do with him.

Shortly thereafter, the party was scattered to the winds by a dragon, the turtle escaped, and in a dramatic saga worthy of its own after-school-special, the little drunk made his way back to the last place he knew he could get a drink-- Hommlet.


----------



## (contact)

*Re: !!*



			
				incognito said:
			
		

> *Rackhir :
> 
> Don't go!  You may never come back!  I got slurped up into helping the evolving story line and...it's...too...late...for...meeee....
> 
> *




Two men in black suits quietly hustle Incognito into the back of a touring car with diplomatic licence plates.  A third man approaches you.  

"Thank you for your cooperation, sir.   If I could just get you to step this way, please."

-------

Incognito is graciously helping me by sharing a _wicked_ set of NPCs who will pound the hell out of the Liberators in a few levels.  He's also putting up with my nit-picking and changes, which means he's patient as well as devious.


----------



## Ancalagon

bravo!  Brilliant post!  The turtle, the jalousy, the dissing jespo in his back, all good!

Ancalagon


----------



## Peskara

*Prince Thrommel*

I'm not sure if you'd think this is a good thing or not, but Thrommel has started looking and sounding like Hugh Laurie as Bertie Wooster (I hope I spelled that right) in my head. This might have something to do with the fact that Hugh also played an enthusiastic but not too bright prince on a season of Black Adder. Too bad Jespo is more like Black Adder than he is like Jeeves. Jeeves would never allow Bertie to get himself killed even to teach him a lesson.

Great update! Heydricus is such a jerk. Fortunately he's a lovable sort of jerk (although I suppose that's unfortunate for Prisantha).

Thanks!


----------



## JacktheRabbit

*Hey Contact*

If you get a chance could you put up a list of all the characters you ran during the TOEE2? I know you ran Lucien but who did you run before and after Lucien?


----------



## (contact)

I'll put it in the TOEE2 thread, Doc.  The next Liberators game starts in about 10 mins., wish poor old Maskeylene luck!  (Or you can wish Heydricus and Pris bad luck, whichever.)

Edit: Okay, one of you rat bastards was wishing the pary luck.  Poor old Maskeylene . . . update in the morning.


----------



## incognito

Bring on the gangsta lovin' the liberators should be gettin' from those *friends of OURS*


----------



## (contact)

*Wealsun 13, CY 593
41:  Be quiet, we’ll wake gran.*

Upon their return to Cur’ruth, Pris and Heydricus icily part ways, Prisantha off to her room to cry, and Heydricus to take his evening nightcap with Dabus and Jespo.

“I see Prisantha got her hair done again,” Dabus says.

“She did?” Heydricus asks.

“In Hommlet?” Jespo wonders.  “Gods alive, and they say _she’s_ the smart one.”

“No, we went to Chendl,” Heydricus says.

“You said you were going to Hommlet.  Listen, Heydricus, I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

“We did go to Hommlet, then we went to Chendl.”

“Did you see Halrond?” Dabus asks.

“No, I was fundraising.”

“Listen, Heydricus,” Jespo says.

“And Pris got you into a school, Jespo,” Heydricus says.

“She did? Wonderful! I’ll . . .”

“But not the one in Chendl.  The new one in Willip.  The, uh, ‘Willip Community Wizard’s College’.”

There is a pause, as Jespo’s brows furrow.  “Oh.” He says.  After a pause, Fräs hisses.  “But I’m grateful, I suppose,” Jespo adds.

“Where were you fundraising, Heydricus?” Dabus asks.

“The lady Maia’s estate,” Heydricus says.  Fräs hisses.  

“Well, you’re amongst a large company there, you know,” Jespo says.  Fräs hisses.

“How do you mean, Crim?” Heydricus says quietly.

“Well, Fräs has told me things.  Let’s just say that you’re not the _only_ penniless adventurer begging for scraps from the late Duke’s estate.  Between you and me,” Jespo says as he leans in conspiratorially  “it doesn’t exactly cover you in glory.  Perhaps you should explore more  . . . _uncharted_ territories, if you get my meaning.”

Heydricus looks at Jespo and drains his drink.  “Let me tell you something Crim.  I always find new territory where I explore.  _If you get my meaning_.”  Heydricus stands up.  “Big day tomorrow, Dabus—we’re killing Iuzians.  Good night.”

“Good night, Heydricus,” Dabus says softly, as Heydricus leaves the room.

“The Willip Community Wizard’s College,” Jespo sighs.

-----

In her bed, her tears still drying on her face, Prisantha stares at the ceiling and reaches a decision.  She softly gets up, washes her face, and then buckles on her spell component bandolier.  Taking a quick inventory of her remaining spells, she makes herself _invisible_, then _teleports_ to Hommlet, inside her grandparent’s house.  Guessing correctly, she appears in the small corner room where Anon is quartered.

There are no candles or lanterns lit in the room—the moonlight streaming in from the window is the only light illuminating the small cot and shrine to Tritherion that furnish the place.  Anon, freshly scrubbed and still dripping wet from his well-water bath, kneels at the foot of his bed.  He is dressed only in a towel, and whispers his bedtime prayers, so as not to disturb the tranquil sleeping house.  Prisantha notes the chill in the air, and the goosebumps on the young cleric’s smooth skin.

“Anon,” she says.

The cleric startles and looks about the room.  “Prisantha?  He stands up, and catches his towel before it can fall from his waist. 

“I am here,” she says as she _dispels_ her _invisibility_.

“Uh,” Anon stutters.  “Can . . . can I be of some service?   Is there an emergency in Tenh?  I can fight—I’ll . . .”

“Shh,” Prisantha places a finger to his lips.  “You’ll wake my grandparents.”  As if on cue, the creaking of their bed can be heard through the wall, as her grandfather stirs.  Pris moves closer to the shaken cleric and says, “I didn’t come about Tenh.  I’m here about us.”

Anon stares at Prisantha, the expression on his face very much identical to the one he would have if she had just said, “Fiends are green, but most ogres are ochre,” instead of “I’m here about us.”

“Us?” Anon says.

Pris smiles and sits down on the cot, pulling Anon down to sit next to her.  “Don’t act so surprised,” she coos.

“But, Pris.  This is . . . well, I . . . but . . .” The cleric scoots away from Pris, disengaging her hand from his knee.  “I just _couldn’t_.  He’s a _Holy Liberator_, Pris.  That would be blasphemy.”

Pris crosses her arms.  “Whatever are you talking about, Anon?”

“You and Heydricus,” Anon whispers.

“Heydricus and I aren’t together,” Pris whispers.

“You’re not?  You’re not!” Anon says.  “But everyone says you are.”

“Who says?”

“You know, the guys.  In church.  Plus, I see how you look at him.”

“Oh?  And how do I look at him?” Pris demands.

Anon widens his eyes and cranes his neck forward, allowing a slight wistful smile to cross his face.

-----

Dabus prepares himself to enter into a _commune_ with Tritherion, cleaning his hands and face, and breathing deeply.  He sits on the floor of a dark room, illuminated only by candlelight.  He is still for several minutes, then calls to his mind the questions his group has given him:

Is Cranzer of Riftcrag dead?  No.
Is the wicked necromancer Maskaleyne in league with the Lord of Stoink?  No.
Is he accompanied by the faithful of Iuz in Stoink?  No.
Does he seek to further his experimentations in Stoink?  No.
Is he still actively pursuing an agenda for the old one?  No.
Is he currently an active Lesser Boneheart member?  Yes.
Does he have ambitions in Tenh?  No.
Does Maskaleyne know that Festering and Martak have been killed?  Yes.
Does he know who killed them?  Yes.
Does he seek revenge against us?  No.
Does he have reason to fear Iuzian reprisals for his failures?  Yes.
Is Maskaleyne in hiding from the other members of the Boneheart?  Not yet.

Dabus smiles to himself, then walks to his desk, where he writes down Tritherion’s answers while they are still fresh in his mind.

-----

Anon leans in to kiss Prisantha and she closes her eyes, just like in the romantic plays, but their heads knock against one another, and Pris says “Ouch,” around a mouthful of lips.  Anon’s cot is not much wider than he is, and his lone blanket is thin and far to short.  Prisantha’s feet are continually exposed to the cold air.  The metal bed-frame squeaks horribly whenever weight is shifted, provoking a “Shh!” or “My gran will wake up!” The mattress is straw-stuffed burlap, and pieces of straw keep poking Prisantha in the back.

When it is over, Pris lies awake, staring at the ceiling.  Anon, gallantly lying half-off the tiny cot says, “Will you be staying?”

“I’d better not,” Pris says.  “We’re fighting Iuzians in the morning.”

“I see.  Well, good luck.  I mean, I’m sure you’ll win.  Um, when will you be back?”

“I can’t say.”

“Oh.  Should I write you, or . . .”

“No, no.  Don’t do that.  I’ll just _scry_ you from time to time.”

“Oh.  You can do that?”

“I can.”

Pris _teleports_ back to her room in Cur’ruth, and prepares herself for bed, then sits in front of her diary, finally deciding to write this entry in Auld Elvish.


----------



## Plane Sailing

> “Oh? And how do I look at him?” Pris demands.
> 
> Anon widens his eyes and cranes his neck forward, allowing a slight wistful smile to cross his face.




Oh No! The liberators of Tenh is turning into a Daytime TV Soap!

(only kidding!)




> Pris teleports back to her room in Cur’ruth, and prepares herself for bed, then sits in front of her diary, finally deciding to write this entry in Auld Elvish.




This is funny. I can remember as a teenager the times when I'd write diary entries in Tengwar, _just in case_ any family members decided to have a read of the diary...

Great story, contact. It's nice to see the not-so-heroic-with-all-the-answers side of Heydricus too

Cheers


----------



## Joshua Randall

(contact) said:
			
		

> *“Well, Fräs has told me things.  Let’s just say that you’re not the only penniless adventurer begging for scraps from the late Duke’s estate.  Between you and me,” Jespo says as he leans in conspiratorially  “it doesn’t exactly cover you in glory.  Perhaps you should explore more  . . . uncharted territories, if you get my meaning.”
> 
> Heydricus looks at Jespo and drains his drink.  “Let me tell you something Crim.  I always find new territory where I explore.  If you get my meaning.”*




Oooooh... now that was a great exchange. I can totally picture Heydricus locking eyes with Jespo and staring him down for daring to question his personal affairs.

This scene rings pretty true to life, too. Someone trying to convince his friend to stop messing around, and the friend not wanting to hear it. In real life this can lead to a rift in the friendship. Will that happen between Jespo and Heydricus?

Hmm. Now that I think about it, are they even friends? Or just two guys who happen to be some of the only survivors of the original Heroes of the Temple?

Edit: _staring_ him down, not _starting_ him down. Duh.


----------



## (contact)

JERandall said:
			
		

> *Hmm. Now that I think about it, are they even friends? Or just two guys who happen to be some of the only survivors of the original Heroes of the Temple?*



*

That's a good point.  In Jespo's mind, they're certainly friends.  But in reality, I think Jespo and Heydricus have a relationship built more around alliances against mutual enemies than friendship.  I'll ask Hey/Pris' players what they think. 

Jespo came into the party at a time when the group contained Egil, Anton and Esril, his old adventuring band.  But those individuals have died, and the current group has never really shown Jespo much warmth or friendship.  Certainly, Dabus does not like him, and Elijah probably doesn't even respect him enough to have an opinion about him.  

Right now, Jespo lives in Cur'ruth because Thrommel lives in Cur'ruth.*


----------



## Barastrondo

*Ouch!*

That shattering sound you heard was one of Prisantha's few remaining romantic illusions. 

It's interesting how this story can go from over-the-top D&D outrageousness to some pretty deft deflation of the sort of heavily romantic, starry-eyed ideals that usually go hand in hand with D&D outrageousness.  I don't just mean Pris's, um... less than stellar encounter, mind. Combat can be horribly one-sided slaughters where the PCs rip something up with easy bravado, or it can be insanely gruesome, the sort of thing nobody in their right mind would want to do for a living. Ordinarily, I'd say the two styles would clash too much to be a smooth read, but it manages to work, and be quite entertaining at that. 

Sorry for the third-rate literary critique there, but I feel obliged to say _something_ other than "Gawrsh, update good." 

Now what was this about "poor old Maskaleyne," anyway? Unless he was hiding under the bedframe quietly sobbing while he listened to his beloved Prisantha get it on with some other man, I think I missed out on where he came into this update. 

(That, or (contact) was cheating, trying to tease an upcoming combat in order to get us to read the latest post. Shame! Such deceptions are unwarranted and unnecessary.)


----------



## Flash

> Heydricus stands up. “Big day tomorrow, Dabus—we’re killing Iuzians. Good night.”




LOL!!!

For some reason, I picture Heydricus saying this much like the Dredd Pirate Roberts says to Wesley in The Princess Bride.

"Good night, Wesley. I'll most likely kill you in the morning."

Heh.


----------



## (contact)

Since neither Pris or Anon had any ranks in Romance, I assumed their teenage first-time encounter would go alot like most folks' I've talked to did.  

We did play through the fight last session, but I've put the Big Brawl that Almost Was in a seperate update-- no deception intended!  I can't post it from work, since I don't have it here . . . 

And thanks for the literary crit-- it's always appreciated, Ethan.  You tend to read the subtext of these logs the way I meant to write them, which is always gratifying. 

-----

The LoT, motivation-wise, is about _kicking a lot of Evil ass_.  It's about turning the tables on the villains and Making Them Pay for the TOEE2 campaign.  It's about growing bigger over the summer, then going back to school and making ALL the bullies eat sand, over and over and over again.

Role-playing-wise, the LoT is about contrasting the superheroic-fight-a-whole-army-with-one-hand-tied-behind-your-back D&Disms with these ingorant, flawed and generally f--ked up individual personalities.

We've seen from the beginning what a pathetic mess Jespo is, but who in this game really has their stuff together?  The answer may surprise you.  It's certainly not Thrommel-- he's a moron.  Heydricus, we are starting to see, is an selfish, willfully ignorant egotist, and Pris is so caught up trying to be subtle and manipulative, she forgets what it is she even is trying to accomplish!  

The only person who really knows herself is Elijah-- "I paint my face with mud, put a knife in my teeth and wait for something evil to come by, and then I kill it."


----------



## KidCthulhu

(contact) said:
			
		

> *Since neither Pris or Anon had any ranks in Romance, I assumed their teenage first-time encounter would go alot like most folks' I've talked to did.   *




First time? Pris?  Wow.  She talks a damn good game then.  I'd always guessed she was walking the walk.  You know the one.  Kind of wide legged and limping, but with a spring to the step.


----------



## Capellan

KidCthulhu said:
			
		

> *
> 
> First time? Pris?  Wow.  She talks a damn good game then.  I'd always guessed she was walking the walk.  You know the one.  Kind of wide legged and limping, but with a spring to the step. *




Nah.  That's Nolin you're thinking of. 


_runs for cover_


----------



## (contact)

Kid C.:  Bowlegged with a spring to her step?  Tee, hee hee.

Now how do I put this in light of Eric's grandmother?  Well, prior to Anon, Pris might have . . . _befriended a unicorn_, or have been a proper _candidate for a sacrifice_.  

Pris is a teenaged girl, really, about 19 yrs. old.  She is bookish and generally on a mental plane that has always prevented her from relating to her peers.  Of course, now that she has _mass suggestion_ at DC 26, she no longer really has to.


----------



## (contact)

*Wealsun 14, CY 593
42:  Fighting in Stoink, Things Come Full Circle.*

The next morning, Prisantha emerges from her room, to find that Dabus, Elijah and Heydricus have assembled in the kitchens.

“Pris!” Heydricus says.  How did you sleep?  I slept like a babe.  Listen, Dabus has _communed_ and that maggot-eating bastard Maskaleyne is running scared.  We need you to _vision_ him.”

“_Vision_ requires that a question be asked,” Pris says.

“Let’s ask what his ambitions are,” Dabus says.

“Well, how about if we ask whether he poses any threat to Tenh, instead,” Heydricus asks.

“We could ask what he is doing in Stoink,” Dabus says.

“We could ask if he’s still a virgin,” Pris says and giggles.

Heydricus and Dabus stare at her.  “Let’s just ask what his plans are,” Heydricus says with a puzzled expression.

Jespo comes into the kitchen, bleary eyed and yawning.  The thin tufts of hair on either side of his balding pate are sticking up.  “There you are, Heydricus,” he says.  He squints at Prisantha.  “You’re looking awfully smug this morning, Pris.  Did you cut your hair again?  Listen, Heydricus, I’ve been meaning to talk to you . . .”

“Hello, Jespo,” Pris says.  “I got you into a Wizard’s school.  The Willip Community Wizard’s College.  I hear it’s very good.”

“Yes, yes.  Thank you, Pris.  Listen, Heydricus, it’s about Reine.  I simply cannot abide his incessant snoring, and I am in the middle of Important Work for our prince.  Can he not be billeted elsewhere?”

“No, Jespo.  It’s like I told you, it’s the only place we have for him.  Really, I thought you two would become friends.”

“Friends!” Jespo croaks.  “Reine is the villain who had me jailed, or has everyone forgotten that fact?”

“He was only doing his job, Crim,” Dabus says.  “He was the Provost Marshall, and you were convicted of debt.”

“Yes, well, it was the relish with which he did the deed that galls me,” Jespo says with an indignant sniff.

“You know, why should we even pursue Maskaleyne,” Heydricus asks.  “He’s not a threat to Tenh, and he’s running scared from his own order.  I don’t like the idea of doing the Greater Boneheart any favors.”

“But what if he becomes a threat later on?” Prisantha says.

There is some debate, but in the end, Prisantha _visions_ Maskaleyne.  In her mind’s eye, she sees a child’s doll, one of the sort that is hollow, and contains an ever smaller series of hollow dolls within it.  As she watches, the doll opens itself, and while its outer shells are cherubic and rosy-cheeked, the inner shells are progressively more pale, and sickly looking.  As she watches this scene, she hears the following, in a woman’s voice:

“_Some things seem appealing; they shine but are empty, and the most depraved cannibal eats only himself.  Maskaleyne is reborn through his own hunger, dead where he is hollow, a beautiful shell.  He has made of himself an incubator for a horde that consumes him from the inside out.  His charge in the Bandit Lands has failed, his demesne lost to Iuz in all but name, and he knows that you will come for him nonetheless.  He fears you only slightly less than he fears his Abyssal master, and seeks even now to forge alliances that will protect him from all sides in this war_.”

“Okay, I’m convinced,” Heydricus says.  “Let’s _scry_ the bastard.”

-----

There is an old folk saying in Tenh, “No one looks their best while puking in a privy”.  Or at least there should be, because it is so true.  Bathed in the warm afternoon sunlight glowing through an expansive bank of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Stoink’s most prestigious district, Maskaleyne is seen to be a beautiful man.  Stunning, even, with his glossy black hair, big pearly white teeth, broad shoulders and clear blue eyes.  He is dressed casually and in the height of current fashion, wearing regal purple and gold.  He stands before the window with a wineglass cupped casually in one well-manicured hand, the other resting on his hip, and he gazes thoughtfully at the city of Stoink.  After a moment, he yelps, and drops his wineglass to the floor.  He casts a terrified gaze directly at Prisantha’s _scrying_ sensor, and yells “Ooh, alarm!  Help!  I’m being _scryed_!  I’m being _scryed_!”

A deep, resonant voice sounds from just outside of Prisantha’s view, and says, “Pathetic.”  A huge half-orc appears, dressed from head to toe in red and silver field plate armor emblazoned with the holy symbol of Hextor.  The half-orc grabs Maskaleyne by the arm.  “Get a hold of yourself, this situation is _contained_.” Turning away from the Iuzain with a sneer he says, “Prepare the away team.”

Prisantha breaks her scrying and looks at her companions.  Dabus, Heydricus and Elijah stand at the ready, their weapons nearby.  She says “We _teleport_ now.” 

-----

The Liberators take a few seconds to activate their preparatory spells, then Prisantha _teleports_ the group to the location identified in her scrying.  There, they quickly see that Maskaleyne has not left his spot beside the window (except to scoot away from the spilled wine, so as not to stain his new velvet boots), and the Hextorian half-orc cleric is still by his side, a foul expression plastered on his already foul face.  Together, they seem to bookend the whole spectrum of Medium-size humanoid appearance—beauty and his beast.

They stand with their backs to a semi-circular window-well, and they look across a large ballroom area, decorated with paintings depicting the nobility and power of the mansion’s first occupant.  Opposite the dance-floor from Maskaleyne and his bodyguard is a railing overlooking the mansion’s entry hall, some thirty feet below.  Three figures stand at the balcony’s railing, two unarmed humans and a young boy, all dressed in the robes of Hextorian lay-clergy.  Another armored human, this one void of any religious symbols, charges up one of a pair of elegantly curving stairs leading to the ground floor that flank the balcony.

Without any preamble, Elijah leaps at the heavily armored cleric, and punches her weapons through the crevasses and creases between plates.  He half-orc grunts in surprise, and reaches for the heavy flail at his side.  Dabus calls down a _flame strike_ directly onto the priest, narrowly missing Elijah but singing Maskaleyne slightly as the Iuzian stumbles backwards.

The half-orc laughs, and stares hard into Dabus’ eyes.  “Heydricus, I presume?” he says, making a slight affectation of a Great Kingdom courtly bow.

“No f-ckface, I’m right here!” Heydricus says, as he punches his spear through the half-orc’s armor, and then through the half orc.

Maskeylene stares at the group as his beautiful visage undergoes a strange and subtle transformation, taking on an entirely disturbing cast.  “Ah.  So you are.  Welcome to my home.  You will see that I have prepared you quite a . . .”

Dabus speaks the Holy Name of Tritherion and intones a _destruction_ spell. Maskaleyne is turned to a pile of evil dust before he can take advantage of his one and only opportunity to speak with the people who killed Zinvellon, killed his Cadaverous Ones, killed Martak and Festering, and of course, just killed him.

“It’s a shame such a good looking body is wasted on such an evil man,” Pris says.

Heydricus, however, is concentrating on the half-orc cleric he has just impaled.  Heydricus looks the cleric in his beady pig-like eyes, and flexes his muscles, lifting the half-orc bodily off the ground, using his spear like a lever to rip the cleric open from bladder to jawline.  There is a great tearing sound, the thin snapping of the cleric’s armor straps popping open, and then a wet thump as the lifeless corpse of Maskaleyne’s bodyguard and most trustworthy ally hits the ground with a bloody spray.

As an afterthought to his evisceration, Heydricus turns and _fireballs_ the group standing by the railing.   The human nearest the blast is blown off his feet, his clothes set on fire and his hair burned completely away.  Barely alive, he crawls toward the stairs, crying out in pain.  One of the humans nimbly leaps over the side of the balcony to avoid the fireball, but surprisingly manages to keep a hold on the railing and then vault back up into his former position, avoiding the _fireball_ altogether and dropping into a ready stance before favoring the group with a smirk.

Then Prisantha _feebleminds_ him.

She glances at the fighter charging up the stairs toward her and after an _eyebite_ and a wink, sends him running back the way he came, screaming in terror.

Less than ten seconds have elapsed since the group first appeared, and only three foes are left to face the Liberators of Tenh:  A human child, a _feebleminded_ idiot, and a crispy sorcerer trying to figure out how to keep his skin from peeling away from his muscles as he crawls to safety.

Prisantha regards the _feebleminded_ monk (who seems to have finally realized the monastic imperative of “Beginner’s Mind”) and says, “I don’t think I’ve never seen someone so graceful, and so stupid at the same time.”  She regards at the young child, who is balefully regarding her back, and he seems strangely unhurt by the _fireball_, despite his lack of evasive maneuvers.  She winks at him, attempting to send him away along with the fighter, but her _eyebite_ has no effect.  

He laughs and says, “Come on, Prisantha.  Get real.”

So she casts _hold monster_.  That seems to do the trick.

There is a soft popping noise, and suddenly, several reddish-orange, four foot long, insect-like creatures appear from out of nowhere and begin to swarm at the PCs, greedily rubbing their feathery antennae across the Liberator’s weapons and armor.  Wherever the things touch metal, the object crumbles to rust, provoking delighted chattering from the creatures.  Dabus and Heydricus move away from them, and Prisantha _summons_ a trio of lantern archons to attack the rust monsters, while Elijah draws them away, and leads them to the corpse of the half-orc cleric, covered head-to-toe in the finest enchantment-grade steel the Great Kingdom has to offer.

Just as the group is adjusting to their new foes, a trio of scaly, warty hands appear on the railing, and three foul trolls emerge, climbing onto the balcony.  Dabus charges forward, beating them back but taking wounds from them in the process.  He notices that their skin bulges where no muscles should be, and as might be expected of the servants of Maskaleyne, maggots drip from their mouths, and run from their eyes like vile tears.

There is another pair of popping sounds, and a strange group of creatures are _teleported_ into the room.  A large, stalactite-like growth appears very near Pris, Elijah and Heydricus, and as they watch, it releases several rope-like tendrils from its body that envelop Pris and Heydricus, and draw them toward its crystal-lined mouth.

A black dragon appears and tears across the room, already in a diving flight pattern, streaking toward Dabus.  The creature is small for its kind – only 7 feet long – but is ridden by a heavily armored gnome, dressed rather incongruously in the holy regalia of the queen of Evil Elemental Water.  The dragon hovers before Dabus, boxing him in, and lashing at him with its claws and tail.  As it does so, the gnome on his back invokes clerical magic and calls a _flame strike_ onto Heydricus and Elijah.

A lightly armored human woman becomes suddenly visible, as an arrow streaks from her composite bow into Prisantha’s back.  Pris convulses slightly as the arrow’s _slaying_ magic runs through her, but fortunately, Pris is tough enough to resist the necromantic energy, and does not die.  Unfortunately, the roper is pulling her toward its gnashing mouth, and she is unable to turn to completely face her would-be assassin.  She regards the woman over her shoulder, and with a wink, _eyebites_ her.  The assassin turns to flee, dropping her bow as she goes.

Elijah, meanwhile, is trying to get a volley of arrows through the roper’s rocky hide, but with little success.  Heydricus strikes at the thing with his spear, and resists its pull somewhat, but is himself unable to break free.  Fortunately, Prisantha is not without recourse, and with a gesture, she _polymorphs_ the fearsome thing into a beautiful pink magnolia.

The gnome stands up in his saddle on the back of the hovering dragon, as the beast prepares to attack Dabus a second time.  The gnome looks around the room, and yells, “Damn it all to Hell, we _teleported_ upstairs!  We’re freaking _upstairs_!  I _quit_ this chickensh-t outfit!”

“I’ve got your pink-slip,” Heydricus mutters as he disentangles himself from the decidedly un-fearsome flower, and moves toward the gnome, his _holy undead bane_ spear in hand.

But Dabus is even quicker, and surrounded by foes, he utters the Sacred Word that Tritherion greeted his deific companions with upon his first return from Hell.  The _holy word_ immobilizes the trolls, and paralyzes both the dragon and its rider.  

As the sacred reverberations fade into silence, the party finds themselves without any foes, staring out the window at an elaborate botanical garden, delicately illuminated by the warm summer sun.

There they see Maskaleyne’s servants, fleeing the grounds at a run, their arms filled with everything they can steal.


----------



## Joshua Randall

(contact) said:
			
		

> Less than ten seconds have elapsed since the group first appeared, and only three foes are left to face the Liberators of Tenh [...]




Hmm. Maybe this scry-buff-teleport thing really *is* effective. 

Awesome update, (contact). Awesome fight.

Now, who's summoning all the monsters? Methinks either the _held_ child (using metamagicked spells) or an _invisible_ caster somewhere.


----------



## incognito

whaaaaa, whaaaa...(sniff)...my NPCs are dead...

I now offically hate Clerics AND Paladins.

On the plus side:



> “We could ask if he’s still a virgin,” Pris says and giggles.




Teleport scroll to Hommlet: 1,125gp
A nights stay at Grandma's Hotel: 10 sp
extra hot bathwater for Anon: 1 sp
Taking away Pris's...um..._unicorn friendship_: Priceless

There are some things a girl with gold pieces can't buy; for everyting else, there's Heydricus


----------



## Zaruthustran

My god. This is so rich. 

Gawrsh. 

It's like this story hour is the ultimate in self-aware, self-mocking  fantasy humor. Like a Kevin Smith adventure, but funnier.

Nice work contact. Keep it coming.

-z

ps: incognito, you rule.


----------



## (contact)

JERandall said:
			
		

> *Now, who's summoning all the monsters? Methinks either the held child (using metamagicked spells) or an invisible caster somewhere. *




The appearing monsters were the "away team" that the half orc mentioned when Pris was scrying him.  They were a well-drilled team of high-level adventurers trained to buff-scry-teleport-kick ass on anyone scrying Maskaleyne. *

Rd 1:  Pris scrys.
Rd 2:  The half orc orders his away team into action.
Rd3:  The away team's spellcasters (some of whom haven't yet appeared in the story) begin buffing the team.
Rd 4: The away team's wizard scrys "the person scrying Maskaleyne", while others scry.
Rd 5:  The away team's wizard begins teleporting people to the scene. (He was using a variant teleport ability from a prestige class I have in my game.)

The away team, was of course, in the basement of Maskaleyne's mansion, well away from hearing range of the fight upstairs.  The liberators popped in and killed Maskaleyne on round 3 -- one round before the wizard scryed them, and started teleporting his guys to the fight!

-----
*All credit for the away team and their concept goes to Incognito, who built and designed them.  I am the one who under-played them and got them all pimp-slapped, but c'est la D.


----------



## Piratecat

(contact) said:
			
		

> *
> Rd 4: The away team's wizard scrys "the person scrying Maskaleyne", while others scry.
> *




CK, doesn't this take an hour?  Or is it improved (greater?) scrying?


----------



## (contact)

It does?  Does it?  Um, I mean . . . yeah!  A greater scrying variant ability . . . or something.


----------



## Piratecat

*whistles nonchalantly*  Nothing to see here, folks.  Move right along.


----------



## incognito

Now, now, no need to use a rule bender for this one folks...

When a scry sensor is created within an area under _Detect Scrying_ the person detecting the incoming _Scry_ has to opportunity to (as th SRD puts it):



> ...If the character at least matches the scrier’s result, the character gets a visual image of the scrier and a sense of the scrier’s direction and distance from the character (accurate to within one-tenth the distance).




In this case a liberal interpretation of the _Detect Scry_ spell, or a simple magic item allows the detector to:

a) Detect scrying attempts within the spell's area but not ON his/her person

b) Maintain the visual link, to begin the "counter teleport"

An evil rat bastradly trick, if ever there was one - and VERY important (IMO) in maintaining versimillitude when both sides can travel via Scry/Teleport.

How else do you protect your high ranking poeple from getting a "Liberator" pulled on them!

...Of course, the best laid plans of Maskaleyne and Men...


----------



## Urbanmech

Hey Incognito, any chance you can post the Away team to the LoT rogues gallery?  With (contact)'s permission of course .

Monte Cook's Book of Eldtrich Might 3 has quite a few new spells that make the SBT tatics more difficult.

Identify Scrier 1st lv.  Lets you know the name of the person scrying you.

Resist Scrying 1st lv.  Adds +10 to the Scry difficulty to locate you.

Scry Retaliation 3rd lv.  Sends a blast back to the person scrying you.

Scry Reverse 5th lv.  Lets you counter scry the person scrying you even though you don't even know them.

A pretty good bevy of spells to help your villians and heroes avoid being ambused by foes from across the planet.


----------



## incognito

If (contact) says "yea" I will be happy to post the away team, who can even be scaled down slightly  - (contact)'s version uses NPCs of level 11, 10, 10, 9.  

My original can work with NPCs of level 9, 8, 8, 7

Be warned: these guys will drop most parties if used...ahhh...with deadly efficiency.


----------



## JacktheRabbit

So what did Contact do wrong? 



			
				incognito said:
			
		

> *
> 
> Be warned: these guys will drop most parties if used...ahhh...with deadly efficiency. *


----------



## (contact)

They won't drop 14th level parties.    But they make a great EL 13 encounter.

I modified them pretty heavily, so feel free to post your version, and I'll post what actually ran in the game, as well.


----------



## incognito

> So what did Contact do wrong?




Well - contact did NO wrong, that's for sure.  He just did things according to how _his_ NPCs (rather than the generic ones I created) would react. 

ok, gents, enough hijak of the esteemed Mr. (contact)'s thread...I'll poste 'em in the rogues gallery shortly.  

I hope I don't read about 4-5 TPKs in story hours over the next few weeks as these guys make thier rounds.


----------



## Joshua Randall

BUMP!

*bangs utensils on table*

We want an update, we want an updated, we want an update...


----------



## (contact)

*Wealsun 14, CY 593
42:  Fighting in Stoink, Things Come Full Circle.*

Searching Maskaleyne’s manor, the Liberators quickly discover that the despicable necromancer was packed for a long journey.  The lack of evident activity in the kitchen or front halls of the manor indicates that Maskaleyne was planning to leave before the evening meal.  Unfortunately for him, his gut-full of flesh gnawing demonic maggots and his head full of retirement dreams were both turned to a fine powdery mist along with his finest traveling clothes.

Rifling through Maskaleyne’s cases and bags unearths his diary.  The small, leather-bound book reveals that he became vain enough to start writing about himself in the third person sometime during Fireseek of this year, just about the time when the Liberators were preparing to leave the Marklands for Tenh.  Unsettling passages recount the truth of Maskaleyne’s foul research and his role in the creation of the Cadaverous Ones.  He finishes up by recounting his realization that the Liberators had sent his allies to the Abyss, and his ensuing panic.  He describes his initial contact with the Church of Hextor, and planned defection—his last entry concludes with “Maskaleyne will continue this missive warm and safe in his new Almorian home”.

The upper stories of the manor are stately and well-kept, but descending the stairs into the basements, the Liberators might as well have been entering another world entirely.  The walls and floor are unfinished, with only rough stepping-stones and channels cut into the base of the walls to take away the muddy run-off from the recent rains.  Maskaleyne’s torturous reams of notes and sadistic anatomy studies are tacked onto rough wooden support beams half-heartedly set into the earthenwork walls.  A series of crude tables support elaborate glass and ceramic patchwork devices that are still encrusted with the foul-smelling residue of some unnamable distillation.  

The entire place has an oppressive and clinging dampness to it, and the dirt harbors an unnatural amount of segmented crawling things, squirming pupae and other even less-recognizable vermin.  Several maggot-encrusted slabs of meat are ensconced within the dirt walls of the place, most of these still recognizable as human.

The group spends several queasy minutes thumbing through Maskaleyne’s notes and examining his apparatus. In the end, they destroy what they can, and leave the rest for later.  Dabus discovers that the maggots, whatever their plane of origin, dislike _searing light_.

An item of interest, lost among the jumble of papers in the abandoned basement, includes notes on the structure and membership of both the Lesser and Greater Boneheart.  Heydricus pockets these notes for later perusal.

After satisfying themselves that the manor is secure, the group charges Elijah with delivering a written message to the Lord of Stoink.

Heydricus tells Dabus, “Write this:  _Greetings, great Lord, from your friends in the East, we have taken up residence the Maskaleyne’s mansion.  We would love . . ._”

Prisantha interrupts, and says “No, let me do it, Heydricus.”

“What?  Why?”

Pris says, “Don’t write, _we would love_.  Write, _we would be greatly pleased to see you here._”

“No, no,” Heydricus says, “Put _to have an audience.  To catch up for old times sake._”

“Were not going to say _for old times sake_, Heydricus.”

“Well, why not?”

“You just don’t say that in a letter, we haven’t talked to him in a long time.  We keep it formal now, and then we can be informal when he arrives.”

Dabus reads, “_. . . have an audience with you this afternoon.  Would you be so kind as to tell our companion when you might be able to accommodate us._  How is that?”

Elijah says, “How about closing with, _Elijah says that a sharp tack like you would leave his weapons at home, if he knew what was good for him?_”

The group looks at her, then Heydricus says, “Is that a joke?  Elijah—you just made a joke!  Yes, yes, leave that in.  Congratulations, Elijah.”

If Elijah blushes, no one can say for sure.  She takes the paper from Dabus and says, “I remember the way to his hideout.  If I’m not back in two hours, kill them all,” and leaves the manor.

-----

Elijah returns well within the allotted time, and is accompanied by a trio of shifty-eyed and slouching humans.  Elijah says, “These goons want to search the place for traps.”

“No,” Heydricus says.

“Yes, of course they may,” Prisantha says, nudging Heydricus in the ribs.  “We have nothing to hide.”

The three rogues come inside, and after a few minutes of poking into the nooks and crannies, they tell the party that everything looks well, and make some signals to an unseen watcher.  A few moments later, the Lord of Stoink approaches the manor, his half-elven lieutenant in tow.  Both men are gaily dressed, the halfling Lord’s pompadour haircut freshly set, and the gold and platinum caps on his teeth freshly polished.

He greets the group warmly, paying particular attention to Prisantha.  The Lord says, “That rat-lover Maskaleyne came to me two weeks ago, seeking my protection.  He was frightened that you’d show up and give him what for.  I take it you did?  Of course you did.  Heydricus, I told him I’d pawn my mother’s eyes for liquor before I’d raise a hand against my good friend Heydricus and the only help he’d get from me was prayer for his soul in the afterlife!”

“But you aren’t even going to do that, my Lord,” the half elf says.

“That’s right!” the Lord exclaims.  “f-ck ‘im.” He takes a long slurping gulp from Maskaleyne’s finest crystal.  “Hey, you guys have been busy—I hear you’ve really given those Iuzian bastards in the East big trouble.  Killed Martak, didntcha?”

“Yes, we killed the sh-t out of him,” Heydricus says with a smile.

“Say,” the Lord says, “Where’s that little feller, the one with the foul mouth . . . Gnomeitty Gnomie-gnome or whatever?”

“He no longer adventures with us,” Heydricus says.  “He can’t abide dragons.”

“Ah, that’s too bad.  He was a real pain in the ass.  He’s still alive?”

“Oh yes,” Heydricus says.

“And who’s the new guy?”

“This is Dabus, my cohort and priest of Tritherion.”

“Ah, Tritherion—he kicks ass.  More muscle, I like it.  You lot have really got your operation together.”

“We have a gift for you, Lord,” Prisantha says.

“Please, just call me Boss,” the Lord says.

Prisantha hands him a small charm.  “This is a _periapt of wisdom_,” she says.  “It will help you administer the city, and provide protection against enchantments.  My specialty you know,” she adds humbly.

“Hey, this is great, just great,” the Lord says, as he passes the periapt to his half-elf assistant.  “Check it for traps,” he whispers to the man.

“And I love my statue you know—but pigeons were crapping on it outside, and I can’t have that.  I put it in the entry hall to my hideout, then shortened the door lintel facing it so all my guys have to bow to the statue when they come in the room.”  The Lord leans back in his chair.  “So, what’s in it for you?”

“For us?” Prisantha says.

“Figure of speech,” the Lord says.  “I mean, ‘how can I ever repay your generosity’.”

Heydricus leans forward.  “Could you stage a coup in Wintershiven?”

“Ah.  On what kind of notice?” the Lord asks.

“2 years.”

The lord fingers his chin in an imitation of deep thought and says, “It’d be tight, but yeah, anybody can be killed if you throw enough money at the problem.” After a moment he hastily corrects himself, “I mean, ‘we could effect a regime change if the political climate is right’.”

Satisfied, the group makes small talk for a while, then the Lord says, “You’ve been making waves.  Good waves, of course, but waves just the same.  And hey—I’m all for it.  I like go-getters like yourself.  I believe that Tenh will be your prize someday, but I wonder—have you given some thought to what comes after all the fighting and killing?”

“What do you mean?” Heydricus asks.

“Well, it’s simple humanoid nature,” The Lord says loftily.  “Tenh has had it bad.  I know, some of my best friends are Tenha.  The Iuzians have pretty much squeezed the plum dry, and now everybody’s poor.  Poverty and despicable conditions, just like my old neighborhood, if you catch my drift.  Where there is a lack of things, you’re going to find people willing to do just about anything to get something, see?  

“That’s where I can help out.  It seems to me that the future rulers of Tenh might be better off if they had a handle on what the underclasses were up to.  I have a presentation here,” the Lord motions to his assistant, who removes several duplicate documents from a satchel.

The half elf clears his throat.  “Here you see our projected demographical breakdown of the post-war population of Tenh.  Admittedly, this is a best-guess projection, but we’re confident it will hold up, within a reasonable fluctuation and barring any unforeseen Divine Intervention.  We’ve outlined the most likely rackets (er, ‘earning units’ on your papers there) and we’ve graphed their projected earnings over the course of the first ten years of stable rulership.  As you can see, it amounts to a sizeable sum.”

“And an exceedingly difficult sum to tax,” the half-elf says.

 “_If_ you don’t already have a finger in the pie before it goes in the oven,” the Lord finishes.

“So you want us to put you in charge of the crime syndicates of Tenh,” Heydricus says.

“We prefer the term ‘veiled economy’,” the Lord says.  “And you don’t have to do a _thing_.  This is a win-win deal, Heydricus.  We set up the graft, and you collect the tax.  What we need from you is permission.” 

“I don’t know,” Heydricus hedges.  

“Your cut is still negotiable, if that’s what’s bothering you,” the Lord says.  “But there’s no hurry.  Keep these papers, look them over, and just think about it.  We’ve got plenty of time.”

Another bottle of wine is opened, and the Lord regards Prisantha.  “There is one other matter,” he says, “and it’s a little . . . _delicate_.  Do you remember, my dear, the project that I had you help me out with?  The young man with a grown man’s debt?  Of course you do.  You did a fine, fine job, but unfortunately the, ah . . . _negotiations_ went South, and my emissary was set upon in the course of his duties.  Shocking, I know.  My agent overreacted slightly, and unfortunately the young man he had been sent to speak with was killed, along with his retinue, and most of the lookers-on.

“This is doubly troublesome when one realizes that one of the tragic victims was a Talnith hier—the next in line for the Nyrondeese Barony of Woodwych, in fact.  They have been unable to raise the poor mangled lad, and my friends in Nyrond tell me that the family has sworn a terrible vengeance.  Rest assured, the agent who made the original blunder is already where nobody can find him, as is everyone who knew much about the affair on our end, save for ourselves in this room.

“I don’t mean to frighten you, Pris, but I think it only fair to warn you that it is likely your role in this affair has been ferreted out.  Of course, I will deny your involvement in the same breath with which I deny my own, and I have prepared suitable alibis for the both of us, but I have reason to believe that the Baroness Talnith is not inclined to pursue the due course of Law.  She is aged, and beyond delivering another heir, should she even choose to remarry.  I expect she is quite distraught.”  The Lord regards the group earnestly.  “I thought you’d want to know,” he finishes with an ingratiating smile.


----------



## Barastrondo

> *Elijah says, “How about closing with, Elijah says that a sharp tack like you would leave his weapons at home, if he knew what was good for him? *




I simply, positively adore Elijah. I don't think there needs to be any more proof that Leadership is the Best Feat You Can Take.



> *“Ah, Tritherion—he kicks ass."*




I see the Lord of Stoink knows his Tritherian doctrine.


----------



## Peskara

*Liberation!*

Yay! More Liberators!

*. . . Gnomeitty Gnomie-gnome or whatever?* 

Yeah, that pretty much sums up how I felt about those gnomes too.

*Ah, Tritherion—he kicks ass.* 

I often remark that such is the case. That Lord of Stoink fellow really is a sharp tack!


----------



## Plane Sailing

(contact) said:
			
		

> *
> anybody can be killed if you throw enough money at the problem.” After a moment he hastily corrects himself, “I mean, ‘we could effect a regime change if the political climate is right’ *




It is wonderful lines like this one that reminds me why historically, oppressive states so often feared the poets and storytellers.


----------



## Urbanmech

WooooHoooo!  More Liberators, life is good.

It looks like we can add another person to the list of people who want to kill the Liberators.  I pitty the poor assassin/hit squad hired by the minor noble.  Hextor's finest were a speed bump, I doubt the noble has the cash to hire the big guns necessary to cause the Liberators trouble.



> I don't think there needs to be any more proof that Leadership is the Best Feat You Can Take.




And that is why Heydricus has it TWICE! (Elijah and Daubus)


----------



## incognito

> Do you remember, my dear, the project that I had you help me out with? The young man with a grown man’s debt? Of course you do.




(contact), Damn my senile old brain.  Can I get a repost of this dark chapter in early Liberator history?


----------



## (contact)

incognito said:
			
		

> *
> 
> (contact), Damn my senile old brain.  Can I get a repost of this dark chapter in early Liberator history? *




Sure, from *Chapter 8:  Final Preparations are made, a pair of Shady Deals are struck, and the party spots a Bad Omen*:


While Heydricus and his new Accountant are wrangling, Prisantha receives a summons from the Lord of Stoink.  He asks her to cast spells for him, for the going rate, of course.  He produces an item of clothing, and asks her to scry the individual it belongs to.  She obtains a vision of a young half-elf, merrily sharing wine and bread with a group of happily joking youths.  Next the Lord calls for Haarn, a cruel-looking half orc, dressed in blackened armor, and bristling with weaponry.  The Lord asks Prisantha to teleport the half orc to the scene of revelry.  Anxious to return to her work, the distracted Enchantress complies without a second thought.  The Lord seems pleased, and invites her back for tea and crumpets the next day.


----------



## Plane Sailing

Distracted? That isn't the half of it! I hope that Prisantha feels suitably guilty when she fully remembers that episode!


----------



## incognito

Oh Dude!  That is SO wrong!  

"Kids, than Prisantha for getting your father murdered by a 1/2 Orc Assasin."

_"Thanks Prisantha!"_

Um, one Q - how did Pris Teleport without herself going with?


----------



## (contact)

She teleported the two of them, and teleported right back.  For the record,  she never asked 'why' but did ask 'how much'?  I believe she got 1400 gp for the deed.


----------



## Capellan

(contact) said:
			
		

> *She teleported the two of them, and teleported right back.  For the record,  she never asked 'why' but did ask 'how much'?  I believe she got 1400 gp for the deed. *




What alignment is she supposed to be, again?

Sure, the Heroes of the Temple have an excuse for brutality toward their _enemies_, but this is a bit outside the scope of that!


----------



## seasong

Did she ever go back for the tea and crumpets?

Man, that's cold.


----------



## Barastrondo

Capellan said:
			
		

> *What alignment is she supposed to be, again?
> 
> Sure, the Heroes of the Temple have an excuse for brutality toward their enemies, but this is a bit outside the scope of that! *




I wouldn't call it brutality. I'd call it an example of the Liberators' general tendency to not necessarily think everything through as much as they should. 

Face it — Our Heroes are kind of thick. Heydricus doesn't understand Prisantha on a man-woman level too good, and the same's true in reverse. Jespo is cunning, but not so socially ept. They run into little hints of things going on around them, but they don't always follow up on them. Hell, in that initial encounter with the Lord of Stoink, Gnomeitty Gnome-gnome did _exactly_ the wrong thing. The Liberators are savage and clever on the battlefield, but away from the dungeon, they're often kind of clueless. Remember what (contact) said: 



> Role-playing-wise, the LoT is about contrasting the superheroic-fight-a-whole-army-with-one-hand-tied-behind-your-back D&Disms with these ingorant, flawed and generally f--ked up individual personalities.




When I first read that bit about Pris doing the Lord of Stoink a little favor way, way back when, I goggled — and then I said to myself, "gosh, that's the sort of thing that a DM could really use to bite a player on the ass later." (Which, of course, proved true.)

But the funny thing is, I have every confidence that Prisantha's player knew at the time that she wasn't doing the right thing, but that she decided to play Prisantha as "distracted" enough to do the thing that would prove ultimately far more amusing at the table, both then and down the road. It was in keeping with the character, it fit the whole roleplaying mood of the game, and bless her for doing the entertaining thing instead of the most tactically (or morally) sound thing. We all win in the end because of that.


----------



## Capellan

Barastrondo said:
			
		

> *But the funny thing is, I have every confidence that Prisantha's player knew at the time that she wasn't doing the right thing, but that she decided to play Prisantha as "distracted" enough to do the thing that would prove ultimately far more amusing at the table, both then and down the road. It was in keeping with the character, it fit the whole roleplaying mood of the game, and bless her for doing the entertaining thing instead of the most tactically (or morally) sound thing. We all win in the end because of that. *




A sound argument, and I would concede the point, if it weren't for (contact)'s remark in the Plot Thread:



			
				(contact) said:
			
		

> Mostly, I wanted to dangle the threat over Pris' head and see if she'd show any remorse for a really classically bone-headed move. She didn't.




Given that Pris shows no remorse, even when confronted with the results of her action, I'd say her claims to NG alignment are dubious, at best.  I'd put her at Neutral.  (Note, I don't think she is _evil_, I just think her motivations and self-absorbed personality preclude her from being _good_.  Of course, I tend to think this is true of most of the LoT.  Doesn't make them any less fun to read  )


----------



## Barastrondo

Capellan said:
			
		

> *Given that Pris shows no remorse, even when confronted with the results of her action, I'd say her claims to NG alignment are dubious, at best.  I'd put her at Neutral.  (Note, I don't think she is evil, I just think her motivations and self-absorbed personality preclude her from being good.  Of course, I tend to think this is true of most of the LoT.  Doesn't make them any less fun to read  ) *




[examining Plots & Places LoT thread...]

Well, how about that. Point conceded, sir. I suppose that since the last update stopped _just_ after the Lord delivered that news, and just before we could see the Liberators' reactions, I was imagining a different expression on Pris' face (sort of an "Hmm... teleporting... Oh my God!") than might actually have appeared. 

And no, I don't know if I'd claim that most of the LoT were convincingly good in an alignment sense, but (contact) might feel otherwise. After all, if they slip to neutral, then they get to keep beating up all his villains without ever having to worry about _unholy_ weapons smiting them left and right.


----------



## (contact)

Prisantha's player is at my house right now, and I asked her what Pris was thinking, and she tells me that Pris wasn't thinking about it very much at all except to say to herself, "this should help get us into the Lord's good graces." After the fact, she thought about it a little further, and thought "oops".

I think she's been laying low hoping that she wouldn't get in any trouble.  Pris is Neutral Ambitious in alignment.


----------



## JacktheRabbit

I would have to say that in my experience Neutral characters with this much ambition inevitably fall to Neutral Evil in alignment if they give in to their ambitions. 

Pris has already caused the death of someone who might or might not be completely innocent. Even if the Half-Elf was guilty of something and quite evil I would say that fact wouldnt matter. Pris never bothered to find out and never cared enough to. To put a death sentance on someone the way she did through her actions was most definately an evil act.




			
				(contact) said:
			
		

> *Pris is Neutral Ambitious in alignment. *


----------



## (contact)

An evil Prisantha would be a scary, scary thing.

I'm sure Fras and Sasha would commiserate and create some appropriately Three's Company-esque plan to bring her back to the light side.

On the other hand, maybe it's not a coincidence that when Heydricus' player was looking at the Divine Liberator class the first thing he had to say was "Immune to charms!"


----------



## incognito

wait, wait, wait.

if (contact) has the time.  How about a list of all the "good" things/deeds Pris has done/said.

There has to be 10x the good as the one(ish) evil.  It's not like she's a Paladin for the love of glub!

but an evil Pris would be sweeeeeet.  _Clone_, anyone?


----------



## (contact)

Assuming we're discounting her help in dismantling the most powerful evil organization in this part of the world?

Probably the most drippingly good thing Pris has done was her relationship with the lantern archons she used to summon in the TOEE2.  It was that relationship that wound up getting the assistance of the deva who gave Jespo the celestial Fras.

Most recently, she tried to get Jespo into the Chendl Royal Wizard's Academy out of pity and the kindness of her heart.    

She's also generally very loving and protective toward her grandparents, loaning them money to buy the farm next door when the halflings mysteriously turn up dead, that sort of thing.

(pauses)  Mmmmm, Evil Pris.


----------



## incognito

> Assuming we're discounting her help in dismantling the most powerful evil organization in this part of the world?




Bah!  That was just for the XP, and the treasure.  

(contact) - come to the darkside (my email address), and we can discuss....bizzaro liberators!  A chaste Heydricus!  A evil, libidinous Pris!  A Dabus with a personality! (wink, wink, kidding)


----------



## JacktheRabbit

I figured she tried to get Jespo into the school to get him out of her hair.

Also its not the quantity of good vs evil. It is the attitude in my opinion. She has done lots of good things and she has been proud of them and willing to use those events to further herself and her interests.

On the other hand her most despicable act she has done nothing over. She seems to show no guilt and her only fear over the event is having someone come looking for her for some revenge. If she showed even a little guilt and tried to look into who this young man was it would be different. She has not though, instead she is trying to hide form the event.




			
				(contact) said:
			
		

> *Assuming we're discounting her help in dismantling the most powerful evil organization in this part of the world?
> 
> Probably the most drippingly good thing Pris has done was her relationship with the lantern archons she used to summon in the TOEE2.  It was that relationship that wound up getting the assistance of the deva who gave Jespo the celestial Fras.
> 
> Most recently, she tried to get Jespo into the Chendl Royal Wizard's Academy out of pity and the kindness of her heart.
> 
> She's also generally very loving and protective toward her grandparents, loaning them money to buy the farm next door when the halflings mysteriously turn up dead, that sort of thing.
> 
> (pauses)  Mmmmm, Evil Pris. *


----------



## Capellan

DocMoriartty said:
			
		

> *On the other hand her most despicable act she has done nothing over. She seems to show no guilt and her only fear over the event is having someone come looking for her for some revenge. If she showed even a little guilt and tried to look into who this young man was it would be different. She has not though, instead she is trying to hide form the event.*




Heck, it's not like the LoT don't have the resources to bring the poor fella _back_, if they needed to!

BNut I'm with incognito (in this thread, anyway  ).  Evil Pris would be _sweeeeet_.  Can we get an evil Anon to go with that?


----------



## Squire James

incognito said:
			
		

> *
> 
> Bah!  That was just for the XP, and the treasure.
> 
> (contact) - come to the darkside (my email address), and we can discuss....bizzaro liberators!  A chaste Heydricus!  A evil, libidinous Pris!  A Dabus with a personality! (wink, wink, kidding) *




Hm... a Jespo who gets along perfectly with a Fiendish Chihuahua familiar.  If he were in the Realms, he'd be awarded a Terrier of Bane (dog with Beast of Xvim template)!


----------



## Plane Sailing

I have to say that I see Pris actions here as being that of a preoccupied academic. She made a stupid mistake and hasn't really realised that yet, but she's not made a "phil & dixie" style change in her attitudes, eh? People can be stupid and thoughtless without being evil, surely?


----------



## JacktheRabbit

Scrying spells take an hour to cast dont they? So this was not an oops 10 second mistake that was not thought out.

This took over an hour in total to do. Plenty of time for even the most self absorbed person to come out of their shell and start looking at the real world. Especially when that person in question spends so much time fighting hideous evil.

Also she wasnt so absent minded not to ask how much she would get paid. 




			
				Plane Sailing said:
			
		

> *I have to say that I see Pris actions here as being that of a preoccupied academic. She made a stupid mistake and hasn't really realised that yet, but she's not made a "phil & dixie" style change in her attitudes, eh? People can be stupid and thoughtless without being evil, surely? *


----------



## Barastrondo

DocMoriartty said:
			
		

> *Scrying spells take an hour to cast dont they? So this was not an oops 10 second mistake that was not thought out.
> 
> This took over an hour in total to do. *




Maybe I'm just perverse, but I don't see spell-casting as one of those things that you can do and think about other things at the same time; spending an hour in spellcasting strikes me as a very different thing than an hour-long commute. If your mind starts to roll around anything other than the direct focus of casting the spell, then you're kind of deliberately failing your Concentration check, aren't you? 

That's kind of beside the point, though; the half-orc appears _after_ she's completed her scrying. There's no threat of violence until the half-orc shows up, and then it's a distracted thirty seconds, if that, and she's finally free to return to her work and that complicated mental puzzle that she swore she'd finish before lunch. If mages are like most people who do intellectual stuff for a living, I know the mindset well enough to say "yeah, that's plausible."

If I were running the game, I'd make a note of "mercenary non-good thing done" to myself, but I wouldn't call for an immediate alignment change based on that incident alone, unless the character was being played as someone who is regularly more cognizant than, say, Pris. 

You can always get the player back in a further update. (cough)


----------



## incognito

> But I'm with incognito (in this thread, anyway...)




Never thought I'd hear that, Cap!


----------



## (contact)

DocMoriartty said:
			
		

> *Scrying spells take an hour to cast dont they? So this was not an oops 10 second mistake that was not thought out.
> *




Contrary to the rules, I've been allowing _scry_ as a standard action.  In fact, I have consistently not noticed any of the durations for the character's spells that require more than a standard action.  (So far in the LoT, we've had standard action _scry, hallow_ and _phantom steed_ spells.)

I think Pris is really supposed to be that oblivious.  She's a genius at one level, but she's also oblivious and self-absorbed enough not to realize that the bruising half-orc armed to the teeth isn't going to "just have a friendly talk tuh da guy and work stuff out", despite what the Lord says.

But that's all water under the bridge-- does it bother any of you that the Liberators are now throwing in lots with very Lord who used Pris to orchistrate a murder, promising him a share of the profits in exchange for making an expedient political assassination in Wintershiven?

Did I say 'assassination'?  Oops, I meant 'regime change'.

Seriously, sometimes the Liberators amaze me.


----------



## Capellan

(contact) said:
			
		

> *But that's all water under the bridge-- does it bother any of you that the Liberators are now throwing in lots with very Lord who used Pris to orchistrate a murder, promising him a share of the profits in exchange for making an expedient political assassination in Wintershiven?
> 
> Did I say 'assassination'?  Oops, I meant 'regime change'.
> 
> Seriously, sometimes the Liberators amaze me.    *




Bing!  Idea!

_Capellan scurries off to the Plot Thread._


----------



## Joshua Randall

> The upper stories of the manor are stately and well-kept, but descending the stairs into the basements, the Liberators might as well have been entering another world entirely.  The walls and floor are unfinished, with only rough stepping-stones and channels cut into the base of the walls to take away the muddy run-off from the recent rains.  Maskaleyne’s torturous reams of notes and sadistic anatomy studies are tacked onto rough wooden support beams half-heartedly set into the earthenwork walls.  A series of crude tables support elaborate glass and ceramic patchwork devices that are still encrusted with the foul-smelling residue of some unnamable distillation.




Fantastic descriptive passage, (contact). Is that what you said at the table, or are we getting the benefit of you having addition time to _flesh things out_ (so to speak)?

Edited solely so that I could get e-mail notifications.


----------



## (contact)

JERandall said:
			
		

> *Fantastic descriptive passage, (contact). Is that what you said at the table, or are we getting the benefit of you having addition time to flesh things out (so to speak)? *




Both, really.  That is the scene as I described it, but I'm sure I was nowhere near as concise.   I would have said things like:

"There are these grooves, about like this (shows size with hands), cut into the floor, to drain off rainwater.  There are maggots floating in the water, and you think there's some blood.  They kind of float slowly past you and squirm (makes face).  Oh yeah, there are actually maggots everywhere -- someone has put chunks of rotting meat into the walls and is farming the things.  The smell is disgusting, and there are some even nastier bugs flitting around.  Make a spot check.

"Okay, some of the notes are just the usual Iuzian 'how to torture people' stuff, but one set looks interesting.  Do you look at it?

"Okay, great.  You look at it.  Make a save, DC 29 Will.  Just kidding.  It's a list of the boneheart members, made for blackmail purposes.  It looks like he left it there in his hurry to get away from you nasty bastards."


----------



## incognito

Crap, I'm having issues - can't decide which game I want (contact) to advance more...LoTs or RGs...

(contact) can't you just play 3-5 times a week so I can have _both_ story lines advance?

I want to see some of the fun-ness you've...uh..._alluded_ to that's coming up for the LoT!

I mean, I finally just read tabout he time lock in the P-Cats S/H, and I'm probably the only one who understood what _really_ happened...

Help a brother out!


----------



## Rackhir

(Slightly OT) I was just looking in on the LoT Plot thread. Did you know that's up to 11,552 view!!! Hell, most of the other plot threads are only 200-300 views. I guess a lot of people are interested in how the LoT are going to get messed up.


----------



## (contact)

Rackhir said:
			
		

> *(Slightly OT) I was just looking in on the LoT Plot thread. Did you know that's up to 11,552 view!!! Hell, most of the other plot threads are only 200-300 views. I guess a lot of people are interested in how the LoT are going to get messed up. *




That's absolutely bannanas, considering that the LoT Plot thread was created on 11.07.02 -- just about 2 months ago, and at the same time this thread was (recreated).

Over that same stretch of time, the actual Story Hour itself only has 2500 views!  So almost five times more people look at the LoT Plot thread than the Story Hour?  That makes absolutely no sense.  

The only thing I can think is that one of you went away for the holidays with the LoT Plot thread open in a browser window, and with the browser set to refresh itself every 15 minutes.

???


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## Capellan

(contact) said:
			
		

> *That's absolutely bannanas, considering that the LoT Plot thread was created on 11.07.02 -- just about 2 months ago, and at the same time this thread was (recreated).
> 
> Over that same stretch of time, the actual Story Hour itself only has 2500 views!  So almost five times more people look at the LoT Plot thread than the Story Hour?  That makes absolutely no sense.  *




I think you'll find that the Plot Thread has retained the "view count" of the thread from before November 7.

In other words, before the split you had 10,000-odd views, and those are being counted in the Plot Thread's total.


----------



## (contact)

Oh, gotcha.  You . . . are . . . so . . . right.

Capellan wins again (gives him [current level * 500]xp)!  

Pris comes forward and kisses your cheek, then bats her eyes at you.  Heydricus extends his hand and says "Great job.  You _kick ass_."  Jespo shakes your hand feebly, then gives you a sour, insincere smile.  Fras purrs and rubs your leg.


----------



## incognito

I'm going to make a new movie starring _Ashton Kutcher_

It called:

_"Dude_, where's my update?"


----------



## (contact)

*Wealsun 14, CY 593
43:  A Noble Exchange.*

That evening, after the Lord takes his leave, the Liberators discuss their new predicament.

“We should be off for Nyrond immediately,” Prisantha says.

“Are you mad?” Heydricus barks.  “These are not Iuzians to be put to the sword as we see fit!  Woodwych is the second-largest city in Nyrond!  These people are _nobility_!”

“I don’t mean go to Woodwych, I mean we should be off to the capital.  We will take an audience with the King of Nyrond, and ply him with gifts.  If we can befriend him, it will make it all the more difficult for this Baroness Talnith.”

“Why, that’s brilliant!” Heydricus exclaims.

“You should have been a ranger,” Elijah says.

“One does not just walk into the court of Nyrond and demand to see the King,” Dabus grumbles.

“One does if one is personal friends with Belvor of Furyondy, and guardian to his Heir,” Prisantha retorts.  “Belvor will give us a letter of introduction, I am sure.”

-----

Heydricus and Prisantha _teleport_ to Chendl, but are dismayed to learn that the King is indisposed—out of the city entirely, to be exact.  Belvor has gone North to inspect the defenses along the border, and has not left an itinerary behind.

Pris and Heyrdicus return to Cur’ruth and seek out the one person they know likely to have had intimate knowledge of Belvor’s previous inspections—Reine, the former Provost Marshall of Furyondy, and now flat-mate of Jespo Crim.

Reine is found discontentedly poking at a half-eaten meal, the lines of his recent grief plain on his face.  He tells the duo that “inspection” is another way to say “visiting his only real ally amongst his nobles, a _very wealthy_ former adventuring companion elevated to Baroness by his own hand.  He gave her Crockport, though, so the joke’s on her, ha ha.  It’s an awful, _awful_ city, and I don’t envy her position.  I’m not one to gossip, but friendship aside, I suspect Belvor really appointed her for her money.”

Reine goes on to explain that Belvor’s Great Crusade was financed with almost the very last coin in the Royal treasury as well as the dregs of Belvor’s own purse.  The Southern Lords were demurring, and Belvor was forced to underwrite much of their expenses in order for them to render their duty to the Crown.  “Of course,” Reine continues, “the Crusade was a success, much to that ambitious Butrain’s chagrin, and when it came time to dole out the new Baronies, our King thumbed his nose at the Southern Lords and put a common adventurer on the seat in Crockport.  Not that there’s anything common about her wealth,” Reine drawls.  “The two of them are as thick as thieves, and if they weren’t both paladins, there might be more competition for Thrommel than Crim could stomach.  Or so they say.

“I do know that she has been lending him money for years, and helping to prop up his destitute Crown.  I must tell you, if it wasn’t for my _scrupulously_ prudent management of the City’s affairs there might have been food rioting in Chendl years ago, and I shudder to think what might befall it now that I am banished.”

“You’re not banished Reine, you’ve been promoted,” Heydricus says cheerily.

“Well,” Reine sniffs.  “Somebody had better convince Jespo Crim of the fact, and get him to teach some economic sense to Thrommel.  The thick-witted lad is inheriting a pauper’s leaving, though I suspect he knows it not.  

“Go to Crockport, and ask for the Lady Ishara—she is the Baroness Kalinstren’s adjutant, and she will be able to provide you with Belvor’s location, assuming he isn’t standing next to her at the moment.”

-----

The Baron isn’t, but the Lady Ishara can, and after a moment, the Liberators do so.

“Heydricus!” Belvor roars.  “Pris!  Gods above, you can find me anywhere!” The King leans back in his chair and whispers to the robed figure standing behind his right shoulder, “Are they supposed to be able to do that?”

“It is good to see you, my Lord,” Heydricus says, executing a courtly bow.   “We bring you pleasing news from Tenh.  We have eliminated the members of the Boneheart in Eastern Tenh and disrupted an Iuzian attempt to unearth some sort of artifact.”

“Artifact, you say?  An evil one?”

“It is unquestionably evil, my Lord,” Heydricus says.

“Well, did you destroy it?”

“I’m not sure, sire.  It . . . had some fight in it, but I think we at least drove it off.”

“Well, good enough.  Good enough!  You gave it a kick in the pants, eh?  A real sound kick!  I wish I could have seen it!  And how is my boy?” The King bellows, as his hooded advisor hastily closes the doors behind the Liberators.

“Thrommel is well, my Lord,” Pris says.  “He asks about you often.”

The King seems touched by this statement, and sighs deeply.  “Ah, my boy.  He was taken from me so young, you know, and was returned to me only so briefly.”  The King looks down at his lap, and rubs aside a single tear.  “I look forward to the day when you can tell me with all candor that my boy is ready for the throne.  I would abdicate in an instant, and spend my remaining days pestering him for grandchildren, if I could.”

“He is still young, my Lord,” Heyrdicus says.

“And my work is not finished either!” Belvor exclaims.  “I have a great dream, Heydricus, have I told it to you?”  Belvor stands up and places one foot on his chair.  “That I may hand Thrommel the Crown to a Kingdom that stretches from the Nyr Dyv in the south to the Northern tip of the Whyestil.  I mean to beat Iuz at his own game, Heydricus.  I mean to take his Empire out from under his bony hindquarters.”

“A noble goal, Sire,” Heydricus says.

“And one which we can wholeheartedly support,” Prisantha says, favoring Belvor with a charming smile.  “But we have come to ask favors as well as promise aid.”

“Anything my dear, speak your wish,” Belvor says.

“We require a letter of introduction to the Court of Nyrond.  We hope to introduce ourselves there, and make our business known to King Lynwerd.”

“Ah, ha!” Belvor laughs.  “They’ve put that Eyeh out on his ear, and you hope that they’ll hear your case!  Well thought, well thought.  No one dislikes the Pale more than Lynwerd, I suppose, and no one dislikes you more than the Pale, so you might as well see if you can’t snuggle up in Rel Mord.  Well, Lynwerd is a right-thinking man, so you shouldn’t have too much trouble with him.”  The King nods.  “Very well.  Write yourselves a letter, say whatever you wish within reason, and have Thrommel seal it with his ring.”

At this, Heydricus and Prisantha exchange glances.  Belvor says, “You didn’t know he wore a King’s ring?  There are only two, and I had his made when you returned him to me.  Another reason to keep his head on his shoulders, what?  Who knows what kind of mischief might be made with that ring should it be taken from his finger.”

“An impossibility, Sire.” Heydricus says.  “The Prince is well-guarded.”

“By who, that Crim fellow?” The King says.  “I don’t know, he seems _womanly_ to me.  No offense of course, Prisantha,” Belvor hastily adds.  “I mean no disrespect to womankind by the comparison.  I just imagine that Crim conjuring all sorts of mis-placed contrivances to hasten my boy away from his duty and into the thick of things.”

Heydricus and Prisantha look at one another.

“What Thrommel needs is to feel the sting of responsibility.  He needs to learn what it means to have the fates of others upon his back.”

“That is a fine idea, my Lord,” Heyrdicus says.  “I have a perfect assignment for him.  We are beginning to outline our campaign against the central plains of Tenh.  We’ve imagined small units, working fairly autonomously.  Command of one of them would be perfect for Thrommel.”

“Yes,” Belvor says.  “And have that Crim sit the lad down for lessons with my former Provost Marshall, as well.  There is more to rulership than battle and command, after all.  Reine is still alive, I trust?”

“He is, sire,” Heydricus says.  

The cloaked figure behind Belvor leans forward and whispers into the King’s ear.  “Ah, of course, of course,” Belvor replies, then turns back to Heydricus and Prisantha.  “You must keep Reine in Cur’ruth, Heydricus, I’m afraid he may never leave.  There are those amongst our enemies who could wreak terrible havoc if they knew what he knows about our affairs.  There has even been talk of retrieving him back to Chendl for safety’s sake, but I am confident in you two.”


----------



## Schmoe

(contact), I love the political wrangling that goes on in your campaign.  It is definitely an inspiration, and I'm hoping to incorporate a bit more politics into my own game.  Do you have any advice on how to do so?


----------



## thatdarncat

hmmmm

mysterious cloaked figure

any guesses who this is?


----------



## Rackhir

Cool an update at last. But am I alone in being chilled at the thought of Thrommel leading a group of men on his own. He has enough trouble staying alive when he has the whole lot of the Liberators looking out for him.


----------



## Ancalagon

I am fully comfident in Trommel's ability to lead a hundred battle-hardened verterants in battle against 10 blind kobolds, and suffer less than 60% casualty*.  Give the lad some credit!

*In no way shape or form do I predict less than 50% casualty, no matter the opponent

Ancalagon


----------



## Victim

Ancalagon said:
			
		

> *I am fully comfident in Trommel's ability to lead a hundred battle-hardened verterants in battle against 10 blind kobolds, and suffer less than 60% casualty*.  Give the lad some credit!
> 
> *In no way shape or form do I predict less than 50% casualty, no matter the opponent
> 
> Ancalagon *




No, I think he'd do better than 50%.  But Thrommel would find some way to sacrifice himself for his men in some manner every battle.


----------



## Squire James

What They Say to the King:  "Prince Thrommel led a force of 100 men into battle, and defeated the enemy with only 6 casualties!"

Thr Truth:  "The Prince died 6 times in one battle, and all the enemies fell down laughing.  The 100 men killed them as they lay helpless in mirth."


----------



## incognito

(contact)


Dude, how can you leave us hanging with the Lot's.  ESpecially when there is a new robed stranger close to Belvor!

And the ring on Thrommels hand - that GOT to be a plot device -  And a genious one!

more, please?


----------



## (contact)

Schmoe said:
			
		

> *(contact), I love the political wrangling that goes on in your campaign.  It is definitely an inspiration, and I'm hoping to incorporate a bit more politics into my own game.  Do you have any advice on how to do so? *




The first thing I would do is to make sure that I have an understanding of the basic politics of the world around the PCs.  Deific, temporal, what have you.  I don't feel like I've ever "locked down" a particular dynamic or relationship untill the PCs actually play through that element-- I allow things to change over time.

(Belvor, for example, was nowhere near this grandfatherly when I first envisioned him, but the PCs really responded to that aspect of his character, so I played it up.)

The second thing is to tie the PCs goals into political happenings.  In the case of the LoT, this is pretty easy to do, because my players wanted to nation-build.  But politics could (and does) happen at the level of the Wizard's guild, prestige class organization, or even innkeeper's family!  

Third, remember that even if the characters ignore them, the political tides in your world have consequences.  Things change when the new king comes into power, and your job is to project that change in a believable way, and figure out how it filters down to the PCs.

Piratecat's SH is also an excellent example of politics in the game world, and you really can't go wrong with Sepulcrave's story hour at any level, political being one of them.  Also keep your eye out for Barastrondo's SH-- he crafts an extremely consistent game-world which is another must for a political campaign.  

In the case of the LoT, I use the Greyhawk world, so my players already have a good idea of the basic political landscape (Nyrond is broke, Duke Eyeh converted to the worship of Pholtus, etc).  I personally think that this is one of the best reasons to use a pre-gen world, as it can be difficult to get the players up to speed with 'character knowledge' in a homebrew.

I hope that helps!


----------



## dpdx

Mas Libertadores! Mas!


----------



## (contact)

*43: A Noble Exchange, continued.*



Heydricus stands in the main hall at Cur’ruth, his hands on his hips.  “So maybe we just kill the halfling.”  Dabus nods sagely.

“You are so impetuous,” Prisantha says.  “And you can both stop looking at me like that, it’s not _my_ fault the boy was killed.”

“You’re the one who teleported an assassin into the midst of Nyronesse Nobles!” Heydricus exclaims.

“Yes, yes, we’ve been over that.  Everyone makes mistakes.”  Pris frowns at Heydricus.  “What I want to know is what is wrong with his family?  Why not _raise_ the boy?”

Dabus examines a plate of left-over pastries, and grimaces.  “To call someone back from the dead, you need the body to lure the soul.”

Prisantha shakes her head, “No, no—a corpse could be raised without a body.” 

“Yes, in theory.  But the spells required are extremely powerful, and very few clerics even possess them, nonetheless cast them for the whim of Nyrondeese Nobility.”

“Or for cash,” Heydricus says.

“Well, and what of that?”  Pris asks.  “There is always someone willing to cast a spell if the price is right.  Who are these Talnith, do they have money?  Have they fallen on hard times?”

Heydricus laughs, “Everyone in Nyrond has fallen on hard times.  The nation was bankrupted fighting the Pale, the Great Kindgom and the armies of Iuz.  There are rumors that the throne is unstable.” 

“Which is why they sent Eyeh packing,” Dabus says.

“Feh,” Heydricus scoffs.  “Eyeh scurried under the skirts of his masters at Wintershiven once the well proved dry in Nyrond.  He converted to Pholtus to drum up support for his campaign.”

“They could say the same about you, Heydricus,” Pris says.

Dabus intercedes.  “No, no, the Liberator is a chosen position.  Tritherion must call a Holy Liberator to service.  There are many of the faithful, like myself or young Anon, who spend their whole lives praying for this honor in vain.  Make no mistake, Heydricus was _called_.”  Dabus looks at his master.  “And that is why I will follow him blindly.”

Heydricus smiles and places a hand on Dabus’ shoulder.  “Your fanaticism is a warm comfort during trying times like these, my friend.  We are glad to have you with us.”  Heydricus releases his cohort, and clasps his hands behind his back.  “But the choice remains, do we go to the Lord and just demand the boy’s corpse, or do we go around the Lord, and retrieve it ourselves?  When the Lord was euphemizing the massacre, did we ask him what he did with the bodies?”

“Of course not,” Prisantha says, “It would not have been polite.”

“We’re considering killing him, but we balk at offending his sensibilities?” Heydricus asks.  “Look, he’s a squirmy little fella, but it would take all of three strikes, and all that would be left is a pair of booted stumps.  No, no, he’s terrified of us, and well he should be.” 

“Oh, that’s fantastic diplomacy, Heydricus.  Is that your ‘Three strikes, two stumps’ doctrine?”

Prisantha and Heydricus stare at one another.  Dabus speaks up, “Really, you two.  You sound like Jespo and his cat, the way you carry on.”

“We do?” Heydricus asks.  “I sound like Jespo?”

“No, you’re more like the cat.  I can _commune_ with Tritherion, and perhaps our Lord of Freedom will shed some light on our dilemma.”  

-----

As Dabus prepares himself for the draining trance that must precede a commune, Heydricus and Prisantha seek out Jespo Crim.  They walk together across the grand hall that once was the room where Suel and Martak built their gargantuan zombie-golems, so inured to the ever present chill in the place that they no longer notice it.

“You know, I have my doubts about Thrommel's capacities,” Prisantha says.

“As do I,” Heydricus says.  “But he is the Crown Prince."  Heydricus pauses, lost for a moment in thought.  "You know Pris, we really need more people with access to resurrection magic. Thrommel could get killed sacking a preschool.”


----------



## (contact)

*44: Thank Pelor for the charitable.*

*Wealsun 14, CY 593
44: Cry ‘scry’ and let loose the devil-wolves of war.*

Heydricus and Prisantha find Jespo in his room under the stairs, trying to study with pieces of cloth stuffed into his ears.  Fräs bounds off the thin-sheeted cot and wraps herself around Prisantha's leg, purring loudly.

“Crim!  Good news!” Heydricus says.  “Thrommel’s been called up.”

“What?  To the Liberators?”  Jespo says hopefully as he removes the cloth from his ears.

“No, no—better than that.  We’re giving him a command.  Effective immediately, he’s to take a contingent of men and canvas the Tenha communities to the South and West of here, give them word about our presence, and start recruiting for the Tenha Liberation Army.”

“You jest.”

“No, no, by Belvor’s request.  Thrommel needs a command, Jespo.”

“Yes, but must he have such a piddling one?  I am offended, Heydricus.  Offended.  This endeavor  is a waste of my talent!” Jespo says.  “Give us a _target_ for the love of Pelor, or something worthwhile, not passing out recruitment tracts to emaciated peasants.”

“He’s perfect for the job, Jespo.  He’s handsome.”

“He _is_ handsome,” Pris says.

“And more importantly, it’s safe,” Heydricus continues. “Belvor requested it personally.  It is what must be.”

Prisantha and Heydricus leave Jespo to pout alone, and return to Dabus.  The tall cleric is muttering to himself, lost in communion with his god.  After his spell concludes, there is a passage of silence, then Dabus begins to speak.  “Yes.  No.  Yes.  Maybe.  He is.  Yes.  No.  Thank you, sir. Yes.  Yes.”

Dabus emerges from his trance, a look of shock on his face.  “Tritherion,” he says to Heydricus.  “He asked about you.”

“Really?”  Heydricus says, blushing.

 “He asked about all of us.  He sounded concerned.”

-----

Dabus lays out what he learned from his _commune_.  The boy is not retrievable by _resurrection_. Not because he is evil, undead or unwilling to return—his soul is trapped.  The Lord of Stoink has not personally trapped his soul, but the boy’s soul is trapped by some creature.  The creature is known to the Lord, but not in his employ.  The Lord is aware that the boy’s soul is trapped.  The creature in question has no political status in Stoink, but is presently in Stoink, and intends to use the boy’s soul for some evil purpose.  The Lord sold the boy’s soul, along with all the souls of the victims.  In fact, it was the Lord’s intention that all the witnesses be killed.

“That’s it,” Heydricus says, “this guy’s got to go.”

“One other thing,” Dabus says, “the Lord suspects treachery from us.”

“We should just make the Lord tell us where this creature is,” Prisantha says.  “I can make him talk.”

“No,” Heydricus says, “threatening him will just backfire on us.  I say we find this creature, and kill it.”

Dabus prepares himself to divine Tritherion’s take on the group’s planned action, and Heydricus turns to Prisantha.

“You really think Thrommel’s that good looking?” he whispers.

“He has a certain boyish charm,” she replies.  “Plus, he also has other non-boyish qualities.”

Before Heydricus can respond, Dabus says, “Great Tritherion, if we confront the Lord of Stoink, and force him to reveal the creature that has taken the soul of the young Talnith, what say you?”

Then, in a whispering voice, he says, “_You may travel through a field of weeds to pluck a single weed from the center_.”

“And if we track the creature through magical means?”

“_That which you leap over can be more easily trampled_.”

“Okay, we kill the creature, then we deal with the Lord,” Heydricus says.

“That’s the best answer we can get?” Prisantha says.  “What is that supposed to mean?”

“We kill the creature, then we deal with the Lord,” Heydricus says.

“If you think you can do better,” Dabus says, “use your own _divinations_.”

“I think I will,” Prisantha snaps, removing her _crystal ball_  from its pouch.

-----

Heydricus takes Dabus aside.  “Do you think Thrommel has a boyish charm?”

“I’ve never understood ‘boyish’,” Dabus says.  “He is a man.  In fact, he is older than any of us, even if he has spent much of his life in _temporal stasis_.”

“Yeah.  What about that drow ranger, Elenthal?  Don’t you think he’s kind of creepy?”

“Be at ease, sir.  I have spoken with Tritherion about him.  He is loyal as anyone here, save myself.”

-----

Thus comforted, Heydricus gathers Elijah, C’min and Elenthal together.  “I have a mission for you,” he says.  “You three are to travel to Nevond Nevnend, and bring our enemies there down.”

“What!” C’min says.  “Three of us?”

“We can do it.” Elijah says.

“It’s impossible!” C’min says.  “An orcish army surrounds the place!”

“Don’t listen to her, Heydricus,” Elijah says.  “We can do it, we will do it.  It’s as good as done.”

“What do you think, Elenthal?” Heydricus asks.

“I think I will run away from any fight that cannot be won, but I will not run from any fight.”

“Hm.  Okay.”  Heydricus rubs his chin, as he regards the drow ranger.  “Tell me—what do you think about Tritherion?  Have you given any thought to converting?”

“The gods do not interest me,” Elenthal says.  “But you can tell Tritherion this; the next giant I fight, if I kill it in one blow, I will take that as a sign that I am to convert.”

-----

“He’s creepy,” Heydricus tells Dabus as they leave the newly appointed guerilla strike team.  “Definitely creepy.”

“Tritherion approves of him nonetheless,” Dabus says.

They track down Thrommel, and tell him the news.

“We saw your father today, Thrommel,” Heydricus says through a winning smile.  “You’re to have a command with us,” Heydricus says.

“At last!” Thrommel crows.  “Good news!”

“You are to travel to the South and West, and spread the word about our presence.”

“It shall be done with vigor and zeal!” Thrommel exclaims.  “I will take one hundred of your best men, and set out immediately.” 

Heydricus represses a smile.  “You must leave me some of the good ones, Thrommel.  I need men here to stand guard over our operations.”

“How about I leave you Crim?  He’s a great wizard—why, if anyone attacks us, he’ll _fireball_ them!”

Heydricus demurs, “That would hurt Jespo’s feelings, Thrommel.  You know how fond he is of you.”

“This is _war_, Heydricus!  Men bleed, and men die!  Feelings are hurt!  We suck it up and do our duty.”

“Still, I need good men here.  Take Crim, and listen to him.”

“Very well,” Thrommel grumbles.  “But I’m taking Urin.  I’ll need a solid adjunct to coordinate logistics.  And if we do well for ourselves to the West, we’ll press on and take Nevond Nevnend for you!”  Thrommel laughs, his good humor returning at the prospect.  

“You would retake the capitol?” Dabus asks.

“For my good friend Heydricus?  Of course!” Thrommel clasps Heydricus’ shoulder.  “Someday we will sit in your chambers there and talk man to man, and King to King.  I have seen it, Heydricus.  I have seen it . . .”

-----

Heydricus pulls Elijah aside.  “When you destroy the defenses at Nevond Nevnend,” he begins.

“Yes?”

“Don’t tell anyone of your presence there!”

Elijah looks into his eyes, horrified.  “What do you take me for, Heydricus?  I thought we understood one another.”

-----

Prisantha stares into her _crystal ball_, looking for the being in possession of the Talnith heir’s soul.  Slowly, a scene becomes visible through the mists:  

A run-down and decrepit dining hall becomes visible, a long wooden table and benches forming the centerpiece of the room.  A score of threadbare young children sit at the table, gloomily spooning mouthfuls of a bland-looking gruel from crude wooden bowls; human, halfling, half-orcish and even goblinoid children are present, every one of them looking unwell and morose.  A gap-toothed old woman, wrinkled and bent, shuffles from child to child, ladling dollops of mush into their bowls and entreating them, “Eat up.  Eat up now, dear.  You must finish your supper if you are to become well.  Eat up now.”  Pacing beside the table, his hands clasped sternly behind his back, a Pholtan priest glowers at the children.  Behind him, wooden plaques hang on the wall, with short phrases exclaiming the virtues of Obedience burned into them with a childlike script.

“Pholtans?  Let’s just kick in the door,” Heydricus says.

“I hate kicking in the door,” Prisantha says.  “Hush!”

_Meta-game note_:  At this point, Angie says to me, “Does this scene hold up under _true seeing_?”  I say, “I let you create a crystal ball with _true seeing_?”  They assure me that I did.  _What was I thinking_?
But all is not what it seems amongst the shabby orphanage.  _True seeing_ reveals that the stony scene is quite different:  the old lady is no impoverished nurse—she is a tall, thickly skinned humanoid, certainly a woman, but of a hideous and wretched appearance.  Her skin is green, and small barbs dot her face and neck like the residue of a childhood disease.  The gruel she spoons from her bucket is a thick, gelatinous blood porridge, and small child-sized fingers and eyes float to the top of its viscous mass.  

The goblin children are likewise disguised.  But even more incongruously, their true forms are seen to be huge beasts—some hellish cross between a wolf and a human—fifteen feet long from snout to tail, with slavering teeth the size of knives, and cruel, sharpened fingernails at the end of six-fingered hands.  

“Eat up my child,” the woman-thing says to one reluctant young tyke.  “You are sick, and this will help you grow well.”

The Pholtan fixes the child in his gaze and says, “Boy, what did I tell you about dinner?”

“Yes, sir.”  The boy wrinkles his nose and takes a  mouthful of the cannibal’s stew.


----------



## Morte

I like this SH. I feel that you guys should play more often.


----------



## dpdx

{Insert gleeful cackle here.}

Beautiful. Good thing Heydricus didn't let Thrommel bleed off some of his party members.


----------



## Barastrondo

> “That which you leap over can be more easily trampled.”




I _love_ this line. "Don't bother with the more cunning or subtle approach, My children; I, Tritherion the Summoner, remind you that blatant violence shall be thy comfort in dark times." 

Tritherion doesn't just kick ass, he demands that everyone else kick ass too.


----------



## Tellerve

mhmmm, kicking ass, fun fun fun 

So, contact, if you were to do it over again would you have allowed a crystal ball with true seeing?  I know in Sepulchrave's(spelling?) story hour the mage has a Mirror of Mental Prowess that he oftentimes laments about being in the campaign.  Do you think the crystal ball will be a something similar? (obviously to a lesser degree)

Tellerve


----------



## (contact)

Tellerve said:
			
		

> *mhmmm, kicking ass, fun fun fun
> 
> So, contact, if you were to do it over again would you have allowed a crystal ball with true seeing? *




Oh yeah, sure.  At higher levels, PCs become powerful and can do all sorts of things-- I think Pris' viewing of her enemies has been a great opportunity for me to highlight vital speed bumps (er, _deadly enemies_).


----------



## Urbanmech

Isn't there a chance that the bad guys will detect Pris's scrying?  I thought all you needed to detect someone scrying on you was a Int of 12+ and to roll a DC20 Scry check?  Or maybe they didn't notice, lucky for the Liberators.  I predict a good ass kicking in the next post or too.  Hopefully this latest set of evil villians will be more than just a speed bump...


----------



## (contact)

Urbanmech said:
			
		

> *Isn't there a chance that the bad guys will detect Pris's scrying?  I thought all you needed to detect someone scrying on you was a Int of 12+ and to roll a DC20 Scry check?  *



*

Right, but that's a tough Int check at +1 to the die.  The target in question had a 13 Int and no wizard levels.  I'm sure the scry rules will get a 'fix' for 3.5e, but untill they do?  C'est la D . . .




			Hopefully this latest set of evil villians will be more than just a speed bump...
		
Click to expand...


*
I'll never te-ell.  [/Don't Say A Word]


----------



## Urbanmech

> I'll never te-ell. [/Don't Say A Word]




Oh could this mean we are in for some RBDM bad guys?  I can't wait if that is the case.  I don't know why but as much as I root for the Liberators, I also want to see the other side inflict some hurt (and killing Thromel doesn't count).  Maybe it is all the plotting that goes on in the other thread that makes me want to see the bad guys have a good day.

Then again maybe it is just a yearning for the old ToEE2 days of CARNAGE, CARNAGE, CARNAGE. /Monster truck rally voice


----------



## incognito

> Oh could this mean we are in for some RBDM bad guys? I can't wait if that is the case. I don't know why but as much as I root for the Liberators, I also want to see the other side inflict some hurt (and killing Thromel doesn't count). Maybe it is all the plotting that goes on in the other thread that makes me want to see the bad guys have a good day.




Amen Brother: (contact)'s original RtToEE  story hour was grisly.  the players actually feared death on a per session basis!

As they reach higher level though, it a) becomes harder to make death anything more than annoying (ie: lose a level) b) the players are more invested in thier characters.  Personality, plot hooks, etc etc.  What would the Liberators be without Heydricus, Jespo, or Pris?

Still, I would like to see the Liberators have a nervous moment, or run, or realize they are in between a rock, and a hard place.  Instead of "Let's go kick so and so's butt" it would be "Are we able to kick so and so's butt?"


----------



## Urbanmech

I agree with you incognito, I don't want the Liberators to loose Heydricus, Pris or Jespo.  I do want to see them flee from a fight or think twice before handing down the ass-kicking.

Then again after enduring all the death that was the ToEE2 maybe it is better on their egos to go into the fight with high spirits and suprise the bad guys with their gumption.  If the powerful villians think that no one will trample their plans and up pop the Liberators out of the blue.  Suprise is quite a nice thing to have on your side.


----------



## (contact)

dpdx said:
			
		

> *{Insert gleeful cackle here.}
> 
> Beautiful. Good thing Heydricus didn't let Thrommel bleed off some of his party members. *




Elijah, Dabus, C'min and Jespo don't count?


----------



## (contact)

incognito said:
			
		

> * What would the Liberators be without Heydricus, Jespo, or Pris? *




Hm . . . what indeed?  (Strokes chin)


----------



## (contact)

*Chapter 45*

*Wealsun 17, CY 593
45: Charity is a dangerous business, after all.*



_The Pholtan fixes the child in his gaze and says, “Boy, what did I tell you about dinner?”
“Yes, sir.”  The boy wrinkles his nose and takes a  mouthful of the cannibal’s stew._

-----

Before the boy can finish his gelatinous stew, Heydricus appears in the room, next to where the old woman was standing just moments before.  Multiple images of him flicker and dance in and out of space, each one resplendent in glistening celestial armor, with Heydricus’ holy symbol of his office – the Liberator’s Spear – clutched in its hand.  The spear is decorated with two blue pinions, and one red, symbolizing the two lesser and one greater Boneheart members he has killed.  Behind him Dabus towers—his naturally tall frame exaggerated to over nine feet in height, he radiates Tritherion’s might.  Prisantha, of course, is _invisible_.

“Well met, gentle souls,” Heydricus says in his most soothing tones, as if the sudden appearance of adventurers lit up head-to-toe with such sickeningly good enchantments could be anything other than trouble for extra-planar slave-traders.  Despite Heydricus’ ploy, there will be no parley.

One of the “goblin children” sitting directly across the table from where the party appears begins to sprout hair and elongate, until it is stretched out at its full length, its forepaws on the table, and its teeth snapping at Heydricus’ _mirror images_.  Gobbets of thick spittle fly from the flapping lips of the creature as it gnashes at the air.

“Headmaster, what are you teaching your children?”  Heydricus asks, false surprise in his voice.  The Headmaster for his part, appears sincerely shocked and terrified.   His mouth opens and closes, as if he means to say something stern, but cannot for the life of him bring anything to mind.

At that moment, the goblin sitting directly in front of the Headmaster transforms, and with its massive bulk multiplying and expanding in an instant, the Headmaster is crushed against the wall, and grimaces as his ribcage is shattered like the last time the canary got a _quickened extended righteous might_.  As it settles back on its haunches, the devil-wolf grinds the man into the wall, then springs forward with a hellish howl, plowing over and through the terrified, screaming children; it leaps half onto the giant-sized Dabus, and half onto the long table.  The table collapses under the strain, and the creature falls onto its side, trapping one child beneath its shoulder.

Dabus exhales deeply, and is filled with a rush of potency and strength, courtesy of Tritherion.  Dabus drives his spear into the front shoulder of the wolf-thing fighting him, and begins to back the howling creature away from the party.

Prisantha casts _hold monster_ on the hideous female humanoid, freezing her in place, then snaps off a _mass suggestion_ to the children, “Quick, go into the other room, it’s not safe for you here.”  As the children scramble to obey, a wolf-thing lashes out at one of them, and kills the child.  The wolf on Dabus bites into him, disrupting his _heal_ spell.  The wolf attacking Heydricus’ _mirror images_ turns to the softer target, and does its level best to rip Dabus’ spine out.  Fortunately, the badly wounded cleric is saved by his _circlet of minor displacement_, but he is badly wounded and cannot last much longer.  Heydricus lays into the wolf on Dabus’ back, wounding the creature, but cannot protect his friend fully from the fiend’s vicious rage. 

Prisantha says, “I _wish_ Dabus were standing behind me,” and in an instant, it is so.  With Dabus out of harm’s way for the moment, she casts a _greater dispelling_ on one of the creatures, but produces no discernable effect.  One of the wolves leaps toward Pris, knocking her to the ground and pinning her beneath its bulk as it lashes out at Dabus.  Fortunately, the creature’s first impact slams Dabus’ head back far enough to put him out of reach of the snapping jaws, and the cleric is saved for a second time by blind luck.

Thanking Tritherion for his reprieve, Dabus _heals_ himself, and levels his spear.  The wolf-thing facing Heydricus takes stock of its rapidly worsening predicament, and flees from the room, following the children’s path.  High-pitched screams of terror are heard through the doorway.  

Prisantha squirms out from underneath her bestial blanket, and attempts to _polymorph_ the creature.  Unfortunately, her spell fails to take effect, but the wolf-thing becomes distracted for a moment attempting to locate the _invisible_ wizardess, providing Heydricus the opening he needs.  Heydricus focuses all his might into one single powerful thrust and impales the creature cleanly on his spear.  As the beast dies, Heydricus’ pinions are seen to be all red.

The party chases after the fleeing monster, and finds it distracted by the scrambling children.  In an instant, it joins its companions, and after Dabus is _hasted_, the party sets about emptying every curative spell and potion they possess into the wounded children.  They are successful, and manage to save all but two of them.  Unfortunately, the Headmaster is dead by the time they arrive, his soul gone on to Pholtus for Judgement.

-----

The group faces the _held_ hag.  Assuming that their foe will have sense enough to come in out of the rain, they dispel the enchantment, hoping to parley.  But she is either legendarily confident or simply stupid, and the disgusting woman leaps at Prisantha, blunting her hooked fingers against the enchantress’ _stoneskin_.

Prisantha speaks a _quickened suggestion_, “Tell us where the soul of the noble child is, and we will let you return to your home plane.”

Suddenly convinced of the soundness of the idea, the hag stops trying to rip Prisantha in two and says simply, “They all live in the walls of my lair.”

Heydricus faces the wretched woman.  “Give us the soul of the Talinth heir, and we will let you live.”

The hag regards him cannily.  “I only give what cannot be bought.  So is it now, so has it been since my ancestors sprang whole from the dreams of mortals.”  The foul creature’s breath reeks of carrion and disease.  “For his soul, I demand a gift.  I crave a magic item.  What have you that will enhance my strength?”

Heydricus takes a quick mental appraisal of his magic items, and removes an amulet from around his neck.  “I have no such thing, but you will be well pleased with this.  It will harden your skin, and protect you from harm.”

The hag takes the amulet, and favors the party with a sly smile.  “This will do.  I will go and come back for you with the child.”

“No,” Heydricus says.  “You will take us to your lair.”

“You would not survive the trip,” she sneers.  “Do you propose to change by your word the fashion of a trade that has been followed for millennia?  Would you undo the rules that bind the very Dukes of Hell, or the demonic Princes?  Friends, come to your senses.  I can be trusted.”  The hag bares her gapped teeth in a parody of a smile.  “After all, do you suppose the fiends would suffer me to live if I broke my word?”  The party seems to accept this explanation, so she continues.  “Return to this place, in one year and one day.  I will be here with your soul.”

“In one year and one day, we could kill you and find your lair,” Heydricus laughs.  “You will return tonight, or I will forget our bargain.”

“I do not take orders from merchandise!” the hag sneers.

“Merchandise?” Heydricus says.  What is merchandise?”

“Why you are,” she purrs, looking longingly at the assembled group.  “You all are.”

Heydricus favors her with a withering glare, and reaches for his spear.

“Very well,” she hisses.  “Stay your hand.  I will return to this place at the darkest hour tomorrow evening.”

“I’m warning you—don’t betray us.”

“Ridiculous,” the hag scoffs.  “Do you have any idea how long it took my kind to gather the trust and esteem we proudly bear?  I am good to my word, _mortal_.”

“What is your name?” Prisantha asks.

“You may call me Dispater,” the hag says with a laugh, as she slowly fades from view.

-----

With the hag gone, Dabus casts _cure disease_ on the worst cases amongst the children, and Heydricus rounds up the younger ones, holding the two smallest ones in his arms, while three others hang from his backpack, and adventurer’s harness.  Despite their recent trauma, the children laugh and play with the huge Liberator, tugging at his armor and weapons in a mock battle.

Prisantha watches all this with a distant expression, tilting her head ever so slightly to the side.

Two of the older children are not so easily swayed, and announce their intention to take to the streets of Stoink, free at last of the Pholtan Headmaster’s charity.

“I don’t know,” Heydricus says.  “The life here is kind of tough.  If you join _our_ gang, you’ll eat every day, and be free to roam as you wish . . .”

This seems to convince the children, and after some disgruntled sniffling and boot-stomping, they agree, and the motley parade takes to the streets of Stoink’s worst neighborhoods in the dead of night.

“This . . . that _thing_,” Dabus says, a cold realization dawning over him.  “This is untenable!  It _trades in souls_.  This is an extra-planar slave trade in its lowest form!”

“It is,” Prisantha agrees somberly.

“Fantastic!” Dabus says.  “I was really starting to wonder what we’d all be up to over the long run!  Glorious Tritherion, we heed your call!”

-----

Whether it is the pure strangeness of the group that gives Stoink’s criminal class pause, or the fact that the group looks profoundly unconcerned with the danger, their journey back to the manor is brief and uneventful.  They are confronted by a group of armed thugs at the boundary to Stoink’s upper-class neighborhood, but the ruffians there do no more than posture and threaten.  Heydricus’ obvious zeal for a fight seems to add some credence to their better instincts, and the thugs simply melt away into the night.

One of the youngest children begins to cry during the short walk, and it is Heydricus that soothes the boy, playing guessing games with gold pieces, a masterwork dagger and his enchanted cloak.

Once at the lord’s manor, they settle in and Dabus summons a _heroes’ feast_ to feed the children—“the _real_ breakfast of champions,” he assures them.  The children, suspicious at first, dig in and eat like they have never seen celestial food brought directly from the table of a god before.  While they eat, Prisantha readies herself to transport the group to Cur’ruth.

“Do you mean to keep them all, Heydricus?” Dabus asks.

“I think Reine needs something to do,” Heydricus replies.  “The children will be a balm for his grief.  Besides, it’s good for adventurers to have children around.  It helps us remember why we do all this, don’t you agree?”

----

In Cur’ruth, it is still early evening, and impromptu nursemaids are hastily assembled.  The party gathers in the study to determine their next course of action.

“We need the heir’s body,” Heydricus says.  “The hag will keep her word, but we still cannot raise the boy ourselves without his corpse.” 

“Dabus, you will watch the children,” Prisantha says.  “Leave the Lord to us.  Heydricus, we got into this mess, let’s settle this the way we started it.  You and I.”

-----

Before they leave, Heydricus spies Urin running to and fro in the compound, gathering supplies and hastily checking through a scribbled inventory.

“Ywain!” Heydricus yells.  “What are you about?  Where is Thrommel?”

Urin casts his eyes to the ground, and mumbles a bit before explaining that Thrommel has already gone!  Urin was left behind to marshal supplies and was ordered to make double time until he caught up with the column.

“Thrommel set on the march before his supplies were set in order?” Heydricus asks, hardly daring to believe it.

“He said that freedom for Tenh could not wait, sir.  He seemed in a foul mood.”

“Was Crim with him?” 

“I don’t know.  The prince yelled at me, and left.  I have been so busy . . .”

But Heydricus is already gone.  He storms into the Liberator’s quarters and yells for Jespo, but receives no reply.

“Good.” Heydricus says to himself.  “Good.”


----------



## Zaruthustran

*Re: Chapter 45*



			
				(contact) said:
			
		

> *Wealsun 17, CY 593
> Once at the lord’s manor, they settle in and Dabus summons a heroes’ feast to feed the children—“the real breakfast of champions,” he assures them.  The children, suspicious at first, dig in and eat like they have never seen celestial food brought directly from the table of a god before.  *



*

Brilliant! (contact), you do know how to turn a phrase.

-z

ps: that bit with the hag was C R E E P Y creepy.*


----------



## incognito

If I was Prisantha:



> “What is your name?” Prisantha asks.
> 
> “You may call me Dispater,” the hag says with a laugh, as she slowly fades from view.




Dispatcher?  DISPATCHER?!?!  How about I just call you Sir, and no - I won't be demanding the soul just yet - why not take those 101 years...


----------



## Ancalagon

... isn't Dispater a Duke of Hell?...

eek

Ancalagon


----------



## dpdx

Okay, I'm confused on multiple fronts.

First, I thought that Jespo was the only one going with Thrommel. Which is why I said I was glad Thrommel didn't "bleed off the party members." I like Elijah and Dabus especially, and would hate to see them 'written out' of the plot, but maybe there's a metagame reason why this is happening.

Secondly, what was up with that room? The way understand it, the Pholtan priest was real, as were most of the children. However, some of the children were monsters in another form, and that hag turned out to be the "nursemaid." The priest, however, did not know that the nursemaid and some of the children were evil, right? What am I missing?


----------



## Barastrondo

dpdx said:
			
		

> *Okay, I'm confused on multiple fronts.
> 
> First, I thought that Jespo was the only one going with Thrommel. Which is why I said I was glad Thrommel didn't "bleed off the party members." I like Elijah and Dabus especially, and would hate to see them 'written out' of the plot, but maybe there's a metagame reason why this is happening.*




Here's the way I see it: 

Elijah, C'min and Elenthal are going to Nevond Nevnend, remember? They're not going with Thrommel, of course; they're trying to get there before him, so he doesn't get killed by wandering too close to the walls too soon. (contact) isn't trying to write them out, just shift them into a different group for a while, like the giant-hunting. At least he _better_ not be trying to write out Elijah... grrr.

I dunno about Dabus, though. I think (contact) is getting his drow ranger and his human cleric of Tritherion confused again. 



> *Secondly, what was up with that room? The way understand it, the Pholtan priest was real, as were most of the children. However, some of the children were monsters in another form, and that hag turned out to be the "nursemaid." The priest, however, did not know that the nursemaid and some of the children were evil, right? What am I missing? *




I'm thinking the Pholtan didn't really know he had a hag and barghests in his little orphanage. Pity he's not in much of a state to confirm or deny his ignorance at the moment.

Man, I love Heydricus' new spear decorations. I can't wait until it comes time to try adding another one; the Boneheart is a great group of adversaries There's just really nothing like having a group of villains of singular power and known, finite numbers to say "checklist of people who need killing." It really gets everyone involved, you know? My players are always so happy when they get to strike off another name...

...and so alarmed when they find out that one of those names isn't as crossed out as they thought it was...


----------



## (contact)

Barbrawlastrondo strikes again!  Right on all counts.

Dabus stays with Heydricus, while Elijah Elenthal and C'min will take down Nevond Nevnend behind the back of the erstwhile Prince of Furyondy.


----------



## dpdx

Thanks, folks. I feel like I'm cheating myself when I don't get every little thing out of this Story Hour.


----------



## ThoughtBubble

Thanks for this latest dose of inspiration!
I love this stuff. Time to go back and re-read this thing though, I get the feeling there's a lot I'm missing.


----------



## Rackhir

How did Horacio used to do this?

Ah, yes that's it.

*bump*


----------



## incognito

I second Rackir's emotion.

Buuuuuuuump!


----------



## Urbanmech

Off to the first page you go!

Bump!


----------



## Rackhir

(contact) I'm very disapointed with you. I had to dig this up from the third page, AFTER switching to 30 days or less. Not to even mention that it's been more than a month since your last real post...

For Shame! For Shame!

Besides we're all eagerly waiting to find out how Thrommel manages to get himself killed sacking that preschool.


----------



## (contact)

Prince Thrommel charges forward, just as Jespo's _endurance_ spell takes effect.

"We will hold that sandbox by nightfall, else the sands of this fell hatchery will be stained with our blood!"


----------



## incognito

"Alas, poor Thrommel - I knew him Jespo
...ok, where's the broom to sweep up the remains?"

...The _Heydricus_ Chronicles (self written) , on the sacking of Greater Bonehart Nursery


----------



## (contact)

The Way Things Work in Wonderville:

14HD advanced dire feindish two-year-olds.


----------



## Barastrondo

(contact) said:
			
		

> *The Way Things Work in Wonderville:
> 
> 14HD advanced dire feindish two-year-olds. *




Are there other sorts of two-year-olds?

(Ahem. Excepting Helene, of course. If she's two, that is.)


----------



## incognito

Yeah!  Helene clearly has a much higher charisma than your _average_ 14HD Dire fiend.

I guess, (contact), old boy, that our LoTs are taking a long winter's nap?


----------



## (contact)

No, I have been very lame about updating.  It's been a busy month . . .


----------



## (contact)

*Wealsun 18, CY 593
46:  Sunshine and Brunch in a Den of Iniquity*


As Heydricus helps Urin load the supply-wagons, Prisantha returns to her quarters to rest.  After a brief sleep, she studies her spellbooks and _teleports_ herself and Heydricus back to Maskaleyne’s former manor in Stoink.  As it is already midday there, they decide to walk to the Lord’s stronghold and confront him directly.  The sun is shining, and the air smells of warm Summer growth and human waste.  The city’s bustling sounds can be heard from every direction.  For the first time since they began their adventuring partnership, Heydricus and Prisantha are completely alone.

“I never knew you were so fond of children,” Pris says.  “Do you plan to have some of your own?”

“Of course, I love kids,” Heydricus replies cheerily.

“I would think it would be hard to rule with children underfoot,” she says.

Heydricus seems shocked.  “How could you rule _without_ a family?  Family makes a man complete.”

“How many do you hope to have?” she asks tentatively.

“Oh, I don’t know, ten or so I suppose.” 

“Gods above!” Pris exclaims.

Heydricus laughs.  “I suspect their mother will share the same reaction.”

“I see.  Do you have someone in mind?”

“Well, I’m in no hurry Pris.  My life is pretty much blood and gore and death all the time—that’s no life for little kids.  Once I stop killing things willy-nilly maybe I’ll settle down.  No time soon, of course.  I figure I’ve got another 10-15 years of killing in me.”

Prisantha pauses, taking in the sunshine, and listening to the distant sound of breaking glass.  “I plan to do some settling down, myself.”

“But not for a couple of years, right?”

“I’m not going to abandon our mission, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s good to hear.  You’re my right hand, Pris.”

They round a corner, and enter an open public square.  Old people sit in the sun, napping or telling stories, while other folk come and go as their business leads them.  There is no sign of the recent war, or the vicious gang-fighting that followed it, save for the unusual number of crippled and maimed people amongst the populace.  As they walk out from the shadows into the center of the square, a small group of children flee from a doorway at top speed, casting caltrops behind them.  The area smells strongly of urine and horses, and the heroes have the sense they are being watched.  

Prisantha looks around, “Ah, Stoink,” she says.  “How long has it been since we first came here?

“A little under a year,” Heydricus says.

“Why, then we’ve only known each other . . .” 

“Two years, I suppose.”

“It seems longer,” she says as she bats her eyes.

“Well, Pris,” Heydricus begins, “when you kill as many things as we do . . .”

After a moment, the conversation turns to gossip, and political affairs in Chendl.  Belvor’s tenuous position is discussed, along with his inability to reconcile with the Southern Lords.  The Baron Butrain’s name arises, as does that of Gwendolyn.

“Gwendolyn?”  Heydricus says.  “I don’t know about her.  She seems like the sort of lady who’d . . .” Heydricus shudders.  “Well, nevermind Gwendolyn.”

“And what about the Duchess?” Pris asks through a thin-lipped smile.  “What sort of lady is _she_?”

Heydricus looks confused.  “Why, she’s the sort of lady you . . .” 

“That’s enough!” Prisantha snaps.  “I don’t want the sordid details!”

“Really Pris,” Heydricus sighs.  “I’m not such a lout as to divulge events!”

“That’s not what I heard,” Pris mutters.

“Where’d you hear that, Crim?”  Heydricus demands.  “That no good . . .”

Pris sniffs and turns her head.  “The whole town is on about it.”

“Ridiculous,” Heydricus scoffs.  “I pride myself as a man of _discretion_.”  After a moment, he continues.  “This is the sort of unfounded gossip that happens in the absence of a good war.”

“Well,” Prisantha softens, “I suppose people like to talk.”

“Of course they do,” Heydricus says.  “Very few people have lives as interesting as ours, and so they take note of our doings.  It is a natural curiosity.”

“I suppose,” Pris says.  “Still, it’s funny how they take much more note of what _you_ do.”

“Well, I’m taller,” Heydricus states.  “It’s hard to spot you in a crowd.”

“It is?” Pris asks.  “Perhaps I should wear heels.  I’ll ask the Viscountess.”

“Who?”

“Ah, I cannot say.”

“Prisantha.”

“I will not say.”

“Come now, Pris—how many heads have I split, and you scrambled together?”

“The Viscountess Trill,” Prisantha says.  “She’s a fashion expert.”

“Really?  Wow.  That’s great, I didn’t know they had experts in such things.  Could she help me out?”  Heydricus glances over his shoulders at the hems of his stained and frayed traveling cloak.  “I could stand to up the fashion, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps I’ll take you with me, but you can’t say anything.  I mean it, Heydricus.”

“Didn’t we just establish that I am a Man of Great Discretion? My lips are sealed.”

------

The half orc slams shut the slot in the door with a muttered curse.  Apparently, the Lord of Stoink does not accept uninvited guests.  Heydricus narrows his eyes, and pounds on the door.  After a moment, the slot ratchets open and the familiar yellow eyes squint out.  

“What’d I just tell you,” the half-orc growls.  “You deaf?  Beat it!”  And for good measure, he repeats the phrase in goblinoid and elvish.

“Just tell the Lord we are here to see him about Talnith,” Prisantha says sweetly.

After a few moments, the Lord of Stoink’s half-elven lieutenant arrives, a toothy grin plastered on his face.  “Prisantha!  Heydricus!  It’s so good to see you, come in!  I hope you haven’t eaten—I’ve taken the liberty to have a table set.  Please, follow me.”

The lieutenant leads the party past the sour-smelling half-orc doorman, and through the entryway with the lowered lintel, forcing all three of them to duck before the gleaming statue of the Lord of Stoink.  They follow a maze of passages that twist and turn on themselves within the hideout, and just when Prisantha and Heydricus are sure they must have traveled deep underground, they emerge in a sunny open-air yard, surrounded on all four sides by a gaily-decorated stone wall.  A large table is covered with a crisp white cloth, and several over-stuffed chairs are set around the table.  Bottles of wine are opened and breathing, along with fresh-baked bread and a platter of imported cheeses and fruit.

“Unfortunately, the Lord is away on business, I hope that’s not too much of an inconvenience,” the half-elf says through his unflinching grin.  “Please, have a seat.  Let me recommend the Rakers Mount sharp, it is a rare consignment.”  The half-elf pours a glass of wine for each of his guests.  “This will excite the palate when taken with any of the white cheeses.”  He sips his own wine, closes his eyes slightly, then sits down, casting his arms regally across the back of his chair.  “I trust you are here to discuss our offer?  Of course you are.  As chief architect of the plan, I can . . .”

“No,” Heydricus says.  “Stop talking.”

“Er,” the lieutenant says, not sure if he should acknowledge the order verbally.

“We’re here about the Talnith heir,” Prisantha says.  “And we mean business.”

The lieutenant’s grin slowly returns, as if through some unseen fog.

“We would like to see the body of the heir,” Prisantha says.

“Ah.  Please accept my apologies, that is impossible.  However, if you’re concerned about security, allow me to assure you that our double-blind disposal method is state-of-the-art.”

“No,” Heydricus says.  “Take us to the body.”

“Unfortunately, as much as I would love to accommodate your request, I cannot.  You see, I do not know where the body is located.”

“Then take us to who does.”

“Alas, though it pains me greatly to say so, I’m afraid I cannot.  You see, we employ a _double-blind method_.”

Prisantha leans forward.  “Are you telling me that no one knows where the body is?”

“Yes.  That is what I’m telling you,” the half-elf says, beaming.  “The body is safe.”

“Okay, we’ve got a problem, and that means you’ve got a problem,” Heydricus says.  “We know what you’ve been up to, selling souls and dealing with the Hag, and it doesn’t sit well with us.  We’re taking the kid back to his parents, and we’re fixing this mess you’ve created.”

The half-elf nods thoughtfully, smiling all the while.  “I’d like to take this opportunity to say that I admire your dedication to your principles, and think that your hearts are certainly in the right place.  However, may I suggest that you may not have thought this issue through.  As things stand, the Talnith family has no target for their vengeance, and we have taken great pains not to give them one.  It seems a shame for our organizations to work at cross purposes.  Indeed, one might suggest that time spent on the Talnith heir is time that cannot be spent seeing to the liberation of the Tenha.  So I implore you, think of the Tehna . . . _think of the children_.”

“You’re no help at all, are you?” Heydricus asks.

“No, I am not,” the half elf says with an exaggerated sigh.  “I can offer you no assistance in this affair save for my most sincere advice:  Let this matter alone.  And do try the Cambion makers-mark port before you go.  It’s exquisite.  In fact, take the bottle with you.  Compliments of the City of Stoink.”


----------



## zoroaster100

*Yea, Liberators!*

Yea! The Liberators are back!  I hope we get to see them reshape the political power structure of Stoink with the same subtle diplomacy with which they reshaped the political structure of the Temple of Elemental Evil or the mines at Curruth.


----------



## Alomir

Hurray, more, more!

I love this stuff.  Nothing like a good 'when in doubt, smack it until it stops moving' kinda story to clear the mind...


----------



## incognito

"Hi, my names Prisantha, and I'm blatantly obvious in my affection for Heydricus-the-lackwit.  If his brain was 1/4 as big as his...um..._apparatus,_  we'd have 1/2 of those kids he's been running off at the mouth about!"

"Hi, my name's Heydricus, and...Damn that Duchess has a nice ass!"


----------



## Barastrondo

Oh, I think Heydricus is cannier than you give him credit for, incognito. 

"First of all, I admit that I am more sensitive and nurturing than I might seem, to garner interest in a long-term relationship.

"Then, however, I state 'no hurry' — in order to emphasize that I am not the smothering sort.

"Then, of course, I insist that Prisantha be in no hurry herself, to encourage her to hang around and wait for me a bit more. 

"And, of course, I insist that I tag along with her fashion consultation, just to make sure that she isn't making herself look nice for anyone else. Because that would have to be nipped in the bud. Because... um... of things that I might not be entirely willing to admit out loud." 

Now, if you ask me, I say a line like "Family makes a man complete" just entirely reeks of something a guy would say to a girl to emphasize the deeper emotions he's capable of. Hell, if Heydricus is really as shallow as, well, he seems to be, he'd say something like that only _as_ a pick-up line.  It certainly strikes me as something a bit too... loaded for him to just drop into casual conversation as innocently as he pretends. 

Heh heh. Much kudos to the players for things like this. Being able to engineer a conversation like this one, carefully having their characters engage in another round of romantic subplot without advancing the subplot too quickly (because who wants to see an early resolution? Bo-ring!) — that's good stuff. I applaud their creativity, and especially their restraint.


----------



## blargney

The Liberators of Tenh:  Butt-kicking, for moral ambiguity!
-blarg


----------



## (contact)

*Wealsun 18, CY 593

47:  People talk, and talk, and no one dies—My God, is this statescraft?*

Heydricus bumps the half-orc roughly on his way out of the Lord’s hideout, knocking the guard into the wall. “Fine, they don’t want to help us, f--k ‘em.  We’ll just get the kid on our own.”

Prisantha sighs as she leaves the Lord’s Hideout, her brows furrowing.  “That was entirely pointless.  Why did we even bother coming here?  And was it necessary to just blurt out our true intentions all at once?  Could you not have applied some tact to your tactics for a change?”

Heydricus scoffs.  “Please – it’s not like these guys are the Boneheart.  They’re a two bit backwater thieves guild.  I’ll set Elijah on them and they’ll be feeding worms within a week.  Who cares what they know?”

“It’s not always about who can kill whom, Heydricus.  Sometimes its about doing things in a methodical way, step by step.  Perhaps you’re familiar with the word; _strategy_.”

“Yeah, strategy.  I’ve got one.  Kill all the Stonefisters, then kill all the Iuzians.  Strategy.”

-----

Prisantha’s _teleport_ spell deposits the two directly in front of the _Gilded Swan Boutique and Curiosity Shoppe_, but even though the sun is still shining, the storefront is boarded up.  There is an pungent smell in the air, altogether more Fall than Summer,  and as they look around, they notice smoke rising over the rooftops to the South.  More disturbing, the streets are empty, save for a quarter-column of light cavalry riding toward them at a canter.

“You there!” The Sergeant-at-Arms shouts from the back of his war-horse.  “Back to your homes, at once!”

As the riders draw close to the adventurers, Heydricus pulls back his cloak, revealing the pin that marks him as a Knight of Veluna.  “Perhaps you could tell me what is going on here, Sergeant.”

The Sergeant reins his horse, and nods his head briefly before motioning his men to stand clear.  He dismounts from his horse and sketches a quick bow, muttering “Milord,” then sweeps his hand to the South.

“Didn’t you know?  Curfew.  The riots.  We’ve put the city on curfew, and cleared the streets.  It’s all rabble, mind, and we’ll have ‘em back to work or beggin’ or whatever they do by nightfall.”

“Riots!” Prisantha says.  “Whatever do they have to riot _for_?”

“They’re hungry, mostly missus,” the Sergeant growls.  “Mind, my copper says we’ll find agitation from our no-good Southern betters at the root of it.”

“You suspect Butrain?”  Heydricus asks.

“Well, I ain’t the statesman my father was, but that rascal has done everything short of start a riot already, so what’s stoppin’ him?  Don’t answer, I’ll tell you.  Loyal Furyondians, that’s who.  I’ve got good Velunan steel at my waist, thankee for it, and we’ll answer should it come to that.  We’re ready here, sir and loyal to our rightful King.”

“Well done, Sergeant,” Heydricus says.  “Carry on.”

-----

“Do you really imagine it’s Butrain?” Pris says.

“I wouldn’t put this past him,” Heydricus says through tight lips.

“Still, he has been unjustly accused before, as we proved.  And he believes he has a legitimate claim to the throne anyway, so how would civil unrest serve him?”

Pris and Heydricus walk through the empty streets to the grand temple of Tritherion, and when they arrive, Heydricus asks the guards in the courtyard where they can find Halrond.  They are led to an antechamber, where they find the high priest in conference with several adjutants.  Halrond dismisses his men and embraces Heydricus.

“Our Liberator returns.  What news from Tenh?”

“Well, there’s less Iuzians than there were last week, if that’s what you mean,” Heydricus says with a  smile.  “We’re killing the s--t out of them.”

“And the ore?  My people tell me they’ve received no shipments form Cur’ruth.  Is there a problem I should know about?”  Halrond moves back behind his planning table, and removes a pair of maps, keeping an eye on the ox-like sorcerer.

Heydricus’ smile wavers.  “No, no problem, we’ve just been busy with other things.  We’ve put down another cell in the Northern mountains—they were digging up some sort of artifact.”

“Well that’s just fine, Heydricus.  Just fine.  But you’re a leader now, and you need to see the larger picture.  Our war effort is counting on that ore.  I’ve got my people at the ready, and all I need is you.  So are you going to hitch up and pull with the team?”

“Well, I . . .”

“Damnit, Heydricus.  There’s more to this thing than just hacking a few Iuzians to bits!  _We’re trying to hack ‘em all_.  One sword won’t kill as many of those sons of bitches as a thousand swords will.”

Heydricus raises one hand, as if to interject, but Halrond continues.  “Now, I’ve got someone for you to take back to Tenh.  She’s a slight little thing, but she’s got a lion’s heart, and she’ll get you organized.”

“Actually,” Heydricus says.  

Halrond continues.  “Whatever’s going on down there, you’re going to fix it, and I’m sending her along to light a fire under you.”  Halrond pounds on the door behind him, and as it opens tells the rosy-cheeked and eager face that appears to “fetch Mialec.”

“And in exchange, we hope a little of your fire rubs off on her.  I’ve never known any man with a bigger hard on to . . . excuse me, Pris.  With a greater desire to kill Iuzians.  And that’s no light thing to say, Heydricus, because I’ve been in this fight since you were crapping on your mother’s lap.”

“Thank you, but . . .” Heydricus says.  

“But you kill more in the long run if you apply your resources.  I mean to have that ore.  You liberated it, now let’s put it to work.”

“You know . . .” Heydricus says.

“Here she is!” Halrond says.  “Mialec, this is Heydricus Tritherionson, our Holy Liberator.”

Mialec prances into the room, youthful exuberance and excitement plain on her flushed, softly contoured face.  She is tall and bears a suggestion of elven blood in her frame and feature.  Her long red hair is oiled and plated, tucked away from her face in a neat bundle, hanging past her shoulders in a series of cloth-bound strips.  She wears the garb of the Tritherion lay-clergy, and bears the scribe’s cloak-pin.  She approaches Heydricus with an openly admiring expression.

“The Holy Liberator,” she says with a throaty voice.  “This is _such_ an honor, sir.”

“Please, call me Heydricus,” the burly sorcerer says as he takes her hand delicately in his own calloused and scarred paw.

“And I am Prisantha,” Pris interjects, removing Mialec’s hand from Heydricus’ and giving it a firm shake.  “What are your qualifications?”

“She’s smart as a whip, for one,” Halrond says, “and a trained scribe.  She’s a born administrator.  She can organize a supply force like nobody’s business, and I’ve trained her personally.  That enough for you?  It’s a done deal, Heydricus, you’re taking her with you.”

Prisantha ignores Halrond, and stares into Mialec’s eyes.  For all that only a year or two separate them, Pris seems many years the senior, and Mialec flinches under her gaze.  “I’m not sure you understand, dear.  You are traveling to Tenh, not Veluna.  It is an adventurer’s life we lead.  Are you prepared for any hardship?”

Mialec straightens, and says, “The harder the better.”

Prisantha rolls her eyes.  “You won’t fit in.”

“I’m willing to do anything.  _Anything_,” Mialec says.

“Works for me!” Heydricus chirps.  He tugs on Prisantha’s sleeve, drawing her eyes away from Mialec.  “Let’s get out of here, Pris,” he says.

-----

Prisantha _teleports_ the trio within sight of gates of Cur’ruth, just outside of Dabus’ _dimensional anchor_. The air is warm and dry, the sky clear.  A strong wind whistles across the scrub plain surrounding the bluff, and as they fully solidify, their clothes are taken on the breeze.  Heydricus faces Mialec, and fixes her with a stern gaze, his demeanor suddenly deadly serious.  

“Answer me this, lady,” he says.  “Are you loyal to Belvor?  Are you loyal to your King?”

“I am, sir.  Oh, I _am_.” Mialec breathes.

“When you woke up this morning, you woke up Halrond’s creature.  You lived in his temple and did his bidding.  But tonight, you will sleep in my camp, and thus marks the end of your service to Halrond.  What you see here stays here, and you must keep all of our secrets.  Can I trust you to do this?”

“Of course!  You can trust me with _anything_.”

“Do I understand that your loyalty will be to Tritherion, to myself and to Furyondy, in that order?”

“Well, you are the Holy Liberator,” Mialec says.

“Does that mean I can trust you to keep your word?”

“I am a woman of Honor and Distinction, sir.”

“Very well,” Heydricus says, and begins to march toward the fortress capping the mines.  “I should tell you, you are going to find many surprises here.  Not the least of which is this:  Thrommel lives.”

“Oh.  Oh, my,” Mialec croaks.  Prisantha chuckles to herself.

“You must not tell anyone, especially Halrond.  Now, where should you quarter . . .”  Heydricus looks sidelong at Prisantha.

Pris’ eyes flash.  “Don’t even think about it!  I am a wizardess, and I need my own room!”  Pris says, then under her breath, “Let her sleep with the Tenha.  Or give her Jespo’s room while he’s gone.”

“We’ll quarter her in C’min and Elijah’s room for now.  When they return, we’ll figure something else out,” Heydricus says.

-----

Grudgingly, Heydricus descends into the mines, to confront the stubborn Aiman about the ore.  He is informed that the Tenha have not been mining—after all, they are free men now.  Instead, the entire Tenha population has taken to visiting the Celestial emotes—allowing the beacons of Charity, Faith, Hope, Dedication and Rapture to descend on them and elevate their thoughts to lofty heights.  Heydricus is led back to the emotes’ cave, and he observes that their numbers have grown.  The Aiman tells Heydricus that the emotes have much to teach, and his people are eager to learn.  

Interestingly, the presence of the Celestials has seemed to encourage the riotous growth of the native underdark fauna, and the Tenha have discovered the joys of laborless sustenance farming.

“Great, Halrond’s going to be super-pissed now,” Heyrdicus mutters to himself as he contemplates the birth of a new charismatic cult, in the dungeons beneath his home.


----------



## Joshua Randall

See?! *See?!* This is what happens when the players ignore a plot hook. You've gotta nip these things in the bud, I always say.

Darn PCs. Figure the DM just made up all that detail about the emotes for sh*ts and giggles? HAH!


----------



## zoroaster100

*return of the emotes*

I was wondering what happened to the emotes.  I hope we get to find out why they are there.


----------



## (contact)

What happens to a plot hook deferred?

Does it dry up 
like a severed head in the sun? 
Or fester like a sore-- 
And then run? 
Does it stink like rotten meat? 
Or crust and sugar over-- 
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags 
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?


--with apologies to Langston Hughes.


----------



## Morte

*starts to get withdrawal symptoms and make a noise like Meepo going though a mangle*


----------



## (contact)

Sorry, I can't update because the LoT has fallen down the campaign priority list, I'm afraid.  Our group is playing 3 other games including the LoT, and they've all been getting more play recently.  Us second-rate DMs have to get used to this phenomena, I'm told.

In the mean time, go read the Risen Goddess.  *That* one I can update regularly.


----------



## (contact)

*For Morte*

*Wealsun 19, CY 593
48:  Dragon Hunting Tip #32:  Look Vulnerable.*


“These mines are corrupted,” Heydricus announces, startling Prisantha from her studies.

“Nonsense,” Prisantha says.

“Corrupted by Good, but corrupted nonetheless.”  Heydricus leans within the door frame, cleaning night-hag blood out of his greaves with a slender fighting-knife.  “Isn’t Industry a Virtue any more?  The Tenha have decided that they intend to use their freedom to stare slack-jawed into the lights of the emotes.”

“And if they do?” Prisantha asks.  “Halrond will wait.  I am composing a letter to him, and I expect that I shall convince him of the soundness of our approach.  He means well, but he thinks too highly of his own position.”  Prisantha closes the book she was reading, and sets her writing papers upon it.  

Heydricus looks up from his work, a glimmer in his eye.  “Well, hell, Pris, write me a speech for the Tenha—give me something that can convince the lazy bastards to get to work.”

-----

Prisantha does, and he does, and for a shining moment, the Tenha do as well.  The speech is a thing of sublime beauty—its arguments speak to both the head and the heart with equal skill; clever turns of phrase accentuate the critical segments and play to the great Flannae themes of Ancient Tenh.  Heydricus is born for this sort of presentation, his inborn magnetism and enthusiasm give vibrant life to Prisantha’s words.  

The Tenha cheer, some even scream, and afterward all agree that they are in the best of hands with Heydricus Tritherion.  No doubt he will get his wish someday, and they will be citizens of a united Tenh.  A few even agree to go back to work in the mines, seeing as how it isn’t really slavery if you don’t _have_ to do it.

Afterwards, Prisantha takes Heydricus’ hands in hers as he steps down from the podium.  “Heydricus, you were wonderful, simply grand.”  She is radiant, smiling from ear to ear.

“Hey thanks, Pris,” he says.  “Mialec worked with me all night on my delivery.”

------

“The ore wasn’t getting through when the Iuzians held the mines either,” Dabus says at the Liberator’s habitual morning meeting.  “The Aiman tells me that they were worried about a dragon raiding their commerce trails.  A big red, he thinks, and none of the wicked priests wanted to risk his neck tangling with it.”

“Just like an Iuzian,” Heydricus says.  “Got a problem?  Don’t try to fix it, just figure out how to blame the other guy.”  The sorcerer rolls his eyes and drinks his morning tea, double-strong.

“You’re drinking more tea than usual,” Prisantha says.

“No I’m not,” Heydricus replies.

“Tritherion teaches us that each man is responsible for finding solutions to his own dilemmas,” Dabus says.

Heydricus thinks for a moment, then slowly nods, as he comes to a decision.  “Hell, those Iuzians produced for months without a shipment.  We’ve got enough ore backed up to let us resume delivery while we get the mines back up again,” Heydricus says to himself.  He looks across the table at Prisantha and Dabus.  “Let’s go dragon hunting.”

-----

Heydricus hand-picks a crew of twenty men, a work detail for the ore-cart and a reasonable-seeming armed guard.  Heydricus, Dabus and Prisantha will guide the ore-cart to Stoink, directly through the patch of road where they had noticed the dragon’s attacks upon their first arrival in Tenh.  The men are given instructions to flee at the first sign of trouble.  

A cart is loaded with ore, and tethered to a pair of stout oxen.  Even when the belligerent beasts can be prodded into motion, the cart is painfully slow, and the retinue moves down the rough cart-track at a snail’s pace.  

As they walk along, Prisantha comments on Heydricus’ appearance.  “You look like you haven’t been sleeping,” she says with a motherly tone.  “Is something concerning you?”

“Naw, it’s Mialec,” Heydricus says.  “She keeps me up all night.  She can really go.”

Prisantha sputters.  “Well, I . . . _well_.  That little slip of a girl?  I don’t want to hear that!”

“Working!” Heydricus says.  “She’s a taskmistress and a cruel one!  She’s always got this or that plan to approve, or questions about our operations.  I don’t think that she sleeps at all.”

“She is devoted to our deity,” Dabus says.  “And the righteous fire of Tritherion sustains her.  Myself, I sleep only enough for the sake of my spells.  I must say, I am pleased at the direction our band is taking of late, Heydricus.  The faithful are rallying to the Liberator, as they should.”

Prisantha recovers from her blushing fit, and changes the subject.  “I’ve never fought a dragon, though I have read much about them.  All the lore-keepers agree that they’re terribly fierce.”

“Dragons are bad,” Heydricus agrees.  “I fought one in the Temple, before you came along.  A little black ball of terror—it killed Aelniir, and Esril . . . and that one guy.  The gnome lived, but I don’t think he ever got that dragon out of his head.  You know, I just realized—_this_ dragon is the one that made Gnomer go mad.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Prisantha says.

“That was all before my time,” Dabus says.  “But where there is terror, there is mental slavery and Tritherion abhors those who bring it about.”

They walk for all of the day, setting camp at night with the guards placed strategically apart from one another.  Both moons are thin, lightless slivers on the horizon, and low-light vision is of little use.  Prisantha grants Heydricus’ hawk a _darkvision_ spell, reasoning that some eyes in the air are better than none.  

Heydricus instructs the men to sleep no closer than ten feet from their nearest companion, and Dabus keeps a lit _lantern of revealing_ covered, but at hand.  Prisantha discovers that the expensive fuzzy case for her _crystal ball of true seeing_ makes a fine pillow.

The second and third days pass much like the first, and at the end of the fourth day, the party has walked across Central Tenh, unmolested but not unnoticed.  On the second day, Heydricus’ hawk reported that it spied wings on the horizon—a dragon, surely, but it could not make out the color.  The group took immediate evasive action, but the dragon came no closer.  Later, they spied it again, but this time from the opposite direction.  This game of cat-and-mouse kept up for the duration of the trip, adding to the already substantial tension among the men.

“Remember,” Heydricus tells them for the hundredth time.  “If you see the dragon, you run like hell.”

“Beggin’ your pardons, sir, I don’t like to play the craven,” one of the guards complains.

“You are no coward, but you are a soldier,” Heydricus replies, “and you have your orders.”

-----	

Heydricus finds that he is getting no better sleep dragon-hunting than he does with Mialec pestering him, and he is lying awake in the dark.  He listens to the wind rattle the spear-head cones of the local scrub-trees, and tries to place his current position relative to where he first came across the blasted caravan.  

The wind rises, and rattles the trees, then dies again into a soft, velvety silence.  Suddenly, a lone tree rattles, and Heydricus’ eyes snap open.  He leaps to his feet, and sees a massive silhouette cut over the top of a near ridge and scream down upon him!  The dragon has a wing-span equal to the width of the entire camp—a massive beast knifing through the air, black against black in the warm Tenh night.

“Dragon!” he yells, as he fumbles for the components for his _protection from fire_ spell.

The inky wyrm arcs low to the ground and rears up just over the ore-cart, provoking startled braying from the oxen.  Its wings kick up a stinging cloud of dust as it beats them against its own momentum, then it crashes onto the cart, destroying the wooden axle with an ear-splitting crack and crushing the cart to the ground.  The dragon _howls_—a lingering, booming cry that rises in pitch and volume as it goes on and on.  The creature’s tail lashes out pensively with a whip-crack and narrowly misses Heydricus’ head.

Heydricus reacts, ducking the blow, but in his haste he miscasts his _shield_ spell.  As the soldiers rise to their feet and scatter into the dark, the dragon’s eyes light up from within and flicker from side to side following the movement.  Suddenly, its mournful cry is repeated from some distance away.  Then there is a second answering cry, and a third, and another, then another and another.

Even the laziest of sorcerers can count to six.  “Gods be good,” Heydricus stammers as he levels his spear.


----------



## Morte

*Re: For Morte*

*Meepo happy now*



> “Hey thanks, Pris,” he says.  “Mialec worked with me all night on my delivery.”




That man deserves, oh, at least itching powder in his socks.



> “Naw, it’s Mialec,” Heydricus says.  “She keeps me up all night.  She can really go.”




Or maybe his codpiece.



> The dragon _howls_—a lingering, booming cry that rises in pitch and volume as it goes on and on.  The creature’s tail lashes out pensively with a whip-crack and narrowly misses Heydricus’ head. (....) Even the laziest of sorcerers can count to six.




Howls? Whiplash tail? Six?

Wyverns. They better be wyverns.

Thanks, (contact). Now all I need for true happiness is the return of Fras the celestial cat and her pet conjurer, the decidedly non-celestial Jespo Crim. But this'll do to be going on with.

Six wyverns. Ouch.


----------



## KidCthulhu

*Re: For Morte*



			
				(contact) said:
			
		

> *The sorcerer rolls his eyes and drinks his morning tea, double-strong.
> 
> “You’re drinking more tea than usual,” Prisantha says.
> 
> “No I’m not,” Heydricus replies.
> *




Tom never drinks two cups at home...


----------



## Rackhir

> Even the laziest of sorcerers can count to six. “Gods be good,” Heydricus stammers as he levels his spear.




Diplomacy, is it too late for Diplomacy? Wonder if this will break Heydricus's not dying streak. Three char vs 6 wyverns isn't great odds, especially since none of them are melee specialists.

Great to get some liberators again. (contact)!


----------



## blargney

This should be good! 

*grabs his bag of popcorn*

-blarg

ps - The best part about this story hour is that I'm just as happy to see the heroes^H^H^H^H^H^H protagonists get smacked around as their enemies!


----------



## (contact)

> Morte brooks no disobedience with his tone:
> *Howls? Whiplash tail? Six?
> 
> Wyverns. They better be wyverns.
> *




Sorry to dissapoint you sir, but these critters aren't wyverns--there is no peircing stinger at the end of the tail.  The tail slap is the dragon's usual tail attack, in this case for 2d6+13, made lazily as it waited for Heydricus to flee.  Once Dabus gets that lantern going, we'll see that they are all red dragons. 

You should have seen the look on Heydricus' player's face.  Heh, heh.  



> Kid Cthulhu uttered the unspeakable Elder Words:
> *Tom never drinks two cups at home...*




 

Tom needs to take his narrow behind back home, and deal with that sad perm.  



> Rackhir sagely opined:
> *Three char vs 6 wyverns isn't great odds, especially since none of them are melee specialists.*




But Heydricus and Dabus *are* melee specialists!  They just need a couple rounds to get goin'.  



> Blargney made his sociopath face and said:
> *ps - The best part about this story hour is that I'm just as happy to see the heroes^H^H^H^H^H^H protagonists get smacked around as their enemies!*




I'll see what I can do for you, Blarg.


----------



## Capellan

*Re: For Morte*



			
				(contact) said:
			
		

> *Even the laziest of sorcerers can count to six.  “Gods be good,” Heydricus stammers as he levels his spear. *




Most saisfying to see the LoT get a nasty surprise.  They've been far too cocky of late (no, not in _that_ way .... jeez, some people ...)

They'll get out of it, I'm sure, but maybe some of those inflated egos will have had a bit of air taken out of 'em


----------



## Joshua Randall

Rackhir said:
			
		

> Wonder if this will break Heydricus's not dying streak.



Technically, it's already broken. Heydricus already bit it in the Temple of Inexplicable Evil... I mean, the Temple of Elemental Evil. But he was immediately _raised_ via scroll.

(Yes, I am accursed with a tremendous memory for irrelevant details. I can remember stuff like how many times Heydricus has died, but I'll be damned if I know my mother-in-law's birthday.)


----------



## Piratecat

SIX red dragons?  Oh, be still my heart. I'm taking notes.

KidCthulhu says it sounds like the end of the D&D movie, only without all the suck. Of course, that would imply that she's seen the D&D movie, which she vociferously denies.


----------



## Morte

(contact) said:
			
		

> *Sorry to dissapoint you sir, but these critters aren't wyverns*




Tee-hee. Oh, I wouldn't describe myself as "disappointed".

*rubs hands*


----------



## JacktheRabbit

Piratecat said:
			
		

> *SIX red dragons?  Oh, be still my heart. I'm taking notes.
> 
> KidCthulhu says it sounds like the end of the D&D movie, only without all the suck. Of course, that would imply that she's seen the D&D movie, which she vociferously denies. *




I am thinking 1 red dragon with 5 mirror images around it. Or something to that effect. There are just too many things that do not make sense.

1. Red Dragons never seem to get along this well. 6 of them working together seems unlikely.

2. Red Dragons raiding for Iron Ore? Sounds beneath their effort.


Another thought comes to mind. They could be 6 creatures polymorphed into Red Dragons. This would allow them all the physical attacks like the tail slap but you wouldnt see the breath weapon or spells. Odds are they hope that intimidation causes their foes to run quickly before the ruse is discovered.


----------



## Ancalagon

Very Clever Doc.

I used something like this in the past, 2nd ed and with three horses polymorphed into blue dragons.  Terrified the party, but they got suspicious then "only" one fireball killed one of them.  

I wish I could claim credit for it, but it was part of the module.

Ancalagon


----------



## Rackhir

Joshua Randall said:
			
		

> *Technically, it's already broken. Heydricus already bit it in the Temple of Inexplicable Evil... I mean, the Temple of Elemental Evil. But he was immediately raised via scroll.*




I was thinking more that he's gone the longest period of time without being killed, rather than never having been killed. I've read the original RTTOE stories. Nobody got out of that without being killed several times typically (then of course the Iuzians turned the deceased into Undead and they had to be killed yet again...)


----------



## Rackhir

[Bump]Well, last time the thread got bumped, (contact) posted an update maybe it will work again?[/Bump]


----------



## KidCthulhu

Please, Mr. Contact, sir.  If you send me a post, I'll be ever so good, and won't cally you a punk a** no-good layabout any more.  

Really.


----------



## Morte

I could do my "meepo in mangle" impressions again...


----------



## Piratecat

And she's calling you that, too! The air is _sizzling_ with invective. You better post, and make her stop!


----------



## (contact)

(Ducks an invective)

As you wish . . . (sniff)


----------



## (contact)

*Wealsun 22, CY 593
49:  Dragon Hunting Tip #33:  Find the dragon.*


Heydricus invokes a _protection from fire_ spell and yells, “Dragon!”

The beast cocks its scaly head, and regards Tritherion’s Liberator with one massive yellow eye.  It buries its claws in the ore and lashes at Heydricus again with its tail, glancing a blow across the sorcerer’s shoulder.

Prisantha and Dabus stumble to their feet as Heydricus botches a shield spell.  “F--k,” he curses to himself.  “Not now!”

Dabus rips the cover from his lit _lantern of revealing_ and invokes a destruction spell at the massive beast perched atop the ruined cart.  The Dragon howls its displeasure, but manages to resist the effect.

Prisantha, reflecting on the infamous Count Illuthian’s banned treatise, _Ten Dragons for Ten Virgins_, levels her hands and ivokes an abjuration.  The dragon rears back, regards her quizzically, and shudders, suddenly shrinking to a fraction of its size, transforming into a pony-sized dire wolf drooling from the corner of its maw with both paws buried in ore.  The wolf whines once, as Heydricus leaps on it, skewering the thing with his spear.

“Kick ass!” Heydricus shouts.  “Great job _polymorphing_, Pris!”  He twists his spear, and disembowels the wolf.

“Well, must we kill it forthwith?” Prisantha says.  “Shall we not talk with it first?”

Heydricus turns to the exasperated Enchantress, with a hurt expression.  “But Pris,” he says.  “We just killed a dragon!”

“No we didn’t.” She replies.

Heydricus pauses, looks back over his shoulder at the eviscerated wolf and says, “I’m pretty sure its dead, Pris.”

“Well, you would think so,” she says.  "You nearly split the thing in two."

“I agree with Heydricus,” Dabus says.  “I am no Arcanist, but I think it is dead.  Note the lower intestines.”

“Yes, it is dead,” Pris says, “but it is no dragon.  That was a _greater dispelling_, not a _polymorph_.”

Dabus rubs his chin, and casts a _true seeing_ spell.  “Tritherion give me Truth,” he mutters, and after a moment looks up with a shrug and says, “It is a wolf.”

Prisantha examines the wolf’s corpse and says, “Transmutation magic.  And look here, there is fungus in its paws.”

“So we didn’t kill a dragon?” Heydricus says, crestfallen.

“It were still a fine fight, sir,” the guard captain says.  “That dragon is lucky it weren’t one, I reckon, or it would have gotten worse.  But our cart, she’s destroyed.”

“The cart,” Dabus says.

“Underdark fungus, in fact,” Prisantha says in a louder tone.  “Where do you suppose it found that?”  

After recieving no reply from either Dabus, who is regarding the cart, or Heydricus, who is regarding the wolf, Prisantha beckons Heydricus’ hawk familiar to her arm, and grants it _darkvision_.  “Find the others,” she says.

The hawk takes to the treetops, and begins to scout the area.  After a moment, Heydricus looks up and says, “They’re coming—from the South!  Spread out!”  The guards flee from the wrecked cart, and the adventurers ready themselves.  After a moment, four more dragons, huge red beasts by the look of them, arc over the treetops and wing toward the group.

Dabus takes his cue from Prisantha, and _dispels_ one of the _polymorphed_ wolves, sending it crashing to the earth with a piteous yelp.

“Bring the real one!” Heydricus yells, as the remaining three dragons swoop onto the party.

Prisantha is attacked by two of the beasts, and their claws and vicious bites spray her blood across the battlefield and drop her to the ground, where she lies still.

“Oh great,” Heydricus says as he leaps on the third dragon.  “She had to go and die again.”  His spear wounds the creature, but dragon scales are tougher than wolf-fur after all, and the beast avoids the worst of it with a booming screech and snap of its jaws.  At the sound, all three dragons turn their attention to Heydricus, and move to surround him, growling with a deep bass rumble, their tails twitching.

Dabus raises his arms to the heavens and speaks a true name of Tritherion.  The _holy word_ reverberates through the air and in an instant, all three of the monsters are inflicted with a sudden paralytic seizure and curl tail to mouth, crashing heavily to the ground and forming a hedge of twitching red dragons surrounding Heydricus.

As Tritherion's Chosen begins to give the coup de grace to the paralyzed dragon-wolves, Dabus places his hands on Prisantha’s bloody form, and in an instant, she is Liberated from all pain and suffering, becoming completely whole.

A fourth dragon, creeping up unseen from the North, bares its teeth at this scene, and the spikes along its neck raise into the air.  Heydricus, alerted by the sound, turns and charges toward it, but is unable to reach the beast before it takes to the air and flies away.  Dabus’ _true seeing_ allows him to watch the dragon fly into the night, where it is joined by another and then both are gone over the horizon.

After a moment, Heydricus returns to the three paralyzed creatures and begins to kill them, watching as they return to their wolf-forms in death.  Prisantha resumes her inspection of the bodies, and announces that the beasts have had a _magic fang_ placed upon them.

“Cool,” Heydricus says, thinking of his hawk.  “Can you do that?”

“No,” Prisantha replies, “only a druid can enchant the teeth and claws of a beast.  If you studied your spellcraft more often, you would know.”

“Studying,” Heydricus says, as if she’d just suggested that he might have a fondness for chewing on other people’s bandages.  Heydricus forces his spear through the head of the last beast.  “Can’t interrogate a wolf,” he says to Prisantha with a self-confident air.

“We could have if it was _awakened_,” Prisantha sighs.

“Huh,” Heydricus says.  “I put it to sleep.  Hey, Dabus,”

“My lord?” 

“Have you ever fought a druid before?”


----------



## Rackhir

Hey this is great!!! Bumping it does work to get updates! (at least when accompanied by pleading and threats from Piratecat and KidCthulhu). 

Clever, clever. I wouldn't have guessed that they were all polymorphed animals. Heydricus should go read what Nwm does to an army in "The Rape of Morne" before he tackles a Druid on his home turf. Question is what does the druid want and why did he orchestrate the attack on their column?


----------



## Morte

Ooh fun. Druid. *claps hands*

[Ahem] Thank you, (contact), update much appreciated. This is a way good story hour, and I want more of it.

Hmm... Druids. Mining. Ore. Wolves from the underdark. Little mote of light thingies. What can it all mean?


----------



## zoroaster100

Cool!  A horde of wolf dragons.  Or should we say, a pack of them.  Liberators vs. druid, heh?  The heros in Piretecat's story hour had quite a bit of trouble a while back facing off against druids.  They can be downright dangerous in their home turf.


----------



## KidCthulhu

I take it all back.  You are an enlightened, benevolent genius.  And I'll kill any man who says otherwise.


----------



## (contact)

KidCthulhu said:
			
		

> *I take it all back.  You are an enlightened, benevolent genius.  And I'll kill any man who says otherwise. *




. . . Even paw?  [/Hills Rise Wild]

I have to admit, the upcoming encounter was inspired by a druid I am DMing for in another campaign.  After she *stomped* all over my poor dungeon, I had to take another look at the class.

Lordamercy.  I liked what I saw.


----------



## JacktheRabbit

Cool, I guessed right.


----------



## (contact)

You totally called it, Doc.


----------



## Joshua Randall

I like the banter between Pris and Heydricus over whether or not to keep one of the wolf-dragons alive to interrogate. It's very true-to-D&D-life.

Would _speak with dead_ work on a formerly-_awaken_ed, now-dead wolf? If not, then why isn't there a combination of _speak with dead_ and _speak with animals_ for just this situation?


----------



## Barastrondo

Joshua Randall said:
			
		

> *Would speak with dead work on a formerly-awakened, now-dead wolf? If not, then why isn't there a combination of speak with dead and speak with animals for just this situation? *




My guess: 

Dabus: "Who changed your body's shape?"

Wolf: "Boss."

Dabus: "What does your boss look like?"

Wolf: "Boss." 

Dabus: "Is your boss a two-legs?"

Wolf: "Yeah." 

Dabus: "What kind of two-legs?"

Wolf: "Boss."

Dabus: "How do you tell him apart from everyone else?"

Wolf: "Smell." 

Dabus: "What does he smell like?"

Wolf: "Boss." 

Not exactly high on the list of clerical priority.


----------



## Joshua Randall

Any game system that contains the spell _virtue_ should not turn up its nose at _speak with dead animals_.


----------



## Urbanmech

Good updates!  Nice use of the polymorphed dire wolves, esp having them act like a pack even though they had been turned into dragons.  Things were not looking good for the Liberators if it really had been six Huge Red Dragons...

I must add yea for a druid bad guy!  Druids are one of 3rd ed hidden secrets.  People get caught up looking at the stupid weapon restrictions and don't stare at the amazingly versitile spell list.  Druids are the swiss army knife class of the game.  What tatics has your player been using to wipe out your other dungeons?  Please share if you would be so kind Mr. Contact Sir.


----------



## (contact)

She recently _awakened_ her dire panther animal companion, making it the equivalent of a 9th level fighter with better first-round attacks (Pounce, Rake) and has been _wild shaping_ into everything from a lizard (to scout ahead) to a rhinocerous (to knock down doors).  

For a few sessions, I had mis-read the rules and was allowing her to _wild shape_ into dire critters, which was sick and wrong.  She'll get that ability back at 12th level.

She rides into battle on the back of her awakened dire panther, uses Mounted Combat to keep the panther (the party's best fighter) from getting hit, and freaking lays a swath of death with a shilleleagh and _bramble_ / _spike_ (from the Defenders of the Faith book) enhanced quarterstaff.

She also has a nifty 4th level buff spell that is giving the entire party +4 Str and +9d4 hp (avg. 22) for 9 rds that stacks with their Endurance bonuses.

Also, she killed a dragon with a _poison_ spell.  Yeesh.  

Her _pass without trace_ has made it impossible for her enemies to follow the PCs back to their hidden lair, allowing them to make raids without suffering any reprisals.  That right there is crucial because in D&D the side that is prepared for a fight (short-duration buff spells active) generally wins.

Those are a few things, but you get the idea.  It's a really powerful and versitile class, IMO.


----------



## Joshua Randall

*Let's Hear It for the Druid*

My baby, she don't talk sweet
She ain't got much to saa-aaa-ayy.
But she's a wild shapin' Dru-id,
And I know that she kicks a$$ any-waaay.

...

Let's hear it for the Druid!
Yeah, let's give the Druid a ha-aaa-aand

etc.

Man, I must be feeling *really* silly. I considered deleting this post, but what the heck.


----------



## dpdx

My baby, she don't dress fine,
but that's all right by meeeee...
and she buffs me buffs me buffs me all the time,
to kill those bad Pee-Ceeees...


----------



## Cheiromancer

Bump!


----------



## (contact)

I have a big LoT update in the batter's box for y'all.  It's about twice the size of usual, and I'd like to edit it for spelling mistakes (*coughrulesmistakescough*) before I post.



p.s.: you f--ckers have put that stupid song in my head three times now.  

_Maybe she's no Juliet, but she's been trained well by her pet . . . woah, woah, oh oh . . ._


----------



## ThoughtBubble

(contact) said:
			
		

> *I have a big LoT update in the batter's box for y'all.  It's about twice the size of usual, and I'd like to edit it for spelling mistakes (*coughrulesmistakescough*) before I post.
> 
> 
> *




You know, I'm going to be here all night hitting the refresh button over and over now....


----------



## (contact)

Check in the morning-- I'm actually *playing* the LoT tonight.


----------



## Rackhir

Cool an update! That's great. I've had a bad day and could use some good old Liberators ruthless destruction.


----------



## (contact)

Thanks for your patience all, it's been a long day . . .  I hope a double-length update makes you smile.  This session was a lot of fun to play.  (sniff)  You'll have to forgive me (sob).  I get all choked up when my monsters kill a PC in one round.

----------

* Wealsun 22, CY 593
50: Shirts versus skins and shrubs versus trees: The photosynthetic battle for scrub-plain supremacy.*

Prisantha removes her _crystal ball of true seeing_ from its pouch.  “This will serve, I think,” she says to herself.  Her first attempt to scry the druid who enchanted the tooth-and-claw of the wolves receives a null result.  She tries again, but still receives no image.  “Huh,” she mutters, and taps the side of the ball lightly.

“Maybe there is some other magic at work,” Heydricus suggests cheerily.  Try _scrying_ the master of the wolves.”

In her ball, Prisantha sees an elf—a young man of common Northern stock, although his dress resembles the reclusive Southern wood elves more than his own kin.  He crouches atop a large stone monolith, one of several arranged in a circle atop a barren and rocky hilltop.  He looks to the skies, cups his hands to his mouth, and howls.  

After a moment, he purses his lips and says, “Tell Sirlog that four were slain, and two return.  We had best be ready.”

A deep baritone voice replies, “As you say.”

Prisantha breaks her _scrying_, and reports what she has seen.  After a moment, she invokes her _crystal ball_ again, this time targeting Sirlog.  To her surprise, she receives a vision of several trees surrounding a small sun-dappled clearing.  A family of field mice skitter amongst the roots of one of the trees, and a lone rabbit cleans its paws.  Intrigued, Prisantha watches the scene, a bemused smile on her face.  The mice romp and play, with the rabbit standing watch.  After a few minutes, the rabbit tests the air and flees, as a massive dire wolf enters the scene, rumbling low in its throat.  To Prisantha’s surprise, the field mice greet the new arrival by rushing toward it, and the wolf paws at them in greeting.  

Prisantha looks up from her _crystal ball_ and shrugs.

Dabus frowns.  “There is often no ready truth in that ball of yours,” he says.  “Tritherion will guide us.”

Dabus moves away from the group, and enters into a meditative trance.  His _communion_ ushers his spirit into the presence of his God, and he is instantly comforted.  Tritherion will inspire him.

Rising up from his center, vibrating his soul and almost incidentally striking the ears, Dabus hears a profound  voice; it is at once his mother, his father, and his own self.  “_Dabus Twice-Born, what would you have of your God?  What would you have of Me?_”

“Great Tritherion, enemy to all that seek to bind, I would have your Truth.”

“_Ask,_” the voice intones.  “_Tritherion will answer._”

 “These beings that sent the wolf-dragons,” Dabus begins.  “Are they our enemies?”

“_They are,_” Dabus is assured.

“Are they servants of the Old One?”

“_They are not.  They defile Iuz and oppose his aims. _”

“Do they bear the curse of lycanthropy?”

“_They do not. _”

“Do they truly seek the ore?”

“_They do. _”

“Do they intend to stockpile the ore?”

“_They do not. _”

“Do they intend to make weapons with it?”

“_After a fashion.  A tool no mortal may wield might kill what can never die. _”

“Do they intend to build a construct?”

“_They have no such intention. _”

“Do they know that the Iuzians no longer control Cur’ruth?”

“_They do not. _”

“Do they expect the Iuzians to counterstrike?”

“_They do not. _”

“Will they come after the ore again?”

“_If the sun rises and sets, they will come. _”

“Will Sirlog come?”

“_In a manner of speaking. _”

“Is Sirlog the wolf?”

“_No. _”

Dabus pauses, thinking for a moment.  “Is Sirlog one of the mice?”

“_Yes.  Fare well, Dabus, and know that you please your God.  Tritherion has spoken. _”

-----

Dabus returns to the group, and reports on what he has learned. 

“That sounds bad,” Heydricus says.  “What is this weapon?” 

“I could vision the thing,” Prisantha says off-handedly.  “It will only take a moment.”  Before anyone can reply, she has completed her spell, and the color drains from her face.  “Well,” she says.  

“Well?” Heydricus asks.  

“Here is my vision; _The terror that gives the barber’s kiss to mountain and plain has no name, for knowledge of it is before naming was.  Ten times one thing were given dominion of earth and sky, each marked according to its kind, each kin according to their mark.  Seven have died, two sleep, and this one stirs._”

“So . . . we can kill it?” Heydricus says.

“Well, it can die,” Pris says.  “But that’s not the same thing.”

“What is it?” Dabus asks.

“Add it to the list,” Heydricus mutters dejectedly.  “How is it all we seem to do with ourselves is hack stuff into pieces, and the list keeps getting _longer_?”

Dabus raises a finger and says, “On the topic of killing.  I’ve been considering.   It is said, ‘attack where the enemy is unprepared, appear where you are not expected.’  If Prisantha’s crystal ball is good for anything, it is good for targeting _teleport_ spells.  So why don’t we just make a list of everyone we need to kill, have a meeting to prioritize, then begin killing them, one a day, until we have completed our list.”

Heydricus stares at Dabus.

“It’s how I get my household chores done,” Dabus says sheepishly.

“I love it,” Heydricus says.  “I f--king love it.  That’s perfect.”

“It _would_ make for a busy week,” Dabus hedges.

“I could free up the time,” Heydricus suggests.  “Mialec can cover for me.” 

“Don’t we have enemies in front of us to concern ourselves with?” Prisantha asks.

“Yes,” Dabus says.  “Tritherion tells me that they are coming after us even now.”

“Excellent.”  Heydricus looks excited.  “We can set an ambush!” he exclaims.  “We so rarely get to do the ambushing.”  To Dabus, he says, “When we get home, I’ll start on a list.”

Prisantha nods, and rubs her hands together.  “I have the perfect spell.  I will cover us with a _veil_—an impenetrable illusion.  I can make us seem to all senses to be part of the natural scenery.  They will be taken completely by surprise!”

“I would like to be a lion,” Dabus says.

“Lions are not native to this region,” Prisantha replies.  “You can be a stone.”  She turns to Heydricus and sizes him up.  “Plants are very symbolic, you know.  I think I will make you into a wildflower bush—distant, but alluring nonetheless.”  Prisantha looks at Heydricus hopefully.

The Liberator does not seem to understand.  He ponders for a moment, and shakes his head.  “No.  Make me into a rose bush—beautiful, but dangerous to the touch!”

“Roses are not native to this region,” Pris sighs.

“Then make me into a stallion!  I’ve been called a stallion before,” he says, waggling his eyebrows.

“I’ll make you into a wildflower bush.  We’ll all be wildflower bushes.”

-----

The afternoon lengthens into evening, and just as the last of the twilight is about to slip away, the three wildflower bushes arranged equidistantly around the ore-cart notice a strange mist beginning to flow into the area, against the wind.

Even the dimmest of shrubberies realize that mist does not normally flow against the wind, nor does it often appear on warm summer nights in the open Tenh plain.

A disembodied voice arises from the mist, as the vapor begins to swirl together, forming a tall cylinder.  “They have gone.” After a moment, the vapor sprouts tendrils, and takes the shape of a tree—a ‘grandfather tree’ in the local parlance; thick and knotted, branches twisting back against one another.  Around the tree, several other forms appear; the feral elf Prisantha _scryed_ earlier, holding hands with a half-elf woman who might be his lover, or perhaps his daughter.  They materialize atop the broken ore cart, its contents still where the dragon left them.  A large dire wolf picks up its ears as it appears nearby, and an even larger monstrosity takes form several yards distant.  The first dire wolf is big for its kind, and has a particularly wise look about its eyes, but the second seems stupid, and is large enough to swallow a halfling whole (without chewing).  The wolves scent the air, but Prisantha’s _veil_ assures that they smell nothing amiss.

“There is nothing _invisible_.” The woman says.

“There is no one here,” the smaller of the two wolves says in perfect common.  “They have fled.”

The elf takes in the scene, then his brows furrow.  Blooming Talisman flowers?  This time of year?  He starts to open his mouth.

At that moment, Heydricus-the-wildflower-bush proves the old adage that the most distant and alluring bushes are often the most likely to crit you on a partial charge.  He tears forward from his position, and lays into the elf, cutting him once with his forehand and again with his backhand stroke.  To the eyes of everyone present (excluding Prisantha), a Talisman bush just opened two gaping wounds along the wolf-lord’s midsection.

 “It’s the Elder Conclave!” the elf cries.  “We are lost!”

The smaller wolf is not so sure.  “Hold your ground,” he growls.

Another bush disappears as Prisantha casts _improved invisible_ on herself.  Dabus rustles his own flowering branches and invokes a _destruction_ on the grandfather-tree, but spell fails to take full effect.  Instead, it withers several of the lower branches and causes a rain of leaves onto the heads of the combatants scattered around its trunk.

Heydricus seizes his advantage, striking the feral elf again, this time marking his previous ‘X’ with a ‘I’.  He splits the elf near in two, and the corpse sprays blood as it falls onto the pile of ore, where it slides to the ground with a wet and meaty flopping sound. Heydricus follows through and chops into the tree with a ferocious two-handed stroke.  The huge wolf jumps onto the ore cart, and seizes Heydricus in his mouth, thinking to shake him, but Heydricus digs in and will not budge.

Prisantha speaks a _power word stun_ at the _awakened_ wolf, but the spell has no effect at all.  The wolf says, “This is madness,” as he stalks toward Prisantha’s location, his ears forward.

The grandfather-tree’s branches rattle in some unseen wind.

“Of course I can,” the wolf replies.  “Give me a moment, and hush.”  The wolf cocks his head to one side, straining to pick up the faintest of sounds.

Just as Dabus speaks a _holy word_.

The sacred word rips the sound from the air around Dabus’ enemies, and leaves in its place a lingering drone that deafens them.  With the Liberators’ scents masked by the _veil_, the deafened wolves have no means to locate Prisantha.  

Secure in her _invisibility_, Pris takes a few minutes to look around the battlefield, and notices a pair of huge red dragons, flying in low over the hills, very near the battle.  Both dragons clutch massive dire wolves in their claws, the wolves’ ears pinned back by either terror or wind-shear.  The dragons seem intent on strafing the combat, delivering 12 HD fur-and-fang-bombs into the midst of the brawl.  Pris yells for Dabus’ attention, and the cleric rustles his branches meaningfully.  

Two of the largest nearby cone-trees shudder and animate, pulling their roots up from the earth and waddling to a position where they can reach Heydricus with their wildly thrashing branches.  As they advance on him, one of them plows into the ruined ore-cart, shoving it back, dredging a massive furrow in the earth, and spilling the ore.  Heydricus leaps clear, but the body of the feral elf falls to the ground and is buried in ore up to its chest.

The half-elven woman cries out in dismay, and fixes Heydricus with a seething stare before muttering an arcane phrase and disappearing from sight.  Realizing that two can play at that game, Heydricus also invokes an _improved invisibility_.

The awakened wolf pounces on the spot Heydricus occupied a moment ago, and begins to use his huge mass to try and locate the sorcerer by feel.  Preferring to remain un-mauled, Heydricus slips around the haunch of the wolf, and out of danger.  Just as he does so, Prisantha _feebleminds_ the creature, putting such clever notions to rest along with the better part of the wolf’s intellect and personality.  

The remaining huge wolf stands confused, as he can neither smell, hear or see his former target.  After a moment, he yips a response to some unheard mental command and leaps directly at Dabus.

Unfortunately for the staunch cleric, Dabus is now the only Liberator visible, and with his enemies deafened, he becomes the only target they can sense in any way.  Fortunately for him, he knows how to keep a low profile in situations just like this.

He moves toward the grandfather-tree belligerently, then sets a _blade barrier_ directly into the path of the swooping dragons, on a steeply-angled elipse, striking them just beneath the shoulder-joints.  As the first of the whirling blades sink through dragon-scale and into flesh, the beasts predictably rear back, pulling out of their dive and dragging the huge wolves through the plane of blades before letting go of the wolves and dropping them back through the spell as they desperately try to stay aloft.  The wolves pass through the _barrier_ with a spray of blood and fur, and one of them manages to slowly drag itself away from the fighting.  Both dragons have had their wing-tips shredded by the spell, and fly out of control, forming drunken corkscrews as they disappear into the rapidly-darkening sky.

Just then, Dabus is pounded by a _lightning bolt_ from an unseen source-- one that arcs through Heydricus as well.  Both animated trees waddle over and start hammering Dabus, and the grandfather-tree joins in as well, delivering a near-lethal dose of _poison_ injected through a twig that squirms through a hole in the cleric’s armor.  With all the whistling wood, flying bark, and poisoned branches, it’s a wonder that the huge wolf can even manage to squeeze in long enough to crit Dabus.  But, like they teach ‘em in Villain School, “persistence is the key to momentary reversals of mis-fortune”.

“Poison,” Dabus gasps.  He falls to the ground, too broken to convulse, dead.

Prisantha frowns a very pretty (if unseen) frown, and clasps her hands together.  “I _wish_ . . .” she begins, “that Dabus had thrown off that poison!”

And in an instant it is so.  Dabus is still standing, although his holy symbol is covered in wolf drool, and there are pieces of bark in his hair and clothes.

The two wolves, both dire and _feebleminded_ turn at the same time, and run into the night.  The animated trees continue to focus on Dabus, but the grandfather-tree has seen enough.  He begins to walk on his own roots away from the cleric, perhaps hoping that his enemies will leave him in peace.

They do not.  Heydricus charges at the tree, chopping into it once more.  The tree collapses in on itself for a moment, its lowest branches striking Heydricus in the back like an Epic Bad Hug.  Heydricus grunts in pain, and backs away from the thing.

Suddenly, in response to an unseen chanting coming from the vicinity of the ore cart, Dabus disappears.  Prisantha looks around for the spell-caster, but cannot see anyone.  She determines to _dispel magic_ on the area, and while she’s sure her spell has had some effect, no one becomes visible.  The two animated trees begin a laborious shuffle, following the path of the fleeing grandfather-tree and sweeping for _invisible_ Liberators as they go.

Then, Prisantha disappears.

Heydricus begins to feel the first flush of panic, a sensation intimately familiar for a veteran of the Temple of Elemental Evil.  He realizes with a start that it has been a while since he really felt the odds were stacked against him to the point of futility.  As he muses over these sentimental feelings of despair, terror and hopelessness, he removes a carved wooden wand from his belt, and places a _fireball_ directly between the grandfather tree and the ore cart.  He is rewarded by an exclamation of pain, seemingly coming from the dead elf.

In response, a _lightning bolt_ emerges from the air just above the corpse, and flashes through the night, lighting the whole scene for an instant with a stark bluish chiaroscuro, complimenting the _fireball’s_ red-oranges of  a moment before.  Heydricus predictably avoids the worst, but as was intended, the lightning bolt gives away his position, and all three trees close in on him.

“F-ck it,” Heydricus says, and charges directly at the grandfather-tree.  He cuts into the thing over and over, pushing past the branches as the tree tries to defend itself with its hoary limbs.  Heydricus swings from his heels, and feels the shockwave bounce back through his sword and all the way into his feet.  The tree tips backward with a shriek of splintering wood, leaving behind only a stump.  The animated trees suddenly cease their motion, and separated from the earth, they slowly topple and fall.  One falls directly onto the body of the feral elf, crushing the _invisible_ sorceress as it lands.  

All is quiet.  The moment lengthens into first one breath, then two, then several.  No one attacks Heydricus, and no one speaks.  The adrenaline drains out of the battered sorcerer in a rush, and even eating the worm at the bottom of a _cure serious wounds_ potion doesn’t take the pain away.

The captain of the guards assigned to the ore caravan emerges from his hiding place, and approaches Heydricus with tears in his eyes, overcome by emotion.  “You know sir, I used to adventure a bit in my youth, and I just wanted to say that I ain’t never thought I’d see nothin’ like what I just saw.  That were a beautiful thing, and I ain’t ashamed to say it.”

Heyrdicus smiles at him warmly, and puts a hand on his shoulder.  “You’re going back to Cur’ruth now, but first,” Heydricus hands the man his _portable hole_.  “Fill this with the ore.”


----------



## the_mighty_agrippa

> At that moment, Heydricus-the-wildflower-bush proves the old adage that the most distant and alluring bushes are often the most likely to crit you on a partial charge.




i love this story hour.  the original rtttoee thread inspired by dm to run us through the module.


----------



## Barastrondo

(contact) said:
			
		

> *To the eyes of everyone present (excluding Prisantha), a Talisman bush just opened two gaping wounds along the wolf-lord’s midsection.
> 
> “It’s the Elder Conclave!” the elf cries.  “We are lost!” *




This may just be the funniest thing I have ever read in any Story Hour. Ever.

Ever.

...no, wait...

...Yes. Ever.


----------



## ThoughtBubble

Ok... I've got a dilemma. On one hand, I got an extra long update of LOT. On the other, I just got my own office.

Which one made my day?


----------



## (contact)

Being able to read the LoT at work without worrying about your boss seeing you?


----------



## KidCthulhu

(contact) said:
			
		

> *“Add it to the list,” Heydricus mutters dejectedly.  “How is it all we seem to do with ourselves is hack stuff into pieces, and the list keeps getting longer?”*




Brother, you've just said a mouthful.  Way to sum up the adventurers' condition.

I love the "little list" idea.  Working on parody G&S song right now.


----------



## Joshua Randall

Er, isn't anyone other than me wondering what happened to Dabus and Prisantha?


----------



## Rackhir

> “Add it to the list,” Heydricus mutters dejectedly. “How is it all we seem to do with ourselves is hack stuff into pieces, and the list keeps getting _longer_ ?”
> 
> Dabus raises a finger and says, “On the topic of killing. I’ve been considering. It is said, ‘attack where the enemy is unprepared, appear where you are not expected.’ If Prisantha’s crystal ball is good for anything, it is good for targeting teleport spells. So why don’t we just make a list of everyone we need to kill, have a meeting to prioritize, then begin killing them, one a day, until we have completed our list.”
> 
> Heydricus stares at Dabus.
> 
> “It’s how I get my household chores done,” Dabus says sheepishly."
> 
> “I love it,” Heydricus says. “I&^*(&^*&^*& ing love it. That’s perfect.”




I haven't actually read the story hour yet, but this section caught my eye as I was looking for where it started. It's things like this that have endeared the Liberators to me so much. Thanks (contact)! I needed that!


----------



## blargney

I *LOVE* the 12 HD fur-and-fang bombs.

(contact), you're like Heydricus with noblewomen - you really have your way with words.
-blarg


----------



## Dakkareth

Rackhir said:
			
		

> *
> 
> I haven't actually read the story hour yet, but this section caught my eye as I was looking for where it started. It's things like this that have endeared the Liberators to me so much. Thanks (contact)! I needed that! *




I'm reminded of some elderly priest/monk/whatever way back in the ToEE ... "Go to the first level. Kill everything. Go to the second level, kill everything. Go to the third level ..."



-Dakkareth


----------



## dpdx

Joshua Randall said:
			
		

> *Er, isn't anyone other than me wondering what happened to Dabus and Prisantha? *



Well, yeah, but I'm not done laughing yet at the Elder Conclave thing, nor am I done wondering why it's funny.

However, the shrubbery jokes are like a sitter at the top of the penalty spot. Nicely done!


----------



## Morte

I'm kinda intrigued about Dabus and Prisantha too. Mazed, maybe?

Thanks (contact) for the double length goodness. May there be more.


----------



## Barastrondo

dpdx said:
			
		

> *Well, yeah, but I'm not done laughing yet at the Elder Conclave thing, nor am I done wondering why it's funny. *




My wife didn't get the Elder Conclave thing. I stood there sheepishly saying "But it's because... high level druids... like, this elf is saying that a bunch of heirophants are pissed at him... because a angry flower bush just... and the thought that heirophants would use a... it's funny..." 

But she _did_ just about die at the "most likely to crit you on a partial charge" reference. So we'll always have that.


----------



## Rackhir

After reading through the story hour and letting it stew for a while. It occurs to me that the druids might have been the "Innocent/non-evil" opposition as was suggested. None of the commune? answers indicate that they were necessarily out to get the liberators, per se. In particular they didn't know that the mines were no longer under the control of the Iuzians, which might just indicate to me that they were attacking simply under the impression that they were still facing Iuzians. After all you can be someone's "enemy" if you don't know who they really are. 

I would also hazard a guess that the weapon they were trying to forge from the ore was to be used against that stone thing, they found up at that giant's fortress. So they might even have been potential allies. 

Oh well, it's not like you'd expect someone with the Liberator's background to negotiate after they've been attacked. Kill first and then maybe get arround to asking questions later.


----------



## Zaruthustran

I'm with you, Rackhir. I think the Druids were good guys. Or at least neutral guys. The wolves had Underdark fungus, and the Good celestial emotes make that fungus grow... okay, that's a tenous connection. But it still makes me think that Heydricus made an error.

Oh well. A few Speak With Deads and Raises, and everyone's almost good as new. No hard feelings about that whole cutting-in-half business, eh elf boy?

-z


----------



## JacktheRabbit

Zaruthustran said:
			
		

> *I'm with you, Rackhir. I think the Druids were good guys. Or at least neutral guys. The wolves had Underdark fungus, and the Good celestial emotes make that fungus grow... okay, that's a tenous connection. But it still makes me think that Heydricus made an error.
> 
> Oh well. A few Speak With Deads and Raises, and everyone's almost good as new. No hard feelings about that whole cutting-in-half business, eh elf boy?
> 
> -z *





I wouldnt feel too guilty if I was the Liberators seeing as how they are merely responding to an attack on them.


----------



## Urbanmech

Mmmmm double post goodness.  Like double stuff oreos only better.

I'm also not quite sure that the Liberators have made the right choice here.  Maybe some discussion from a distance or magically would have been a better idea.  But then again characters making bad choices makes for a more interesting game.


----------



## (contact)

Hey, thanks for the kind words, everyone.

The good news for this thread is that my players have been really fired up for this game recently, and we've been playing faster than I can write the logs!  That's bannannas, b/c I generally write with a quickness.  We've had 3 sessions in the last week, and they want a weekend game to boot!

So, I'll be able to update soon and often for at least 3-4 more updates.

We have been having a ball.  Classic scenes, unexpected twists, and overall, a comedic soap-opera with _lots of dead people_.

Here's a quote from Jespo that pretty much sums it up:  "May I introduce Heydricus Tritherionson, and Prisantha of Verbobonc; my two oldest friends who are not undead."


----------



## Zaruthustran

I hereby proclaim (contact) as the Quentin Tarantino of the ENWorld Story Hour. His story is violent, stylish, and filled with unexpectedly witty dialogue.

-z


----------



## (contact)

*Wealsun 22, CY 593
51: The Celestial in the Closet.*

 “Can you hear me in there?  Buzz your wings twice for yes?”  Heydricus looks into the empty potion bottle that has become the new home for his _polymorphed_ companions.  “I need Crim,” he mutters to himself as he watches the teeny-tiny flies (still disguised by magic to look like teeny-tiny flowering bushes) crawl around the inside of the flask.

Locating them had been the easy part.  Heydricus had ripped tokens from his _bracelet of friendship_, and wasn’t entirely surprised when a pair of fly-sized Talisman bushes appeared before his eyes.  But now what?  Flies can’t cast spells, and Heydricus cannot _dispel magic_.

Heydricus thinks to himself, calculating how much distance he can cover with his remaining applications of the _fly_ spell.  He wishes for the tenth time in the last ten minutes that he hadn’t given Dabus the map to hold, and makes his best guess as to the direction in which he is likely to find Prince Thrommel’s command.

-----

The sentry rides up quickly, reining in his mount.  “Someone approaches, my lord.  He . . . it . . . it _flies_, sir.”

Thrommel climbs into his saddle and nods once, then beckons to Urin, his new aide-de-camp.  Urin passes Thrommel a spyglass.  Thrommel removes his riding gloves, tucks them into his belt, places the glass to his eye, and smiles.  He folds up the spyglass, and runs his hand across his dusty face, smoothing his newly-grown blonde beard.

“Men,” he booms, standing up in his seat.  “Lay eyes upon your lord.  Heydricus Tritherionson approaches.”

The men take up a cheer, banging spears against shields.

Heydricus lands in front of Thrommel, and regards the prince.  “Well met,” he says.  “I’m here for Crim.”

“Well, I wondered when you’d come calling,” Thrommel says.  “We’ve had great success.  We’ve marshaled your peasantry and I anticipate little resistance in Nevond Nevnend.  Crim is not here.”

“What?” Heydricus exclaims.  “What do you mean, _not here_?”

“Well, I mean the usual, I suppose,” Thrommel says.  “He’s quit the fight, Heydricus.”

“What?” Heydricus says again.  

“He was cross with our assignment,” Thrommel says.  “He called it a ‘fool’s errand, fit for lackeys’.  I called him a coward, and we exchanged heated words.  Imagine, calling the Prince of Furyondy a _lackey_.  His mother should have disciplined him more I think.  At any rate, he quit my service, and I can’t say I shed any tears.”

“Oh, gods.” Heydricus says.  “Where did he go?”

“How am I to know?  He _teleported_ away, as is the habit with wizards.  Do you know he had the nerve to pass me an invoice?  For ‘magical services rendered’ it said.  He intends to draw funds from my father’s treasury.  Can you believe it?”

Heydricus sighs.  “Jespo is tempermental, you know that.  His feathers were likely ruffled.”

“This is war, Heydricus.  Men die, feelings are hurt—you suck it up and do your duty.  Don’t think I didn’t tell him, because I did, the coward.”

“I’m sure you did,” Heydricus says.

“At any rate, things proceed apace.  We ride for Nevond Nevnend.  I plan to divide my forces.  My scouts report a large encampment of orcish mercenaries in the valley guarding the approach to the city, though I doubt their arithmetic.  I am sure these orcs mean to flee when assaulted.  To counter this, I have determined to send young Reno into the valley with my vanguard, while I lead the remainder of my forces along the rise, to take them in the rear as they flee.  It should be a hot afternoon, and we expect total victory.  It will be glorious, I promise you.”

“Thrommel,” Heydricus begins, already taking to the air.  “Remember what we learned in the Temple.  _Never split the party_.  That’s an order.”

Thrommel looks hurt, but nods.  “If you command, I defer.  We fight in your fief, after all.”

But Heyricus is already in the air, flying to the east, toward Halrond’s estate, hundreds of miles away.

-----

Heydricus travels non-stop for three days, _flying_ for as long as he can, and then walking until he is forced to rest.  The scrub-plain gives way first to rocky hills, and then to temperate grassland, before Heydricus can finally see the trees of the massive Fellreev forest.

Along the way, he talks to his companions in the flask, regaling them with indiscreet tales of his mis-spent youth, revealing more than is proper about some of his ribald affairs.  If either the Prisantha-fly, or the Dabus-fly are shocked, embarrassed or offended, you wouldn’t know it from the expressions on their tiny little faces.

He follows the dimly-remembered directions Halrond had given him, and wishes for the first and perhaps last time that he’d listened more closely to the temporal head of Tritherion’s church in Furyondy.  Shortly after dawn on the fourth morning, he comes across a dilapidated manor-house that must be the place.  The stately home was certainly once the centerpiece of a grand plantation, but the exterior is greatly weathered, and the grounds have been given to seed.  New saplings and wild patches of verdant grass mark the entry-points for the forest’s reclamation of the formerly landscaped grounds.

Heydricus walks to the door, and pulls on the crocheted rope dangling in front of the mansion’s entrance.  After a few moments, there is the sound of furniture being shoved aside and eventually an old woman answers the door, suspicion carved deeply into her aged face.

“Hello, my name is Heydricus, and I . . .”

“The Liberator!” she exclaims, a smile working its way reluctantly to the weathered surface of her skin. She moves to embrace Heydricus, and then thinks twice before finally settling on a grandmotherly pat on his arm.  “We’ve been waiting for you,” she says as she looks past him at the grounds.  “We were told you would be bringing ore,” she says.

“It’s in my pocket,” Heydricus replies with a smile.

The woman scowls at him, but invites him inside anyway.  The majority of the building is unused, she says, as only herself and hubby live there now as caretakers.  She raised Halrond, you know, once his mother had taken ill.  Not that she ever thought of him like her son.  Not like some domestics do, mind.  Halrond was always a distant and troubled boy, true, but now he’s a great man.  A great man.  The rest of the army is in the forest, she explains.  Hubby will take you.

Hubby is a much younger man, a deeply sun-bronzed Flan with an even harder time mustering a smile for the Liberator.  Unlike his wife, he is not one of Tritherion’s faithful, but he is the one who knows how to drive the cart.  After hitching up a pair of sway-backed plow mares, he invites Heydricus up to the passenger’s seat, and they set out over the rutted trail into the Felreeve forest.

The rest of the morning passes in silence, as the cart trundles along, laboriously working its way beneath the massive maples, elms and walnut trees.  Heydricus dozes off, occasionally jarred awake by the cart striking a stone.  Afternoon arrives, and finally the man speaks.

“Forgot that ore, did you?”

“It’s in my pocket,” Heydricus says stretching his legs out over the dash.

The man makes no reply.  After another minute, he says, “Never understood your Eastron humor.”

“I’m not joking,” Heydricus says.

The man makes no reply.  Eventually, he stops his cart, and hobbles the horses.  He comes back to the cart and motions for Heydricus to step down.  He lifts the seat of the cart back, and removes a pair of short swords, which he slings across his chest in the front-draw unique to the legendarily belligerent duelists of Ulek and Keoland.  Noting Heydricus’ curious gaze, he says, “Ain’t just an army in the forest.”

He leads the Liberator along game-trails and stream-beds as they wind their way to the West.  The afternoon wears on, and just as Heydricus is starting to feel like the man must be senile, a voice emerges from the forest, startlingly near.  It belongs to a half-elf, apparently the spokesman for a large band of elves who make themselves suddenly conspicuous, revealing to Heydricus that he is surrounded.  The Liberator grins to himself at the implied threat.

“Who’s this, Maedwyn?” The half-elf asks.

“The Liberator,” the old ranger replies.

“We thought you were bringing ore,” the half-elf says.

“I am,” Heydricus says.  “It’s in my pocket.”

The half-elf frowns, and looks at his companions, trying to decide whether he’s just been insulted.  The elves remain expressionless, and the half-elf smiles a thin-lipped and cold-eyed smile.  “Funny,” he says.  “Follow me.”

Who can blame Heydricus if he had always assumed that what Halrond called an ‘army’ was merely a double-score of refugees and malcontents languishing in the Felreeve for want of mail and blade?  But as the small group passes through encampment after encampment, Heydricus begins to realize that Halrond has sequestered almost a thousand fighting men and women in the deeps of the forest, gathered in small camps, training, eating, laughing and praying.  Heydricus sees priests of Heironious, Pelor and St. Cuthbert among the men, and even a lone Hextorian sword-master.  The troops do seem to be in need of proper arms, but Heydricus can’t help but notice the steely-eyed determination he sees present on nearly every face.

_These men hate Iuz as much as I do_, Heydricus realizes with a bloom of pleasure.  “I wish Lucius could see this,” he thinks to himself. 

Heydricus is finally taken to a massive stone-walled forge, crudely built but solid, and sadly underused.  Only one of the long row of forge-fires is even lit, and Heydricus notes with displeasure that the smith is repairing horseshoes and wagon hitches.  He greets the smith, and inquires where he wants the ore.  The smith, assuming an ore-cart is outside, points to a large wheeled bin.  Heydricus promptly upends his portable hole, and in a rush, a cart-load of iron ore comes pouring out.

“There really is a celestial in the closet!” the half-elf says to himself, and Hubby laughs.  At Heydricus’ quizzical expression, the half-elf says, “a folk expression.  I’m sorry I doubted you.  How can we repay the Liberator of Tritherion?”

Heydricus is taken to a cleric of St. Cuthbert, a man (they all assure him) more than capable of dispelling whatever magic afflicts Heydricus’ friends.  The rotund cleric is quite un-expectedly glum (for a fat friar leading a band of woodland brigands in their fight for justice).  His jolly cheeks, and twinkling eyes seem misused when put to the purpose of scowling and harrumphing, but scowl and harrumph he does.  He tsk-tsks disapprovingly when Heydricus’ dilemma is explained, but agrees to help out nonetheless.

He regards the flask containing the two flies, and brandishes his cudgel as if threatening the _polymorph_ spell with a swift beating.  In an instant, Prisantha is herself again, although suffering from a multitude of tiny cuts where the glass vial shattered as she regained her form.  Heydricus winces.  “Whoops,” he says to himself.

Prisantha examines her hands with a look of relief, bows to the cleric, and then casts _dispel magic_ on Dabus.

“Welcome back,” Heydricus says, embracing his companions.

“It was horrible!” Dabus exclaims.  “What a miserable existence.”  The cleric looks at Heydricus with an expression of awe on his face.  “I have learned pity for the common fly.  Never again shall I swat one in annoyance,” Dabus vows, clutching his spear to his chest.  “Do you know they vomit on their food? _On purpose_?”

“And what were you thinking?” Prisantha snaps.  “Feeding us _carrion_, for the love of life!”

“Well, I tried to find something a fly would like,” Heydricus says.  “I gave you a chunk of a wolf’s hind-end.”

“And I loved it!” Dabus sobs, overcome with shame.


----------



## Rackhir

> _Originally posted by (contact) _*
> ?And what were you thinking?? Prisantha snaps.  ?Feeding us carrion, for the love of life!?
> 
> ?Well, I tried to find something a fly would like,? Heydricus says.  ?I gave you a chunk of a wolf?s hind-end.?
> 
> ?And I loved it!? Dabus sobs, overcome with shame. *




Boy this has been a week to treasure indeed! A double post AND an update! Not to mention more dialogue like this. There's always at least a nugget of gold in the dialogue when there's an update.


----------



## coyote6

You know, I never realized that Thrommel's middle name was Armstrong.


----------



## JacktheRabbit

(contact) said:
			
		

> *Wealsun 22, CY 593
> 51: The Celestial in the Closet.
> 
> 
> The rotund cleric is quite un-expectedly glum (for a fat friar leading a band of woodland brigands in their fight for justice).  *





ROFLMAO!!!

That was just too funny.


----------



## (contact)

coyote6 said:
			
		

> *You know, I never realized that Thrommel's middle name was Armstrong. *




Well, he's the one who wished that his military exploits might be remembered in the ages to come . . .


----------



## Zaruthustran

(contact) said:
			
		

> *“Well, I wondered when you’d come calling,” Thrommel says.  “We’ve had great success.  We’ve marshaled your peasantry and I anticipate little resistance in Nevond Nevnend.  Crim is not here.”
> 
> “What?” Heydricus exclaims.  “What do you mean, not here?”
> 
> “Well, I mean the usual, I suppose,” Thrommel says.  “He’s quit the fight, Heydricus.”
> 
> “What?” Heydricus says again.
> 
> “Say "What" again!  C'mon, say "What" again!  I dare ya, I double dare ya, say "What" one more Iuzdamn time!,” Thrommel says.  ”
> *



*

Oops, did I misquote?

-z*


----------



## (contact)

So here's a question for you (all):

1) If you were playing in the LoT, which character (PC or NPC) would you most want to play?

-----

I have decided that my answer is the Lord of Stoink.


----------



## Citizen Mane

Thrommel.  There's something to be said for almost willfully overestimating one's own abilities.  

Best,
tKL


----------



## Capellan

Whoever finally gets to kick Heydricus' ass. 

Failing that, Crim.


----------



## Capellan

Goldurn double posts.


----------



## dpdx

(contact), sometimes I feel like I _am_ Dabus.

:checks self in @ Bellevue.


----------



## Morte

A loose end from a long time ago...



			
				(contact) said:
			
		

> *Interlude:  A Quiet, Still Place of Doubt.
> 
> Tau of Wintershiven was a scholar long before he became an adventurer, and comparative religion was his specialty.  He used to believe that he knew the names, icons and rituals of every deity worshipped in the Flannaes, but now he knows this is not true.
> 
> The manual is old, ancient even, and he has had to handle it with care lest he crumble its aging pages.  The book is open to a section that describes a traditional Flan deity previously unknown to the Pholtan cleric:  A God of Duty, Order and Law. *




This one stuck in my mind. Did anything ever come of it?


----------



## (contact)

Morte, it's funny you should mention that-- Barastrondo just asked me that same question, and here's the deal:  

The SH is about 6 updates behind the game (which represent the better part of  3 sessions, but only 1 week's real-world time!).  There are complications along that sub-plot that the Liberators are getting wind of, and I will reintroduce it with my Subtle DM Skillz (TM) at tonight's game session, in the form of a letter from Wintershiven.

Tau's sub-plot/meta-plot is actually a very big deal, but as I am learning, sometimes in Wonderville it really does get better if you just throw out your carefully crafted evil plans and Do What the Players Want.


----------



## (contact)

Did you also recall the second part of that plot?



> Coldeven 22, CY 593
> 32:  Back to the Mines
> 
> When they return to the mines, the group lays out a basic strategy:  Prisantha wishes to take several months off to research new spells and create her dream item:  a crystal ball of true seeing.  Heydricus will take the time to organize his troops, bring in new recruits, and assess the military situation in Tenh.  In the meantime, Jespo Crim and Dabus will undertake the task of adding enchantments to Heydricus’ spear—his symbol of investiture from Tritherion.
> 
> C’min and Elijah will take the time to thoroughly scout the area surrounding the mines of Cur’ruth.
> 
> But upon their arrival, they are greeted with yet another mystery.  A note from Tau has been left for Heydricus.  In his note, Tau discusses his recent investigations around the mines of Tenh.
> 
> -----
> _From chapter 23:  “Tau shifts the group into the border etheric in order to search for hidden chambers.  They find a recessed shrine to the Flan pantheon that somehow escaped the notice of the occupying Iuzian priests.  In the shrine, Tau is overjoyed to discover a fully-intact book on Flan folk worship, dating back hundreds of years!”_
> -----
> 
> Tau has been thoroughly reading the book, and is troubled to discover that there is mention of a God he has never heard of—a minor Flan deity devoted to Knowledge, Order and Law.  The fact that Tau, as a specialist in Comparative Sacrilegious Faiths for the Libraries of Wintershiven has never before encountered this deity is troubling.
> 
> As part of his investigation, Tau searched the mines from top to bottom, and found an unusual depression on the cliff directly above the mines.  He grew convinced that the depression once contained a third statue—similar to the pair of massive sculptures that flank the opening to the mines of Cur’ruth.  What happened to it is unknown.  There is no sign of either an excavation or collapse.
> 
> To add fuel to the mystery, the Tenha at Cur’ruth claim no knowledge of the statues’ origin, purpose or symbolism.  The Aital, spiritual leader of the Tenha, has been no help.  She was unaware of the existence of the hidden worship chambers in the mines, indicating that they must be older than even the mining operations in this place.
> 
> Tau had since determined that more research was the key, and returned to the only place he knew to undertake the project, the Libraries of Wintershiven.
> 
> As she ponders these events, Prisantha is struck with a sobering thought:  why would a powerful cleric like Tau need to research in a library when he could use divinations to gain answers?  Her conclusion is that Tau must not have access to his higher-level spells, a sure sign of Pholtus’ displeasure with His cleric.


----------



## Urbanmech

> 1) If you were playing in the LoT, which character (PC or NPC) would you most want to play?




Sign me up for Jespo!  I know he may be down on his luck, but I just love Conjurers.  Nothing like inflating your ego by summoning creatures and having them do your work.


----------



## Urbanmech

Stupid double post.


----------



## Zaruthustran

(contact) said:
			
		

> *
> 
> So here's a question for you (all):
> 
> 1) If you were playing in the LoT, which character (PC or NPC) would you most want to play?
> 
> -----
> 
> I have decided that my answer is the Lord of Stoink. *





I'd like to play an entirely new character, or a minor character. That way, I'd get to interact with all the crazy personalities of the other characters.

I don't want to _be_ Jespo; I want to roll my eyes in response to something Jespo says.

-z


----------



## Morte

(contact) said:
			
		

> *Did you also recall the second part of that plot?
> 
> *




Oh yes indeed. That additional bit of bait is what made it stick in my mind.


----------



## Morte

(contact) said:
			
		

> *1) If you were playing in the LoT, which character (PC or NPC) would you most want to play?*




Fras


----------



## thatdarncat

Fras was my first thought, but I think Tau


----------



## Barastrondo

(contact) said:
			
		

> *1) If you were playing in the LoT, which character (PC or NPC) would you most want to play? *




Elijah. 

There's something about a character who can be blissfully happy waist-deep in a swamp with a knife between her teeth. Plus, I could have an off-night as far as the rapier wit goes and still be in character. It would suck to be playing Heydricus and suddenly be all "So... um... yeah! We're gonna punch you in... the face..." (whispering) "_Line!_"


----------



## Joshua Randall

> 1) If you were playing in the LoT, which character (PC or NPC) would you most want to play?



Heydricus.

What? Stop looking at me like that. I actually can't believe I'm the first one to give this answer. Who *doesn't* want to be the all-powerful Liberator, the center of attention, the cocky ass-kicker extraordinairre?

There's just something about playing as the sauve engine of destruction that appeals to me. Possibly because I am neither suave nor an engine of destruction in real life.  

If we were allowed to choose someone from the RttToEE story, I would've chosen Lucius. Man, that guy had style oozing out his ears. (Perhaps literally after his demise.)


----------



## the_mighty_agrippa

(contact) said:
			
		

> *
> 
> So here's a question for you (all):
> 
> 1) If you were playing in the LoT, which character (PC or NPC) would you most want to play?
> *



*

lucius, the twice undead

failing that, the fighter-turtle with shellshock & a taste for cheap whiskey.*


----------



## (contact)

the_mighty_agrippa said:
			
		

> *failing that, the fighter-turtle with shellshock & a taste for cheap whiskey. *




Arguin!  I forgot about him!  

“It’s the damndest thing,” the cleric says.  “This turtle’s mean as hell, and all it does is drink whisky all day long and bite people.”

Arguin was played by Heydricus' player, and had been _polymorphed_ into a turtle by his own party after putting on a _helm of opposite alignment_.

The party kept Arguin in a cage at base-camp, but ran afoul of a dragon.  The dwarf survived, but you can forgive him, I'm sure, for neglecting to snatch up the turtle cage in his headlong flight.

After an epic journey (for a turtle) of 120 miles, Arguin finally made it back to Hommlet, only to be adopted by the Tritherion priests bodyguarding Prisantha's family.


----------



## (contact)

(contact) said:
			
		

> *There are complications along (Tau's) sub-plot that the Liberators are getting wind of, and I will reintroduce it with my Subtle DM Skillz (TM) at tonight's game session, in the form of a letter from Wintershiven. *




Yeah, and I was soooo subtle, I forgot to have the Mail Delivery arrive.


----------



## (contact)

*Wealsun 27, CY 593
52: Even in Wonderville, sometimes true love wins initiative.*


Heydricus, Dabus and Prisantha take their leisure amongst the men of Halrond’s army, secreted deep within the Fellreev forest.

“Of course I thought of Jespo first,” Heydricus says.  “But Thrommel says he’s quit the fight.”

“Oh for the love of . . .” Prisantha is exasperated.  

Heydricus commiserates.  “What does he think he’s about, leaving the men with that half-wit?”  He looks at Dabus.  “I didn’t just say that.”

The next day, and the day after that, Prisantha makes seven trips in total to the forges in the Fellreev forest, delivering the entirety of the Iuzian stockpiled ore, one _portable hole_ at a time.  Heydricus insists that he make the journey back to Cur’ruth with the same followers that he started out with, and has Prisantha _teleport_ him to his Captain’s side.

Dabus returns to Cur’ruth and begins studying a Bereian religious tract discussing the virtues of vegetarianism.

-----

Richfest in the mines of Cur’ruth is a festive time.  It is the Flan custom to hold the most elaborate meal of the three-day holiday in the morning, and the Liberators have adopted the custom for their own.  Fresh milk, breads and meats are _teleported_ from Furyondy, and supplemented by the local spicy bean dishes and celestial-radiance grown fungus.

“It’s all about money,” Heydricus says with his mouth full.  “Equipping armies makes for poor adventurers, I think.  What I need to do is more fund raising.”

Prisantha scowls at this suggestion.  “Perhaps you could do with a little supervision on your fund raising trips.  You haven’t been very successful.”

“Fine by me,” Heydricus retorts.

Dabus looks up from his stewed beets and wheat-germ porridge.  “You don’t mind if someone watches while you raise your funds?  I’d like to watch.”

“No problem,” Heydricus says magnanimously.  “You could learn something.”

Prisantha rolls her eyes.

Heydricus stands and places a foot upon his chair, striking a heroic pose.  “Tell me, what do you think?” he asks.  “Profile,” he turns to face his companions. “Or portrait?”  After a long pause, he explains, “for our coinage.”

“Ah,” Dabus says sagely.  “The profile.  It is traditional.”

“And there should be a monument on the other side,” Prisantha suggests.  “Perhaps something from the mines.  The statues at the gate would serve.”

“Very well,” Heydricus says.  “But most importantly, gold or platinum?”

“Gold,” Dabus advises.  “It shows a ruler’s humility to leave the most valuable coin for some symbol of the realm.  Perhaps some animal that the Tenha revere—a wolf, or a hawk.”

“A hawk would be perfect,” Heydricus says.  “We’ll use Barney.”

“Barney?” Prisantha asks

“My familiar,” Heydricus replies.

“You finally named your familiar?” she says.

“No, he told me his name.  Barnibus.  He’s been more talkative of late,” he says.

“Gold Kings and platinum Hawks,” Dabus says.  “Perhaps the celestial emotes for the silver, and a Tenh family for the copper.”  

“Hawks, Kings, Lights and Commons,” Heydricus muses.  “I like it.”

That settled, the Liberators spend the rest of the morning working on the List. 

-----

Prisantha sits quietly in her study, studying from notes in her spellbook, and after several hours’ quiet meditation, finishes the spell _demand_.  Thinking that she needs to test it, she summons Heydricus to witness, then completes the final words of the spell and _sends_ a _suggestion_ to Jespo Crim: “You must return to Cur’ruth immediately, and explain your absence to Prisantha.”

-----

Willip’s Community Wizard’s College is unfinished, more a college in name than practice, but enough of the building is supplied to house a dozen hopeful apprentices, all of whom at this moment are gathered around Jespo Crim in the mess-hall.  Jespo sits with his feet on a table, sipping wine from a cracked cup and reminiscing about his adventures in the Temple of Elemental Evil.  For the first time in his life, every ear is his to bend, and rapt attention is his due.

“So there I was,” he says, “Alone in front of the shelf, covered head to toe with green slime, my magic and spellbooks destroyed before my eyes.”  The apprentices lean in, horrified expressions on every face.  “You can imagine my terror.  I cried out to my familiar . . .”

Fräs looks up from her saucer of cream, and meows.

“That’s right,” Jespo says.  “I did say something about ‘it should have been you Fräs.’  Of course, I was referring to my first familiar, a diabolical cat possessed of a uniquely foul temperament.  I realized at that moment that I was in the worst possible of positions.  So naturally, I . . .” Jespo eyes glaze for a moment, then he sets down his cup and stands up.  “I must go to Cur’ruth and explain my absence.  Fräs, to me.”  Jespo invokes a _teleport_ spell and appears in front of Heydricus and Prisantha, thousands of miles from his new position as Senior Fellow In Conjurations.

Jespo gives a short bow to Prisantha and says, “I left Thrommel’s service over irreconcilable differences.  I have accepted a senior position at the Willip’s Wizard’s Communtiy College.”  Jespo puts on his best stubborn face, but cannot hide his confusion.  “Why did I say that?” he wonders to himself.

Prisantha sighs.  “Thrommel needs you, Jespo.”

“No,” Jespo says haughtily.  “Prince Thrommel needs a good head wound.  _I_ need my gold back.”

Heydricus frowns at Jespo.  “So you’ve given up the life?  You’re settling down are you?  No more high adventures?”

“Well,” Jespo hedges.  “Technically, my position won’t begin until some time next year.  They are only able to open one college at a time, after all, and have selected Invocations, Enchantments and Abjurations as their first-tier curriculum, with Transmutation, Divination, Illusion and Necromancy as the second.”

“So you’re available to adventure?”

Jespo’s eyes light up.  “Well,” he hedges craftily.  

“We need you Crim,” Heydricus places a hand on his shoulder.

Jespo is nearly overcome with joy.  “Did you hear that Fräs—_they need me_!” Jespo whispers.  Fräs purrs in reply.

“Hell, we thought you were joined at the hip with Thrommel,” Heydricus says.  “Otherwise, we would have brought you along on all our adventures.”

“Well, I was,” Jespo snarls.  “And what did _that_ ever get me?  I can’t even show my face in Chendl I am despised so soundly, the better part of my adventuring treasure is on that cretin’s back, and let’s be frank.  I don’t have a chance in Hades of retaining my position once he takes his throne.”

“I don’t know about that, Jespo.  Thrommel is a loyal man.”

“Loyal to _you_, Heydricus,” Prisantha says.

“The Four cannot stand me,” Jespo sniffs.  “And only a fool of a king would choose one wizard over four archmagi, no matter how loyal that king might be.  Thrommel would be forced to put me aside.”

Heydricus nods.  “Well, you can live here.  We’re working on a List.”

“I’m not staying near that beastly accountant of yours, if that’s what you have in mind.  I was thinking I should like a room in the dungeons, closer to the celestial emotes.  Besides, you know how delicate my complexion is.  The sun disagrees with me.”

“Yeah, Mialec is in your room anyway,” Prisantha says.

“Whom?”

“My assistant.” Heydricus looks pained. “She’s great.”

Jespo smiles at his friends.  “I shall need to get my things straightaway, and  . . . well, I wish to bring a friend along as well.”  

Fräs hisses.  

Jespo blushes, and adds sheepishly, “a lover, actually.”

“What?” Heydricus says.  Prisantha claps her hands.

“Oh, she’s wonderful, Heydricus.” Jespo’s eyes plead with his friends not to Mock him.  “Pris, I can’t wait until you meet her.  She is noble and kind, charitable toward the poor and helpful to the weak.”

Heydricus seems shocked.  “You have a _lover_?”

“Well, is that so surprising, after all?” Jespo sniffs.  “Fräs says I have a loveable personality.”

“I suppose . . .”

“Heydricus, I should tell you, I am thinking about asking her to marry me.”

“_Marry you_?”

“Well, we do wish to . . . follow our relationship to its logical conclusion, seeing as how it is between a man and woman, you know, and Fräs says that we should be man and wife first, lest I dishonor her.”

“You mean, you haven’t . . . ?”

“No.” Jespo looks at his shoes.  “I actually . . . well, I have always been studious after all.”

“You mean you’ve _never_?”

“Well, neither of us has.  But once we’re married . . . except, I fear I know little of the art of love.”

“Hell, Jespo, I’ll give you a few pointers!  I’m an old hand.”

Prisantha scowls.  “I’ll say.”

Jespo looks shocked.  “So you two finally . . .”

Prisantha blushes.

Heydricus seems not to notice.  “Marriage, sure.  I think marriage is a fine institution!  When are you going to ask?”

“Well, I don’t know . . .”

“There’s no time like the present, Jespo.  We adventurers never know what the next dungeon may bring!”

“You’re right!” Jespo says.  I shall ask her tomorrow, first thing!”  

Fräs purrs.

-----

Two _teleport_ spells later, Jespo returns with a trunk full of clothes and books, and a large Oerdian woman.  She is broad of shoulder and thick of limb, with sandy, unkempt hair framing her wide, round face.  Her hazel eyes are pretty enough, but they are set over an unusually large mouth filled with unusually long teeth.

“Regda, these are my oldest living companions who aren’t undead,” Jespo says.  “May I present Heydricus Tritherionson, Holy Liberator of Tritherion, and Prisantha, the Enchantress of Verbobonc.”

Regda blushes and extends a large, calloused hand.  “I’ve heard so much about you, it’s a real pleasure.  Jespie says such nice things.”  Her voice is mellow and sultry; velvet, whiskey and smoke. 

Pleasantries are exchanged, and after formalities are attended, Jespo takes Regda from Prisantha’s room to show her the rest of the mines.

“She seems very sweet, and did you see the way Fräs took to her?” Prisantha says.

“Well, she’s not the sharpest stake in the punji pit,” Heydricus says.  But she’s damn strong, and those are fighter’s hands, or I’m no judge at all.”

“I think she’s pretty,” Prisantha says.

Heydricus opens his mouth to reply, then thinks better of it, and smiles instead.  “I’ll keep my eye on Crim. If he’s as good at love as he is at invocations (and I have no doubt of it), he’s going to need some help.”


----------



## the_mighty_agrippa

this?  this is beautiful...


----------



## dpdx

Yeah, yeah, touching, blah blah blah, but this:



> Dabus returns to Cur’ruth and begins studying a Bereian religious tract discussing the virtues of vegetarianism.



Nooooo!

Don't do it, Dabus! You'll never enjoy food again!


----------



## zoroaster100

Great update again.  But how can Jespo get married?  I thought his heart belonged in whole to Fras and there would never be room for a woman in his life.


----------



## Morte

Ah, so Fras is Fräs now. Devious these SH writers.

It's great to see Jespo and Fräs again. And they're cooking up a storm already.

The "Enchantress of Verbobonc" eh? I'll bet she likes that.

Tell me, (contact), what's the setup here? Is Jespo an NPC, an intermittent PC, a PC turned NPC, or what? Same for Tau et al. [Why do I think the answer is going to be complicated?]


----------



## KidCthulhu

Me. I'd play Pip.  I know he wasn't around for long, but I have a thing for cute little doomed halflings.


----------



## Alomir

KidCthulhu said:
			
		

> *...but I have a thing for cute little doomed halflings. *



Hey, I've got one of those!

Whoops, wrong SH - sorry....


----------



## blargney

I love love LOVE this story hour. 

-blarg


----------



## Rackhir

When the topic of Jespo having a girlfriend/wife came up, I had this sudden flash of The Scotsman from "Samurai Jack" talking about his wife and going "She's just a wee delicate little thing. Ot'ch so fragile" (of course she's built like a brick house and tougher than Jack and the Scotsman put together).


----------



## (contact)

Morte said:
			
		

> *Tell me, (contact), what's the setup here? Is Jespo an NPC, an intermittent PC, a PC turned NPC, or what? Same for Tau et al. [Why do I think the answer is going to be complicated?] *




Jespo is an adventuring NPC that recieves a full share of XPs.  Regda, Dabus, Cmin, Thrommel, Spoiler and Spoiler are cohorts, and recieve a half-share of XP (but full share of treasure found).

However, by this point, Thrommel has been fired and is now just a lonely old NPC.

Tau *was* a PC, but his player dropped the game shortly after he started due to conflicting time commitments, so Tau became a non-adventuring NPC.

Jespo began the campaign out of the picture, because I didn't want the burden of running classed NPCs in my first 3e campaign.  Later, I seized upon an idea to use Jespo as a Plot Hook, and he got Teh Shaft, winding up without any gear, peniless and in debtor's prison.

Recently, my players decided they wanted Jespo around for the final push against Iuz, so they nerfed my *second* Really Evil Sub-Plot featuring Jespo Crim getting in trouble off-stage, by summoning him and saying the magic words:  "We need you."

They have actually been foiling my sub-plots left and right, but done so without really knowing what was building up against them.    It's like a Laurel and Hardy episode where they keep creaming the burgular with the ladder, the door, the window, etc., even though they don't even know he's there.


----------



## Rackhir

(contact) said:
			
		

> *
> They have actually been foiling my sub-plots left and right, but done so without really knowing what was building up against them.    It's like a Laurel and Hardy episode where they keep creaming the burgular with the ladder, the door, the window, etc., even though they don't even know he's there. *




Hmmm. could this mean that Heydricus and Prisantha's surviability is related to the infamous "Clouseau Effect" where most of the damage done to the bad guys (and the surrounding terrain) is from the villians trying to kill our heros?

Actually, that would explain a number of things. Most particularly Thrommel's death rate. He's Chief Inspector Dreyfus!


----------



## Zaruthustran

Keep it up, (contact). Love the dialogue. This is good, no, _great_ stuff.

-z


----------



## Morte

Ah-hah. Smaller party than I thought. That would explain why it has that "small party story hour effect", with the relationship between the characters coming to the fore.

BTW, I pegged Crim for an intermittent PC you'd written out for a trip or something like that, because his lines were just too good for an NPC.

"Please sir, will you heal my cat".

I swear you used to have a picture of him on a website ("The Rekatorium" or something like that) but I can't find it no more. It was well cool.


----------



## (contact)

Morte, the Rekatorium got moved-- you can find it here: http://home.earthlink.net/~cklarock/rekatorium

There are a couple of pictures of Jespo up, IIRC.  Jespo *was* my PC, but after the TOEE2, Heydricus' player stopped DMing and picked up H. full time, while I retired Jespo.


----------



## (contact)

*Reaping 6, CY 593
53: Bedfellows make for strange circumstances.*


The next morning arrives and passes, with no news from the happy couple.  Regda takes to the mines, and spends the morning with the emotes.  Heydricus tracks Jespo down in the kitchens.

“So,” he says.  “Did you pop the question?”

“Well, to be precise, I did not.”  Jespo’s haughty façade cracks, and a look of sheer terror overcomes his features.  “I don’t know what to say.  What if she says no?  What if she _laughs at me_?  Gods above,” he says, starting to panic.  “I don’t even have a ring!”

Heydricus takes Jespo by the shoulders.  “Buck up, Crim.  _You’re_ the one who makes demands of celestials, remember?”  Heydricus leans in and whispers.  “Marriage should be _less_ frightening than adventuring.”

“You’re right, but . . .”

“Do it at sunset.” Heydricus says.  “That way you’ll look the romantic instead of the coward.  Take her to the wall, on some pretense of viewing the statues, or the stars.  I can arrange for the guards to be gone, you will have complete privacy.”  Heydricus pauses to think, then says.  “I have a ring for you, as well.  It is a protective ring, the most minor sort, but it will size to fit.”

“A _wedding ring of protection_,” Jespo says to himself.  “Would that I were not penniless, I could have it enchanted up.”  He sighs, and hitches the hem of his scholar’s robe.  “You’re right, Heydricus.  This isn’t the Temple, after all, and Regda is no Zinvellon.”

-----

Heydricus, pretending not to watch, spies Jespo leading Regda to the walls, and makes himself _improved invisible_.  He follows the duo silently, vowing to himself that he wouldn’t miss this for the world.

Now, it stands to reason that the sort of man who has spent the greater part of his adult life memorizing arcane phraseology and convoluted passages in long-dead languages would have an easy time with a prepared speech.  But terror makes fools of the brightest men, and love ties even the bard’s tongue.

“Damnit, Crim, don’t you blow this,” Heydricus mutters to himself, silently willing the balding conjurer to just _spit it out_.

“Ah, Regda.  Well.” Jespo says, his voice shaking.  “I uh, have . . . well, you see.  In fact, it has occurred to me, and I’m not alone, I think.  So.”

Regda smiles at Jespo placidly, her horse-mouth reflecting the last of the sun’s light off of unusually white teeth.  She places a comforting arm on his shoulder, and Heydricus notes with some surprise (he must admit) the look of complete and utter devotion in her eyes.

“Which is to say,” Jespo continues.  “That we have known each other well enough to wish for more, I suppose.  And it is thought by many, myself included (and I should hope you concur) that one must always attempt to retain one’s honor in all situations with a social aspect.  Of course, I mean only that, well . . . I love you, Regda.  Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

“Sure,” Regda says through her smile.

“Because if you need some time to . . . oh,” Jespo says.  Fräs emerges from her pouch, with the ring in her mouth.  “Ah, the ring.  I know it looks awfully small for your hands (I believe this was worn by my old friend Keriann when we killed her, and she was a small woman), but it will size to fit, I assure you.”

“Great!” Regda says, and puts the ring on.

-----

The Liberators are gathered in the small sun-room that Martak had formerly used to dry his severed head collection.  Since her arrival, Mialec has decorated this room with a very charming floral motif.

“Here is the List,” Heydricus says.  “Jespo, are we missing anyone?”

Jespo examines the parchment.  “Who are the ‘_druid f-ckers’_?”

“They’re new,” Heydricus says.

“Well,” Jespo says, “If you mean to include the entirety of the Greater Boneheart, you must add Null, a wizard, and a fellow named Kermin Mind-Bender.  He is an enchanter.”

Dabus scribes the new names.

“So we’re thinking that we might first go after Esril and Lucius and see about getting them _resurrected_,” Heydricus says.  “The others are destroyed.”

“Yet there is this matter of the slain nobleman,” Jespo says.  “A Nyrondeese heir, I believe?”

“Yes,” Prisantha says.  “The Barony of Woodwych, in fact.  He is sole heir.”

“Well, I think that should be our first duty,” Jespo says.  “It has been postulated that the nobility are by their nature more refined of feeling, so we can surmise that their suffering must by its nature be most profound.”

“What kind of elitist crap is that?” Heydricus sneers.  

Prisantha rolls her eyes.  “If you are referring to that questionable treatise by the Marchion of Valdeese, I think you misread the man.  He was speaking metaphorically, and discussing politics at that; had you read his biography, you would have found that he was later discredited as an apologist for the late Ivid II, the man who lost the lands which became Nyrond and the Pale.”

“Well,” Jespo says, raising his eyebrows and assuming a stiff pose.  “We should still retrieve the boy first.  We have a chance to ease a mother’s suffering, and could we ask for a more noble cause?”

“You’re right, Jespo,” Heydricus says.  “First the boy, and then our companions.”

“I am dechipering the _discern location_ spell even now,” Prisantha says.  “I expect to have it completed in a few days, and then we can locate the boy’s body, or at least the largest piece of it.”

-----

Prisantha secludes herself in deep study.  The spell is complex, and the scroll she studies from is written in a particularly archaic hand.  On the fourth day of her study, she is interrupted as a figure appears out of thin air, sobbing profusely.

The woman is wracked with tears, her long red hair draped fetchingly over a low-cut green velvet gown of the finest make.  The scent of expensive rose-petal perfume clings to her, and her elaborate jewelry jingles as she reaches out to place a hand on Prisantha’s shoulders.

“Oh Pris,” she cries.  “I have nowhere else to turn!”

Prisantha’s eyes widen.  “Gwendolyn?” she asks incredulously.

Gwendolyn wipes a tear from her face and looks pleadingly at Prisantha.  “Oh, please don’t send me away.  I’ve nowhere else to go.  I’ve left the Academy.”

“You left the Academy?” Prisantha stares at the woman with a shocked expression.

“I had a spat with the Dean.  He implied that my work with Butrain was not as crucial as I thought, so I chided him.  We grew angry at one another and I called him a bald, fat apprentice.”

Prisantha is shocked.  “You called the Dean of the Academy an _apprentice_?”

“I also questioned his lineage,” Gwendolyn sniffs.  “But that was weeks ago.”

Prisantha stares at her.  Gwendolyn’s tears streak her face and form a pool in her ample cleavage.  “I cannot return to Chendl, and Willip is out of the question,” she says.  “I fear I am a wanted woman.  A common _outlaw_.”

“Wanted?” Prisantha says.

“Yes.  I turned the Baron into a donkey.”

“You . . .” Prisantha is speechless.

“He found out about my lover, and flew into a rage.”

“You kept a lover?”

“Besides Butrain, you mean?  I had several.  He found out about his leatherworker (deft hands, you know).  I suspect I was betrayed by court gossip.  He meant to strike me, the cretin.”

“The leatherworker?”

“No, the baron.  Can you imagine?  Striking a woman of my pedigree!  Fortunately, I was reading his mind at the time, so I _polymorphed_ him before he could carry out his intent.”

Prisantha shakes her head.  “Well, can it not be _dispelled_?”

Gwendolyn sniffs and snuffles, then continues.  “Actually, no.  Before I _polymorphed_ him, I used a _limited wish_ to make it _undispellable_,” she says.  She begins to cry again.  “We have broken for good, I’m afraid, and I am ruined!  Oh, Prisantha, you must let me stay here—you know I have always thought highly of you.”

“You have?” Pris asks.

“Well, you are so studious and dedicated.  Do you recall how I would return to the academy after my social engagements, and see you in the library?  I knew then that you would be greater than me someday, and I was so jealous.  Plus, you are so much prettier than I am.”

“I am?” Prisantha asks.

“Oh, yes.  _You_ don’t use magic to color your hair and skin.”

“That is true,” Prisantha concedes.

“Here,” Gwendolyn says.  “I’ve brought you something.” She hands Prisantha a scroll of _Otto’s Irresistable Dance_.  “Could you scribe it?”

“Of course,” Prisantha begins, trying to recall her courtesies.

“I cannot!” Gwendolyn sniffles.  “I always knew you would surpass me.  That someday you’d be _wishing_ and I . . . I would still be _limited_ wishing!”  Gwendolyn breaks down into tears.

Prisantha reaches out tentatively to lay a hand on the crying debutante of the Furyondian Royal Academy, and Gwendolyn collapses into her arms.  Prisantha holds the woman awkwardly, trying to think of something comforting to say.

After Gwendolyn has cried herself out, and dried her face, Prisantha regards her.  “So you were . . . _involved_ with Butrain?”

“Oh, yes.  He’s boorish, but rich.” She smiles craftily and rattles her bracelets.  “Cha-ching!”

“And you were involved with other men?”

“Well, ‘one is for money, two is for fun’.”

“But, how did you . . .” Prisantha is shocked.

“_Dominate person_, if they lacked skills,” Gwendolyn says.  “It’s all rather mundane.”

Prisantha gasps.

“Oh, don’t be so prissy, Pris,” Gwendolyn says.  “I mean, haven’t you taken to bed that strapping fighter you run around with?”

“Heydricus?  No, we . . .”

“Really?  Why ever not?  He’s so _handsome_.”

“Well, it’s not for lack of trying.  He simply cannot take a hint—I have nearly thrown myself at him.”

Gwendolyn casts an appraising eye across Prisantha, and then tugs on her blouse, lowering her neckline by several inches.  “This will improve your aim, I think.”

“You don’t know Heydricus,” Pris says.

“True, but I have met him, and frankly he strikes me as the family type.  Perfect for you.”

“Perhaps he thinks of me as a sister,” Pris sighs.

“Dear heart, it doesn’t matter if he does.  Men are simple; it is women who make things complex.  After all, you are an enchantress—adventuring, battle, or love, it is all the same.  Oh, let me stay with you and I promise that I will be your loyal friend.  I will help you get this Heydricus, and I will help you twist him about your finger until he no longer knows where he ends and your will begins.”

“I don’t know,” Pris says

“Oh, you must!  I’ve nowhere . . .”

“Else to go.” Pris finishes.  “I recall.”  Prisantha stands up, and absentmindedly caresses her _crystal ball_.  “Will you swear an oath to me?  An oath of loyalty?”

“I will!” Gwendolyn exclaims, sitting up straight and clasping her hands in a pious gesture.

“And you must swear an oath to keep our secrets.” Prisantha says.

“I will do better than an oath, I will submit to a _geas_!” Gwendolyn leans forward.  “Fetch one of your gay priests, and have him cast the spell.”

“One of our gay priests?” Prisantha gasps.

“Whichever one you’d rather,” Gwendolyn says.  “The skinny one or the new one.”

Prisantha is shocked.  “Do you think that Dabus . . .”

“Well, don’t you?” she asks.

At just this moment, the sound of a half-dozen screaming children becomes audible, and grows louder.  Heydricus enters the room, literally covered in laughing children, who cling to his back, front and sides.  “Hey Pris, I . . . well, holy sh-t.”

“Hello, Heydricus,” Gwendolyn says, favoring the Liberator with her most fetching smile.

Prisantha leans in to whisper into Gwendolyn’s ear.  “You must also swear to stay away from Heydricus!” she hisses.

“Done,” Gwendolyn whispers back, as Heydricus disengages himself from the morass of children and sends them away.

“Gwendolyn will be staying with us,” Prisantha says in a tone that brooks no discussion.  “She has turned the Baron Butrain into a donkey, and must hide from the authorities.  She has sworn a vow to keep our secrets, and will submit to a _geas_.”

“Okay,” Heydricus says sunnily.  “You turned Butrain into a donkey?’

“I did,” Gwendolyn says haughtily.  “He meant to strike me.”

“He’d hit an unarmed woman?” Heydricus exclaims.  “Why, if I were there, I’d . . .”  Heydricus makes crushing gestures with his hands.  “So you’re coming adventuring with us, then?”

Gwendolyn blushes and looks at the floor.  “I have a confession to make.”

“I imagine you have several,” Prisantha observes.

“I have never adventured before.”

“Never?” Pris asks.

“It’s easy,” Heydricus says.  “Just remember, call for healing when you need it, stay away from anything that glows until you know what it does, never split the party, and _take it one level at a time, kill everything, then move on_.”

Gwendolyn is taken around Cur’ruth, and introduced to everyone in the bustling and happy place.  Heydricus and Prisantha are revered beyond all expectation, she notes, and are greeted warmly by everyone they encounter.  

“It’s very cheery here,” Gwendolyn says.

“We love our job,” Heydricus replies.

“Plus, there are celestials in the basement,” Prisantha says.

Jespo looks up from where he and Regda are playing cards with Fräs, and his eyes narrow.  He stands before Gwendolyn with one hand tucked inside his vest.  “Oh it’s you,” he sneers. “Let me see . . . _Jezebel_ isn’t it?”

“Hello, Crim,” Gwendolyn says icily.  “I thought you were still at that . . . _school_, teaching cantrips to lackwits.”

“I am taking an adventuring sabbatical.”

“So I see,” she says, indicating the card game.  “You know, before I left Butrain, I was assigned to seduce you in order to confirm his suspicions about Thrommel.  I turned down the assignment.”

“This is the Baron’s creature!” Jespo says to Heydricus and Prisantha, pointing an accusing finger at Gwendolyn.  “Trust her not!”

“She turned the baron into a donkey, Jespo,” Heydricus explains.  “She’s all right by me.”

Jespo sniffs.  “Well, it could be a trick.”

Prisantha stands between Gwendolyn and Jespo and removes her _crystal ball_.  She _scries_ Butrain, and is rewarded with a scene of the Baronial Court at Willip.  Courtiers stand along either side of a long red carpet, as various pompous Southern Lords march in a stately procession toward the throne, where they take a knee in front of a thin, wretched-looking donkey attended by an old peasant woman festooned with a menagerie of folk charms and trinkets.  

The donkey brays, and the old woman says, “the Baron expects you to hold your fief, and orders you to uphold the Laws of the Realm.  Rise, and be recognized, as a peer of the Court.”

The woman says more, but Prisantha cannot make it out over the laughing of her companions.  The donkey does not appear to notice the _scrying_, and holds its shaggy head up and emits a dignified braying.

Heydricus is wiping tears from his face.  “If that’s the lengths he’ll go to pull one over on us, hell, I’ll give him Thrommel myself!  I haven’t laughed so hard since . . . since . . .”

Jespo chimes in, “Yes, then I’ll kill Thrommel with my own hands!”

Everyone stops laughing and looks at him.

“Get it?” Jespo asks.  No one replies.

Jespo raises one finger in the air and says, “I’ve just read a noted authority on humor, who states that all comedy is based on the unexpected, do you see?  Thus, since it is unexpected that I might throttle the prince, it becomes funny.”

“Anyway,” Prisantha says.  “We see that Gwendolyn has told us the truth.  Let us prepare this _geas_ and be done with it!”


----------



## Skaros

Awesome update!  I'm glad I read through the whole story hour the other day so I'd be ready for this new one.

Too many great moments to call out 

Skaros


----------



## Morte

Between...



			
				(contact) said:
			
		

> *“How is it all we seem to do with ourselves is hack stuff into pieces, and the list keeps getting longer?”*




and...



> *“It’s easy,” Heydricus says.  “Just remember, call for healing when you need it, stay away from anything that glows until you know what it does, never split the party, and take it one level at a time, kill everything, then move on.”*




... our Heydricus is turning into quite the sage.


----------



## Malin Genie

(contact) said:
			
		

> *Jespo chimes in, “Yes, then I’ll kill Thrommel with my own hands!”
> 
> Everyone stops laughing and looks at him.
> 
> “Get it?” Jespo asks.  No one replies.
> 
> Jespo raises one finger in the air and says, “I’ve just read a noted authority on humor, who states that all comedy is based on the unexpected, do you see?  Thus, since it is unexpected that I might throttle the prince, it becomes funny.” *




Jespo - a brilliant creation simultaneously Baldrick and Blackadder....


----------



## Plane Sailing

I've just collected all of the Liberation of Tenh story sections into a single iSilo document for reading on Palm handheld computers. The process worked so well for Sepulchraves storyhour that I decided to extend it and the LoT seemed the next obvious choice.

If anyone is interested I can email a zipped version at 233kb (unzipped it is 239k) as long as (contact) doesn't mind.

Cheers,


----------



## the_mighty_agrippa

(contact) said:
			
		

> After Gwendolyn has cried herself out, and dried her face, Prisantha regards her.  “So you were . . . _involved_ with Butrain?”
> 
> “Oh, yes.  He’s boorish, but rich.” She smiles craftily and rattles her bracelets.  *“Cha-ching!”*




tee hee.



> “Oh, don’t be so prissy, Pris,” Gwendolyn says.  “I mean, haven’t you taken to bed that strapping fighter you run around with?”
> 
> “Heydricus?  No, we . . .”
> 
> “Really?  Why ever not?  He’s so _handsome_.”
> 
> “Well, it’s not for lack of trying.  He simply cannot take a hint—I have nearly thrown myself at him.”
> 
> Gwendolyn casts an appraising eye across Prisantha, and then tugs on her blouse, lowering her neckline by several inches.  “This will improve your aim, I think.”




what, no wizard school experimentation?  what gives?


----------



## (contact)

Plane Sailing said:
			
		

> *I've just collected all of the Liberation of Tenh story sections into a single iSilo document for reading on Palm handheld computers . . . as long as (contact) doesn't mind.
> 
> Cheers, *




Go Plane Sailing!  If you'd like to read the LoT on your Palm handheld, great.  You'll look super important sitting there on the train staring at your PDA.    Every once in a while, don't forget to call someone on your cell phone (for verisimilitude).


----------



## Joshua Randall

I like to call 777-FILM and then pretend I'm having a conversation with the MoviePhone guy. But maybe that's just me.


----------



## Plane Sailing

(contact) said:
			
		

> *
> You'll look super important sitting there on the train staring at your PDA.    Every once in a while, don't forget to call someone on your cell phone (for verisimilitude). *




No cell phone yet. I've resisted the urge so far 

Mind you, the way things are going in the PDA world it won't be long before the trains are full of people shouting into their handheld computers to entertain  the rest of the carriage...

Cheers


----------



## coyote6

> _Originally posted by the_mighty_agrippa_*
> what, no wizard school experimentation? what gives?
> *



*

That's what I was thinking -- she must think Pris's Will save is too good to chance it.

Otherwise, I think I have a new signature quote.

See:*


----------



## (contact)

*Reaping 7, CY 593

54: Plodimacy . . . dimlopacy . . . Midplom . . . oh, g-ddamnit just do it my way.*

Over the next several days, Gwendolyn assists Prisantha with her transcription of the discern location spell.  Prisantha and Gwendolyn whittle away the hours not spent studying by gossiping and giggling together, occasionally falling silent when Heydricus enters the room.  

Finally, the spell is finished.  The Liberators of Tenh are gathered together, and prepare to get to work on the List.

------

_Metagame Note_:  The company now numbers seven:  Three PCs and four cohorts—Heydricus (with Dabus and Elijah), Prisantha (with Gwendolyn) and Jespo Crim (with Regda).  Secondary NPCs include C’min, Elenthal, and Prince Thrommel.

-----

Prisantha casts _discern location_ on the largest portion of the young Woodwych heir’s body.  She receives, in reply, “_The thumb of the boy is on the Prime Material Plane, Oerth, the Flannaes, Nyrond, Woodwych, the Southern Quarter,  Two Coins Way,  Friar Stetson’s Greenery and Wondrous Gardenal, the back lot, shed number seven, the third pile clockwise from the door, the fourth sack from the bottom, the middle. _”

Jespo snorts.  “The Lord sent the boy home, after all!”  

Fräs hisses.

“Well, I’m ready,” Pris says, and shyly reaches out her hand to Heydricus for the _teleport_ spell.

“We’re all going, right?” Heydricus says with a smile, looking around at his friends.

“Don’t be simple, Heydricus,” Gwendolyn says.  “It’s a greenery, not a dungeon.  Pris must go, and you can attend her just in case the teleport mis-fires.”  Heydricus looks unsure, so Gwendolyn continues, “If you think I’m getting this dress filthy, you’d best think again.”  

Heydricus shrugs and Gwen tips a subtle wink to Prisantha.

One _teleport_ spell later, Heydricus and Pris are in a small, dilapidated shack, no more than eight feet to a side, its wooden slats set poorly enough to allow occasional beams of sunlight in, giving the room a mellow glow.  Sacks of fertilizer fill almost all of the space, forcing them to stand close to one another.

Prisantha quickly locates the indicated sack and holds it across her body from Heydricus.  “You reach in and get the thumb,” she says.  “I’ll hold the sack.”

“Is that a new perfume?” Heydricus says.

“Rose oil,” she says demurely.

Heydricus roots around in the sack, eventually emerging with a grey and desiccated thumb-tip.  Prisantha is flushed and flustered, and nearly botches the _teleport_ spell back home, but by the time the sun sets, the young heir to Woodwych is restored both body and soul, and apparently none the worse for wear.

The boy pleads with the group to resurrect his companion, a young cousin of his, and the one who was actually in debt with the Lord of Stoink.  He promises that both sets of parents will pay handsome rewards for the return of the children.  Apparently, his time as a trapped soul has not scarred him—his last memory was of a half-orc who appeared out of thin air, and began laying into everyone in the room with a greatsword.  There was a bit of blood and then nothing.  He awoke looking into Dabus’ eyes.

When told of his full ordeal, and the jeopardy his immortal soul was in, the boy cries and begs for the return of his cousin.  In the end, the group relents, and the young companions are together again, taking their ease in Cur’ruth amongst the celestial emotes.

-----

“Look Jespo, everyone needs the friendship of a king,” Heydricus is lecturing the conjurer, and in this instance at least, Fräs has chosen to side with the Liberator.  She follows him back and forth as he paces in front of Jespo’s chair.  Heydricus has just received word that Thrommel has secured Nevond Nevnend and makes for Cur’ruth with full haste.

“I have nothing to apologize for!” Jespo protests.  “It was a fool’s errand, and you yourself admitted as much.”

“It was an important mission,” Heydricus begins.

“Now you are lying.  You and I both know you would never trust anything of import to Thrommel.”

“Important for Thrommel, I was about to say.  And Belvor himself commanded it.”

“I don’t care if Tritherion, Pholtus and St. Cuthbert write me a personal note, I’m not apologizing.”

Prisantha leans in the doorway, her arms crossed.  “Jespo,” she says.  “We’re not asking you to go back into his service, but you might as well make friends with him.  And you should know, you’ll never see that gold.  The Furyondian treasury is bankrupt.”

“Nonsense!”

“We have it from Reine himself.  Belvor spent his coin out on the Great Crusade.”

“Then he is a fool, and thrice a fool for appointing Reine.”

Prisantha rolls her eyes.  “He is a noble man willing to make sacrifices for the greater good, and his vision reaches beyond national borders,” Prisantha corrects him.  “You should try to do the same.”

“Well, Regda always says that I’m hard to stay mad at,” Jespo admits.

“Just use Thrommelisms,” Prisantha says.  “He’s a sucker for them.  Say something about his ‘noble duty’, or a ‘brave cause’.  You can’t go wrong.”

-----

Jespo stands stiffly at the gates, watching the dust-cloud on the horizon slowly enlarge until the watchers can see that a mounted troop approaches.  If Thrommel is good for anything, it appears to be inspiring the loyalty of soldiers.  By the time he reaches Cur’ruth, it becomes clear that Thrommel rides at the head of a force triple the size of the one he set out with, and that does not even include the occupying garrison at Nevond Nevnend. Jespo scowls.

“Try to smile,” Heydricus says as he pats Jespo on the back, granting him _eagle’s splendor_.

As Thrommel draws near, Prisantha _demands_ that the prince “forgive Jespo Crim for once and for all, at your first opportunity.”  The prince simply cannot resist her magic, even while wearing the resistance items Jespo had crafted for him.

When Thrommel rides up, he immediately prances his charger over to Jespo and pats him on the head.  “Look here, Crim.  For once and for all, I forgive you.  A moment’s indiscretion mustn’t come between war companions, eh?”

“Well, I have forgiven you, as it happens,” Jespo says stiffly.

“Fine, fine,” Thrommel says, but he is already riding for Heydricus, the glory of his first military victory glowing behind his eyes.

-----

C’min, Elenthal and Elijah crushed the Orcish forces encamped in the approach to Nevond Nevnend the very night that they killed every Stonefister in the city.  The Stonefisters had been easy; fat and decadent, most of them had forgotten how to fight and died without putting up much of a struggle.  The orcs were tougher, to be sure, but Elenthal had been equipped with a _wand of cure moderate wounds_ and the Liberators had all night.  Their pattern had been established early on:  Move into the orcish encampment, isolate their target, kill it, and disappear.  Over the course of that long night, the orcs came to believe that they were facing some kind of ghost, and after twelve long hours, the Liberators killed every orcish officer, clan-speaker, shaman or campfire bully willing to remain within the encampment.

By the time Thrommel arrived, the orcish army was so demoralized that they would have surrendered to the wind, had it offered them the chance.  The orcs ran at first contact, just like he’d thought they would, and Thrommel silently wished that he’d followed his original plan.

-----

The Liberator’s trip to Nyrond is a smashing success.  Jespo remains behind with Regda, as he had no part in the whole affair.  Gwendolyn is not so well trusted as to be left where Prisantha cannot keep an eye on her, despite the women’s fast-blooming friendship.

In Woodwych, both boys are ransomed for princely sums, with the heir’s ransom as a matter of pride set five thousand gold pieces above his cousin’s.  To further express her gratitude, the Baroness of Woodwych fiefs Heydricus, Dabus and Prisantha, raising each one of them to a Peer of the Court.  Heydricus is given the Lordship of Valmont, a small tract of land situated well off the beaten path, Prisantha raised to Lady of Bendensford, due a small moat-and-bailey keep and all incomes arising from the estate, and Dabus is made Lord of the Green Marches, a nearly-forgotten demesne given over to seed years ago when its former master was executed for treason.  The net effect of this entitlement is that the Liberators may look the king in his eye, and speak directly to him in court, a large boon in the extremely proper and regimented Nyrondeese court.

Although she does not share her feelings with her friends, Prisantha feels a surge of pride.  For the first time in her life, she owns a home.  A dilapidated keep to be sure, but it is _her_ dilapidated keep.



_Metagame note_:  Before their journey, I had Heydricus and Prisantha make Diplomacy checks for me.  Prisantha’s natural twenty resulted in a 38, and Heydricus (no slouch himself) rolled a 35.  In my conception of the campaign world, only the rarified few reach name level (9th), nonetheless the Liberator’s lofty heights. 

We could expect a gifted and highly motivated Nobleman to be a 6th-level aristocrat with max ranks in Diplomacy (+9) with a +2 from Charisma, giving him an average result of 21, and a best-possible result of 31.  So the Liberators put on a Diplomatic show well beyond the norm, most likely unequalled in recent memory.



The king of Nyrond is the night to Belvor’s day.  Where Furyondy’s paladin monarch is warm and effusive, valuing good deeds over rigid order, His August Supremacy, Altmeister of all the Aerdi, King Archbold III is cold and distant, clinging to a strictly regimented convention to govern the dealings in his court.

The effect of his nature is most readily observed in the tendencies of his nobles to place their gaze upon whatever their king is regarding, and to listen with their full attention to whatever their king has chosen to focus on.  The court of Nyrond is a place where one person speaks at a time, and takes up as much of the floor as the king will have.  As Archbold is a man of impeccable moral character possessed of an innate sense of fairness, it is readily noted that no noble goes without an opportunity to address the court, provided they follow the form of the function to the letter.

As a result, the king’s interest in the tales and deeds of the Liberators of Tenh ensures that the better part of Nyrond’s ruling class learns first-hand of the doings in Tenh.  The fact that the Liberators are advancing the cause of good may be (in this prickly and rigid place), a lesser accomplishment in Nyrond’s eyes than the fact that they are single-handedly blunting the expansionistic ambitions of the Pale.  

When the states that would eventually become Nyrond and the Pale split from the great kingdom, there was a long period of brotherhood and shared patriotic feeling.  Pholtus was their god, and His Law was in its Rightful Place in the lives of His people.  But a religious schism grew, and the Westernmost counties chafed at what they viewed as an increasingly rigid and autocratic religious rule.  In time, Nyrond separated from the Pale, and in truth the two nations have never been at peace, even though they are not always at war.

The Liberators pass several days at court, waiting for the opportune moment to request an audience with the king.  When they are certain the time has arrived, they make their request, and are received in the king’s private chambers, a rare compliment from a ruler who believes that deception paves the road to folly, and everything of value should be spoken in the open. 

King Archbold is a fearlessly honest man, and as the Liberators negotiate a mutual-defense treaty between Tenh and Nyrond, he tells them frankly that such a treaty will certainly involve war with the Pale, and possibly soon.  

“You know, I was expecting war with them anyway,” Heydricus says warmly.  “Perhaps our alliance will give them pause.”   No one believes it for a moment, but they all smile.

And with a single pen-stroke, the King of Nyrond joins his nation with Tenh, and becomes the first ruler of the Flannaes to recognize Heydricus Tritherionson as the new Regent and acting Duke of Tenh.

-----

As the Liberators are preparing to leave Nyrond, they hear a disturbing rumor—Ogon Tillit (his Lawful and Holy Voice, Lord Magistrate and Supreme Prelate of the Holy Empire of the Pale) was assassinated in Wintershiven five days ago.  The tales all differ; some blame fiends, others claim that Hextorian priests were the culprits, while even more fanciful tales cast flying dog-headed faeries as the killers, but they all agree on one crucial respect—the fall that killed the Prelate was no accident.

“My god,” Dabus exclaims.

“This is bad,” Heydricus agrees.

“I think I know who did this,” Prisantha says.

“We all know,” Heydricus agrees.

Prisantha purses her lips, and pouts for a moment before saying, “This was a message.  I read it as twofold:  First, it was a gesture of reconciliation.”

“Will no one rid me of this priest?” Heydricus mutters to himself ironically.

“And second,” Prisantha says, “Anyone can be killed.”


----------



## Lazybones

Just finished reading the whole _Liberators_ saga over the last few days at work.  Great stuff, even better than I remembered it.  Glad to see it's being updated once again.


----------



## Zaruthustran

> “I think I know who did this,” Prisantha says.
> 
> “We all know,” Heydricus agrees.




Uh... I don't! Unless it's Iuz. But I have a feeling that Prisantha and H have someone else in mind. 

Clue, please!

-z the clueless.


----------



## (contact)

Zaruthustran said:
			
		

> *Clue, please!*




*From 42:  Fighting in Stoink, Things Come Full Circle.*

The Lord of Stoink leans back in his chair.  “So, what’s in it for you?”

“For us?” Prisantha says.

“Figure of speech,” the Lord says.  “I mean, ‘how can I ever repay your generosity’.”

Heydricus leans forward.  “Could you stage a coup in Wintershiven?”

“Ah.  On what kind of notice?” the Lord asks.

“2 years.”

The lord fingers his chin in an imitation of deep thought and says, “It’d be tight, but yeah, anybody can be killed if you throw enough money at the problem.” After a moment he hastily corrects himself, “I mean, ‘we could effect a regime change if the political climate is right’.”


----------



## Rackhir

Yup that's about who I figured it was. Boy I wish I could run in this campaign. No angst, no self doubt, no mindless moral quibbling. The Liberators know who they are, what they want and are going to get the job done. If you get in their way, they are going to run right over you and leave boot marks on your body as they tromp right over you. Keep up the good works guys! 

P.S. Many thanks for the time line.


----------



## KidCthulhu

Rackhir said:
			
		

> *If you get in their way, they are going to run right over you and leave boot marks on your body as they tromp right over you. *




Yeah, but they're such stylish boots that you'll run right out to the store before the bruises fade so you can get a pair just like them.


----------



## (contact)

(stomp) (stomp) 

Iuzinan:  "Ooo, look at  the detail on the sole."  

(stomp) (stomp) 

Henchman:  "Yesss sir, now that's craftsmanship.  Yeeeessssss."

(stomp)(stomp)

Iuzian:  "Do you think they're expensive?  They look Baklunish."

Henchman: "I'd athk, thir bhut I loht my teef."


----------



## (contact)

*Reaping 23, CY 593
55: Making a List, and checkin’ it twice.*

Upon their return to Cur’ruth, Elenthal and C’min are quickly dispatched to Stoink to take up a secret appraisal of the Lord’s full organization and strength.  Elijah wishes to go, but it is felt that her previous dealings with the Lord might jeopardize the mission.

“Don’t worry,” Heydricus says, patting The List.  “We’ll have plenty for you to do.”

The next item before the Liberators is the retrieval and resurrection of all their former adventuring companions who are still partially whole and ultimately, willing.  Unfortunately, first condition narrows the list to only Esril and Lucius, and Lucius may prove intractable in his current undead state.

Therefore, it is decided that Esril should be the first.  The location of her corpse is discerned to be a shallow grave in the Chendl Royal Grounds.  Three spells and an hour’s work with a spade later, Esril sits up with a dazed look on her face, the bright Tenh sun shining on the dirt still clinging to her body.

“I have been poisoned!” she says, removing a worm from her mouth.

“Well, that was months ago,” Prisantha says.

“Welome back, Esril,” Heydricus says.  “Welcome to Tenh.”

After Esril is bathed, dressed and appraised of current events, it is agreed that Chendl is not a safe place for her any longer, and she is offered a position as Swordmistress for the Liberation Army of Tenh.

“I accept,” she says warmly.  “Kelanen’s work be done.”

-----

The Liberators stand around Prisantha’s _crystal ball_.  Jespo and Regda hold hands, and Gwendolyn offers _scrying_ advice.  Prisantha focuses on Lucius, and after a minute, an image appears.

Lucius is seen to be standing at the railing of what looks for all the world like a sailing vessel, except where the sea should be, scrub plain and rocky hillside roll past.  Lucius stands next to two figures; a stocky, heavily-armored dwarf, his eyebrows, hair and beard braided together with small bones, stands to Lucius’ left.  On his right is an effete, exceptionally tall elf, dressed in bright colors, his skin so pale as to almost seem colorless.

Beyond the elf, toward the fore of the vessel, a tall forecastle emerges from the deck and is joined with a massive ramming spike.  Several gnolls come and go, manipulating a system of levers and pulleys set into the deck of the forecastle.  Most disturbingly, an impossibly large giant is impaled through the back by the spike, its arms bound behind it and lashed to the prow of the vessel with thick bands of razor-wire.

Lucius gazes over the railing, watching the scenery go past.

“Does any of this look familiar, Maturin?” The elf asks.

Lucius does not look at him.  “I told you, I’ve never been here before.”

The dwarf laughs and says, “We shall see, _creature_, we shall see.  Play us false, and you will kiss Ombi’s axe.”

Lucius hands the dwarf a dagger.  “Maybe you should kill me with this, instead,” he says sardonically.

Ombi scowls as he takes the blade.  “This is _my_ dagger!”

“And be careful with it,” Lucius says.  “I poisoned the blade.”  Lucius turns to fix the dwarf with a withering gaze.  “Or the hilt, I forget which.”  Ombi drops the dagger to the deck and reaches for his axe.

“Peace, Lord Ombi,” the elf says, reaching across the undead assassin to place a restraining hand on the dwarf’s arm.  “Friend Lucius was merely having a jest.  He will soon learn what place humor has within the Boneshadow.  We will teach him what we find amusing once we make Nevond Nevnend.”

-----

“The _Boneshadow_!” Heydricus gasps with delight.

Lord Ombi, Sunifarel Brightrobe—“Killer” Keak, Dorag the Butcher, Gleed Thrice-Decieved and Griswald Hairhand.  The most infamous adventuring group in the Flannaes, the Boneshadow are Iuz’ personal trouble-shooters, given the assignments that His clergy cannot, or will not undertake.  There is not an adventurer in all the land who has not heard of the foul doings of the Boneshadow.  It is said by those in the know that during the Greyhawk Wars, the fall of the Horned Lands was nearly entirely due to the efforts of the Boneshadow.  It was in that conflict that Dorag the Butcher gained his epithet: untold thousands of innocents were murdered when Dorag led his calvary in a victory march from Molag back to Dorokka, on a red-carpet of human bodies.

“I don’t know . . .” Jespo says.

“Don’t know what?” Heydricus cuts him off.  “Whether we go now, or prepare spells first?”

“Let me speak with Tritherion,” Dabus says.  “We should not go in blind.”

-----

Dabus’ personal sanctuary is a warm and lovingly decorated place.  Ritual regalia of Tritherion’s faith is tastefully placed throughout the small niche where he meditates, giving a silent testimony to the depths of his faith.

“Great Lord Tritherion, Father and Mother to Retribution, heed your faithful servant,” Dabus begins.

“_You have my ear, Dabus Twice-Born.  What would you have of Me?_”

“We have seen the Boneheart.  Do they have powerful allies with them other than these gnolls?”

“_They do._”

“More than ten creatures?”

“_Yes._”

“Is there a wizard amongst their membership?”

“_There are several._”

“Is there a priest among them?”

“_No._”

“Do they have a blackguard amongst their number?”

“_No, for they disparage the gods, and cannot abide men of faith.  For this reason, they are free of Iuz, and thus useful to him._”

“Is Lucius a member of the Boneheart? “

“_The entity that shares Lucius’ body is a member of the Boneheart._”

“Did Aletha send the Boneheart after us?”

“_She did, against her master’s wishes._”

“Does Aletha know who we are?”

“_She knows many things, this among them._”

“Is their boat a construct?”

“_It is._”

“Will it fight us if we are on its back?”

“_No more than a rough sea beneath your feet._”

“The undead at the prow, can it be controlled or dominated by our spells? “

“_Yes._”

“Have we drawn the eyes of the Old One? “

“_Iuz has larger and more pressing concerns._”

“Are the gnolls within the juggernaut a threat? “

“_A man who sleeps with his mouth open might drown in the rain._”

“Is there a dimensional anchor on the vessel? “

“_Not yet._”

-----

By the time Dabus returns to his companions, they have equipped themselves, and made ready.  Heydricus is beaming, Prisantha seems to be concentrating, Jespo looks squeamish, and Gwendolyn is trying to appear composed.  Radga, for her part, helps Elijah with her sword-belts, smiling placidly.

Heydricus opens his portable hole.  “Allright,” he barks.  “Dabus, you’re going _improved invisible_ and will _teleport_ in with Pris and I.  The rest of you—into the bag.”


----------



## Derrick Reeves

All-right!  The Liberators go forth to vanquish The List!

I can't wait for the next installment.

No, really.

I can't.

I want it now.

Now!


----------



## Rackhir

MAN! All is right with the world, nearly daily updates of LoT. Now if pretzels were somewhat more lethal, we'd be living in paradise. 

I really love the "List" by the way. It is so elementally the Liberators and just makes SO much sense for a high level party.


----------



## Schmoe

Wooohooo!  This ought to be good.


----------



## (contact)

Derrick-- just for you:

*56:  Beating down Eeeevil on the deck of a giant land-crawling construct that isn't Jabba the Hut's pleasure-ship repurposed for D&D.*

Heydricus and them blip in and there are some nasties waiting but they're all "bring it" and the elementals are all "we will," and the undead are all "f that son, I got your back," and the Liberators are all "pft-- is that all you got," and the Iuzians are all "what do you take us for," and the Liberators are all, "you're the guys who get gore on our swords," and the Iuzains were all, "eat 8d6 sneak attack damage, punk," and the undead are all, "yeah," and the elementals are all, "how did we end up in Mechanus," and the gigantic monsters are all, "weren't we the highest CR here?  What the hell happened?" and the Iuzians were all, "yeah, where did you get the new wizards," and Jespo was all, "don't ask," and Heydricus was all "don't tell," and Gwen was all, "don't start," and Pris was all, "don't stop," and they didn't (until they had to).


----------



## Alomir

Oh, man, this is going to be good... and bad...  I just wonder which side is going to be which.

Can't wait for that update!


----------



## GreyShadow

(contact), can I have my updates in at least 2 paragraphs next time? 

Sounds great, and will wait.


----------



## ForceUser

(contact) said:
			
		

> *Derrick-- just for you:
> 
> 56:  Beating down Eeeevil on the deck of a giant land-crawling construct that isn't Jabba the Hut's pleasure-ship repurposed for D&D.
> 
> Heydricus and them blip in and there are some nasties waiting but they're all "bring it" and the elementals are all "we will," and the undead are all "f that son, I got your back," and the Liberators are all "pft-- is that all you got," and the Iuzians are all "what do you take us for," and the Liberators are all, "you're the guys who get gore on our swords," and the Iuzains were all, "eat 8d6 sneak attack damage, punk," and the undead are all, "yeah," and the elementals are all, "how did we end up in Mechanus," and the gigantic monsters are all, "weren't we the highest CR here?  What the hell happened?" and the Iuzians were all, "yeah, where did you get the new wizards," and Jespo was all, "don't ask," and Heydricus was all "don't tell," and Gwen was all, "don't start," and Pris was all, "don't stop," and they didn't (until they had to). *



Hilarious man, hilarious. Love this sh-t.


----------



## KidCthulhu

(contact) said:
			
		

> *Heydricus and them blip in and there are some nasties waiting but they're all "bring it" and the elementals are all "we will," and the undead are all "f that son, I got your back," and the Liberators are all "pft-- is that all you got," ..*




It's no "100 words" post, but I'll give you points for concise.


----------



## Joshua Randall

> 56:  Beating down Eeeevil on the deck of a giant land-crawling construct that isn't Jabba the Hut's pleasure-ship repurposed for D&D.



Y'know, when I read about the ship that sails on (through?) land, I thought of one of the Elric of Melnibone stories. Can't recall which one off hand, but it definitely involved a ship crossing land instead of ocean. And, the albino elf in (contact)'s story just reinforced my memory, seein' as how Elric was all pasty himself.

No, I don't know why I'm talking like some old guy in a Western.

_Edit: danged brackets!_


----------



## CrusadeDave

*Yay!*

Liberators action, it's Fan-tastic.

Now if we could only get some stat-blocks, for the entire party, as they've undoubtedly leveled up quite a bit since the last update.


----------



## (contact)

Ah.  Statblocks. I would, but I only keep current stat blocks for the Liberators, which would include major spoilers.  

But I can tell you that at the time of this update, the Liberators are:

*Dabus:* human male Cleric 14
*Elijah:* human female Ranger 13
*Gwendolyn*: human female Wizard 15
*Heydricus:* human male Fighter 4 / Sorcerer 8 / Holy Liberator 3 / Divine Champion 2
*Jespo:* human male Wizard 13
*Regda:* human female Fighter 10
*Prisantha:* human female Wizard 15

And I will also say that it's about to get all TOEE2 up in here.

(Except with even more ass-kicking)


----------



## CrusadeDave

*Thank you.*

I assume Gwendolyn is a Wizard in the 12-13 range?

This is just an amazing story hour. It finally motivated me to DM again, and eventually start a Story Hour. Keep up the great work.


----------



## Rackhir

(contact) said:
			
		

> *And I will also say that it's about to get all TOEE2 up in here.
> 
> (Except with even more ass-kicking) *




[PINING] Sigh... Any chance work will force you out to the east coast, preferably somewhere in philly?[/PINING] 

Hmmm. An observations though. No mention of Gwen in the stat blocks. I guess we'll have to wait and see if (contact) starts to airbrush her out of his posts.



> Y'know, when I read about the ship that sails on (through?) land, I thought of one of the Elric of Melnibone stories. Can't recall which one off hand, but it definitely involved a ship crossing land instead of ocean. And, the albino elf in (contact)'s story just reinforced my memory, seein' as how Elric was all pasty himself.




It's called the Ship Which Sails on Land and Sea it was used in the first Elric book.


----------



## (contact)

Rackhir said:
			
		

> *An observations though. No mention of Gwen in the stat blocks.  *




I edited her in.  Her stat block will go up in the Rogue's Gallery thread in about 3 updates from now, when the SH is current with my information.

Sorry, guys, I got lazy with the Rogues' Gallery, and it was an unexpected glitch for the game to run ahead of my post-rate.  It's never happened before!

(Yeah, yeah, I know, it happens to all men eventually.  But not me. . . not _the kid_.)


----------



## Schmoe

(contact) said:
			
		

> *
> And I will also say that it's about to get all TOEE2 up in here.
> 
> (Except with even more ass-kicking) *




From what I remember of the TOEE2, that means that the PC's are in for a serious ass-whooping.  Remind us again what the PC deathtoll was in TOEE2?  Oh yeah, it was *A Lot*.


----------



## (contact)

*Reaping 23, CY 593
56: The Headsman’s Whore.*

Heydricus, Dabus and Prisantha appear mere feet away from the trio of villains Prisantha _scryed_ earlier.  All three of Liberators are cloaked by an _improved invisible_ spell.  Heydricus holds his _portable hole_ so that the opening dangles vertically from his left hand.  As they materialize, Dabus contemplates Tritherion’s _righteous might_, and grows to nearly twice his normal size.

The deck of the _Headsman’s Whore_ does not rock and undulate gently with the sea, as would a normal ship.  Rather, it seems to have a mind of its own, leaping and springing against the weight of the Liberators’ feet as soon as they arrive.  They can feel the thing palpably _hating_ them, and the disquiet preys on their minds for the duration of their stay.

They appear toward the prow of the vessel, no more than sixty feet from the colossal corpse impaled upon the ship’s ram.  The giant’s upper torso towers twenty feet above the point where the spike pierces it through the chest.  Its arms are pulled backwards and strapped to the prow with thick bands of razor-wire, as if it is to be drawn and quartered.  The thing bounces along limply, occasionally bobbing its massive head against the motion of the vessel, or wheezing air through the hole in its chest.

Directly in front of the _invisible_ Liberators are the three figures noted in Prisantha’s _scrying_; Lucius Maturin, Sunifarel Brightmantle, and Lord Ombi, called “the little devil” by his friends for the depth of his depravity.  At the sound of the expanding air that distinguishes a _teleport_ spell, Sunifarel and Ombi both turn around. The elf allows a momentary panic to cross his features before he backs up to the railing.  

Ombi, on the other hand, cocks his head and squints.  Maybe there’s something wrong with his eyes, he thought he heard somebody comin’ to kill him?  Ombi laughs and brandishes his dwarven war axe, saying, “Who wants a piece of Ombi?  _Who wants to wet my mommy-chopper_?”

Lucius does not turn around at all.  Rather, his hands remain on the rail while his head rotates on his shoulders until it is facing the opposite direction from its natural orientation.  He still has a head of the thick, black, curly hair that marked him in life; and while his complexion has drained of color, his hair looks strangely _alive_ against his dead skin.  Lucius maintains a flat expression, but regards Heydricus with a look that the sorcerer fancies contains some glimmer of companionship, and perhaps even a silent plea within it.  Lucius begins to walk backwards toward the Liberators, his body rotating slightly with each step, his head maintaining its facing all the while.  After four paces both his torso and his head are facing Heydricus.  

“There are only three of them,” he drawls.  “Directly where I gaze.”

-----

The _Headsman’s Whore_ rumbles along on hundreds of wheels and rolling bars emerging from the lower decks.  Free from the restraints of either aerodynamics or good taste, the deck is a riot of garish color and lewd relief work.  Horrific murals and sculptures in various stones and metals depict the most depraved acts imaginable, involving nearly every human taboo in any variety of combinations.

To the aft end of the juggernaut’s deck, a delicately curved retaining wall forms the base of the aftcastle.  Its graceful span is pierced at deck level by four large, oblong holes, spaced equidistantly along its length.  This wall is divided in its center by a set of broad steps that give out onto the first level of the aftcastle, some 20 feet above deck.  At deck level, directly in front of the stairs, a trio of iron grates cover three large holes, each one some six feet in diameter.  Just beyond the stairs, at the first level above deck, an iron-bound double door is the only opening into the covered barbican of the aftcastle, another 20 feet in height.

Perched on the top of this building is the biggest three-headed insectile advanced manticore the party has ever seen.

At least seventy feet from tip to tail, the foul beast possesses a fly’s multifaceted eyes, along with the general build and markings of a praying mantis.  But where a praying mantis might be expected to have only one head, this thing has three.  All three heads are disturbingly human-like, despite the insect features and rows of glistening metal teeth protruding from the four-foot wide mouths.  As the creature turns its gazes toward the party, its bony scorpion tail flexes, brandishing a morning-star head of bony spikes at its tip.  It begins to buzz its fly-wings, and the impossibly loud droning washes over the Liberators with a wave of sound, apathy, and hopelessness.

“Um, that’s bad,” says Heydricus.

At that moment, all three of the iron grates set into the deck seem to explode, as fifty-foot tall jets of flame burst from them, reaching toward the sky.  As the air shimmers and dances from the heat, thin licks of flame separate themselves from the main mass to form arms, and something resembling a head.  All three gargantuan fire-spirits begin to roll and roil toward the characters.

“Wow, that’s worse,” says Heydricus.

Just as he says so, several pieces of the stone and metal statuary flex and pull themselves away from their embeddings, stomping laboriously across the deck.  The two iron statues appear to be identical—stark, expressionistic renderings of a massively emaciated old man.  The four stone statues represent the worst of the victims of the unnatural decadence showcased by the juggernaut’s decoration.

“Okay, this is bullsh-t.” Heydricus says.  He draws his sword, keeping the _portable hole_ open with his other hand.

“I _wish_ I was safe in my room,” Sunifarel says, as he disappears.  Heydricus sighs.

Elijah is the first Liberator out of the bag, and she leaps from the _portable hole_ and into a cat-like crouch directly in front of Lucius.  The cadaverous assassin gazes into her eyes and cruelly compresses her courageous heart and iron will into a tiny, mewling, infantile ball.  Elijah gasps in sheer terror, and scrambles away from the undead monstrosity.

As Elijah’s desperate stumbling becomes a run, Lucius flings a handful of glitter-powder into the air as a momentary distraction, and is gone.  

Ombi stands alone before the Liberators, but if the prospect frightens him, he shows no sign.  “Come on, you,” he says.  “Have a lick . . .”

Dabus _summons_ a celestial dire lion directly on top of the dwarf.  Ombi grunts once as he goes down under the lion’s weight, then grunts again as the lion tears a halfling-sized chunk out of the dwarf.  The presence of the celestial lion seems to repulse the _Headman’s Whore_, and the deck surface ripples out away from the lion, as if to escape.  Ombi manages to wiggle his head and shoulders free from the lion just as Heydricus pounces on him.  One, two, three swings, and the dwarf is in four parts.

Gwendolyn emerges from the _portable hole_, followed by Regda and Jespo Crim.  Gwen _flies_ above the deck and tries to focus on the confusing mass of golems, elementals and . . . _things_ below.

Prisantha concentrates on Sunifarel, and _demands_ that he “return and surrender at once.”  Not being the sort of elf to recognize a gift horse while examining its teeth, Sunifarel clings greedily to his remaining thirty-six seconds of life, and refuses to emerge from his room.  

“He resisted me!” Pris exclaims.  “That’s unusual.”

“Fine,” Heydricus says as he chops at a twitching dwarven hand.  “We’ll do it the hard way.”  He looks across the deck at the mass of monstrous foes assembled against him.  “We’ll do them _all_ the hard way.”

The colossal zombie at the prow twitches, shudders, and then begins thrashing against its binds.  In a moment it has torn its arms free, and begins to swing at Liberators, the thick strands of razor-wire whipping through the air.  Gwendolyn is taken unawares, and slashed across the backs of both legs.  Thankfully, her _stoneskin_ prevents the wire from severing her legs outright.  

Jespo notes the presence of the giant with a startled yelp, and reflexively _summons_ a hound archon onto the forecastle.  The archon itself spans no more than the distance between the giant’s sternum and chin, but surrounds itself with a celestial’s fury, and lays into the thing.

The massive three-headed insecticore springs toward the party’s position, its droning wings barely able to provide it any momentum against the forward-motion of the juggernaut.  Nonetheless, it clumsily navigates the distance between them, and lands belly-first onto the deck, crushing the Liberators beneath its bulk!  Heydricus is too near the rail to be affected, Elijah running away too quickly, and Gwendolyn _flying_ too high in the air, but the rest of the party is trapped beneath fifty feet of crushing, chitinous, dogpile.

Elijah’s mad panic sends her directly beneath one of the fire spirits, and thin tendrils of flame lick her skin as she runs past.  She catches on fire, but does not seem to care, the imperative to flee Lucius paramount in whatever part of her mind still reasons.


----------



## (contact)

*The Headsman’s Whore, continued.*


Two of the towering fire spirits converge on Dabus’ lion, entwining it with snake-like coils of flame.  The lion bursts afire, is crushed, and then disappears.

Heydricus leaps on the insecticore, slicing into one of its back legs with his characteristic ferocity, but the beast is simply too large to dispatch quickly.  Underneath its belly, Dabus invokes his _feat of strength_, and breaks free.  He is instantly set upon by the fire elementals and golems.

Gwendolyn responds admirably, considering her inexperience with this sort of all-out mayhem, and casts a _prismatic spray_ across her foes’ line.  Two of the fire elementals are instantly transformed into stone, and fall to the deck, shattering into a hundred finely-sculpted flames.  The last elemental is whisked away to another plane, never to return.


_Metagame note_:  Gwendolyn the hero?  The insecticore made its save against the _prismatic spray_ by the feelers of it’s chinny, chin chin, doing so only by the grace of the _protection from good _emanating from the deck of the _Headsman’s Whore_.
Heydricus slices into the bug-like monstrosity one more time for good measure, then uses the last remaining token on his _bracelet of friends_ to call Prisantha out from under the beast, and to his side.  Prisantha takes a quick assessment of the situation and _dispels_ the fear effect that has seized Elijah.  

The insecticore turns its attention on Dabus, and nearly slices him in two with one of its massive pincers, but is partially foiled by Dabus’ _circlet of minor displacement_.  Dabus turns to the creature and stabs through its exoskeleton, drawing a thick, ochre fluid to the surface.  Tritherion must surely have His hand on His cleric, as Dabus’ circlet seems to also confound the golems attempting to smash him with their heavy limbs.


_Metagame Note_:  Whatever my dice may think of the other Liberators, they apparently _love_ Dabus.  Dabus’ 20% miss chance allowed him to avoid no less than eight blows (including two confirmed critical hits) over the first five rounds of the fight!
Several gnoll archers begin to muster along the top of the aftcastle, and Gwendolyn responds by sealing the back portion of the vessel behind a _wall of force_.  Just as she completes her spell, Gwendolyn notices that Sunifarel has poked his head out of the double-doors in the aftcastle.  The elven wizard points a finger at her, but his _magic missiles_ are deflected harmlessly by the unseen _wall_.  Sunifarel curses and slams the door shut.

Freed from her magical fright, Elijah attacks two of the remaining golems, and is slammed by them in response.  At the other end of the deck, Dabus passes inside the insecticore’s reach, and runs it through its multi-chambered heart with his _holy spear_.  The creature shudders once, and its writhing heads fall to the deck, acidic drool dribbling from between metallic teeth.  Dabus reverses his spear, and punctures one of the stone golems, severing an arm.

Heydricus readies his _wand of fireballs_, and evokes a firey burst about the head of the massive zombie.  The creature wheezes its displeasure through the hole in its chest, but does not seem to be greatly harmed.

At that moment, a second insecticore emerges from what must be a hole in the roof of the aftcastle.  The thing buzzes its wings, but runs into the _wall of force_, and all three heads cast about looking for the source of the obstacle, as its wings beat frantically to give it enough elevation to rise above the _wall_.  Gwendolyn flies well above her _wall_, and directs a _disintegrate_ beam at the monstrosity, but the spell merely burns a hole through one of its necks, instead of evaporating it outright.

The golems fighting Elijah surround her, and after a flurry of metallic and stony blows, she cries out for healing.  Dabus rushes to her side, and between the two of them one of the golems is destroyed.

Prisantha follows her cohort’s _disintegration_ ray and notices the insecticore at the other end of the ship.  She targets it with a _hold monster_, and the flying creature collapses upon the gnoll archers, immoblilzed.

At this point, Regda is able to crawl out from under the insecticore corpse, and she pulls Jespo free.   The wily conjurer surrounds the collosus at the prow with a field of _black tentacles_, and the inky tendrils lash out and begin to constrict every part of the zombie that can be seized upon.  The zombie rips one tentacle from the ground with a childlike glee, and begins using it to smash the other pseudopods, but its efforts are a lost cause.  Within moments, the things have immobilized the zombie, and begin to destroy its structural integrity.  One massive severed arm falls to the deck, its meat _squeezed_ from the bone.

At that moment, Prisantha is struck in the back by a crossbow bolt.  Lucius has emerged, mere feet from where he disappeared, and as he shoots the Enchantress, he mutters, “Here’s for what the Temple should have given you.”  Unfortunately for all that is Eeeevil, the bolt fails to penetrate Prisantha’s _protection from arrows_ spell, and the best result the virulent deathtounge poison can achieve is staining Prisantha’s new adventuring gown.

Elijah is struck again by a golem, and badly hurt, she backs away from the fighting, returning to the spot she had cowered in just a few moments earlier.  She drinks a _healing_ potion, but even as she does so, she notices over the lip of the flask several figures massed together within one of the circular openings in the aftcastle wall.  

The Boneshadow have finally come out to play, and they are no more than ten feet from her.

At the fore of the opening, a huge human covered head to toe in spiked black plate armor sits astride a horse seemingly composed of night-smoke and the promise of pain.  “May I?” he asks.

Without waiting for a reply, the man kicks a pair of _ghost touch_ spurs into the flank of his spectral mount, and overruns Elijah’s position, beheading her with one clean stroke, his mount clearing the bulwark with a prodigious leap, then hovering just beyond the vessel.  Lord Dorag, at your service.

On the other side of the deck, Jespo turns on the former Hero of the Temple, and with a sneer that seems to say “It should have been you, Lucius,” envelops the cadaverous assassin in an _acidic fog_.  “Take that, you fiend!” Jespo crows.  Unlike the barbaric giants of last Spring, Lucius does not do him the courtesy of screaming.

Trapped within the _acid fog_, the entity that calls itself Lucius makes a decision.  “You will never have this body,” it hisses, and slowly climbs through the spitting acidic fog until it reaches the bulwark railing.   Then, in a final act of spite, it throws itself off the rail, falling to the ground, where it is caught in the bone-studded wheels of the _Headsman’s Whore_ and ground into a fine, bloodless paste.

As Jespo watches this scene, an unattended iron golem tromps over to his position, and attempts to pulverize the frail conjurer.  Regda has other ideas, however, and nobly intervenes, taking the blows meant for Jespo.  She is no helpless meat-shield, however, and she begins an exchange of ideas with the towering construct.  The golem argues its position that a grievous head-wound might improve her looks, whereas she counters that one cannot smash into pulp what one cannot strike, and puts forth her own contention that a well-enchanted sword is sharp enough to work its way through even iron, provided it is swung with enough conviction.  The golem’s left arm agrees with her, and drops heavily to the deck.

Unfortunately for Regda, she is not entirely up to the intellectual challenge, and the other arm proves a most convincing orator in its own right.  Regda is soon wobbling on unsteady legs, her helm driven into her scalp with enough force to cause a rivulet of blood to run down her face and into her armor.

Left alone to face the four other golems by Elijah’s retreat, it is only through the intervention of _minor displacement_ that Dabus is able to avoid their pummeling fists.  The golems have no such protections, however, and Dabus punishes them with multiple thrusts of his spear.  Heydricus flies over to join him, and the two stalwarts of Tritherion Liberate the animus-spirits trapped within the golems with a ferocious onslaught.

As the golems are collapsing into piles of inanimate stone and iron, a familiar buzzing is heard from the prow, and a third insecticore, this one even larger than the previous two, crawls over the bulwark, whipping its scorpion-tail back and forth.

But Dabus’ _true seeing_ is not fooled, and he shouts, “it is an illusion!”  

At Dabus’ cry, a formerly unseen gnome curses loudly from his position next to Elijah’s rolling head, and puts on a comically exaggerated frown that might even be cute, were it not located directly beneath a pair of the cruelest eyes anyone present has ever had the misfortune of looking into.  “You die last,” the gnome promises Dabus.  “And after I’ve forced your soul back into your broken body for all eternity, you’ll _die forever_.”  Gleed the Halfman is not the sort of gnome who makes promises lightly.

As Gleed hisses his threat, a hidden halfling rogue steps out from behind the gnome, and targets Gwendolyn with a trio of arrows, launched in a sneak attack.  Gwendolyn’s _stoneskin_ helps her resist the damage somewhat, and certainly saves her life, but she is pierced cruelly, and cries out, fumbling in her pouch for healing potions.

Prisantha will not have her new best friend killed on their first adventure, and she sweeps the battlefield with a _horrid wilting_, centered on the foul gnome.  Dabus turns to the diminuative tyrant as well, leveling his spear, but before he can charge, a massive purple worm emerges from the center hole in the aftcastle, and lashes forward, opening its four-part maw wide, revealing rows of jagged teeth and nearly swallowing Dabus whole.  But the thing strikes the spot where Dabus appears to be, and instead of sweeping the cleric into its mouth, it strikes him a glancing blow.  Puffing forth a frustrated gout of dust from its blow-holes, the thing contracts back into its hole, and is gone.

Prisantha is suddenly frozen in place, a victim of an empowered _hold person_ coming from the gnome.  Jespo, torn by Regda’s plight, but helpless against the magic-immune golem, decides to come to Prisantha’s aid, but his _dispel magic_ is not strong enough to undo Gleed’s binding.

Heydricus has taken note of Regda’s wounds, and _flies_ to her side, flanking the golem, and finishing it off with one mighty blow.  That settled, he favors the horse-faced warrior with his most dashing grin, and uses his wand to set off a _fireball_ directly in front of the gnome, setting the little wizard on fire, and sending him running aimlessly about the deck.

“I’ve got your ‘forever’,” Heydricus says.  And to the halfling he adds, “you can suck fire too, Griswald.”  Heydricus, it can be seen, knows his Boneshadow by heart.

Gwendolyn takes a cue from Heydricus and levels a _lightning bolt_ at Griswald.  But the nimble halfling evades both spell effects with a laugh.  His enthused expression would seem appropriate on a child making its first visit to the Magical Menagerie, but on an adventurer locked in combat to the death, it seems entirely misplaced and psychotic.

An elven archer emerges from the opening, and follows Griswald’s gaze to where Gwendolyn hovers in mid-air, dripping blood in a forty-foot stream, where it is greedily soaked up by the deck.  The archer speaks a repetitive mantra under his breath, and releases a trio of arrows at Gwendolyn, undoing her recent _healing_.  Gwendolyn gasps with perhaps her first-ever taste of true mortal fear, and begins to descend to the deck and Dabus’ side, beseeching him with her eyes to _do something about all this blood_.

Dabus, however, is more concerned with Prisantha at the moment, and he invokes Tritherion’s Heart to undo the Enchantment that holds her still.  Tritherion despises confinement, after all, and with a flash of light, Prisantha is free.

Dorag nods at some unspoken command, and rears his ghostly stallion about, then charges towards Gwendolyn, clearly intent on giving her the same make-over he just gave Elijah.  “Onsies and twosies, old ones or breeding, Dorag the Butcher leaves all the girls bleeding,” the gigantic brute sings to himself inside his horned helm.

But Dorag cannot _see invisible_, and does not realize that his low-flying path will take him directly past both Heydricus and Dabus.  Heydricus points to Dorag’s mount, and Dabus nods.  The mount’s momentum adds velocity to Heydricus’ massive swing, and just after the burly sorcerer rips a four-foot long gash in the creature’s flank, Dabus _stops_ its forward momentum on the end of his spear, his heels digging in to the deck of the _Headsman’s Whore_.  Dorag pitches forward over his mount’s head, and sprawls at the feet of Prisantha, Jespo and Regda.

Prisantha seizes the opportunity to _suggest_ that Dorag might wish to put down his sword and relax for a few moments—it’s been a hard day.

“Dorag finished killing women for stupid gnome,” Dorag agrees, raising his visor and grinning stupidly through a mouthful of broken teeth.  “Maybe make you slave now.”

“You are so mighty, Dorag,” Jespo coos.  “Perhaps a demonstration of your strength is in order.  You should go to the prow, and destroy those _black tentacles_ with your bare hands.” This second _suggestion_ is as effective as the first, and within moments, the Butcher of Molag has picked a fist-fight with a field of writhing, pseudonatural pythons.

Dabus, satisfied that the wizards to his rear are safe, turns to the wizardess directly in front of him.  He _heals_ Gwendolyn, Tritherion’s grace restoring her instantly to perfect wellness and health.

“There,” he says warmly.  “You should be . . .” his words trail off as he notices the sudden slackness of Gwendolyn’s fetching features.

Delaying for the _heal_ spell, Keak the archer just _feebleminded_ her.

“Damnit!” Dabus curses, frustration plain on his honest face.

“Killer” Keak laughs at Dabus’ rage, and takes cover within his hole, just as Gwendolyn is shot three more times by the halfling, who had found a new hiding spot in the general confusion.  The wizardess slumps in Dabus’ arms, slipping into shock.

“You . . . f-ckers . . . _f-ck_!”  Dabus sets Gwendolyn down, and tears off his cloak, murder in his eyes.

But he will have to be faster than Heydricus if he wants to kill this halfling, and he is not.  Heydricus reaches the Halfling’s position with an _expeditious charge_ and skewers the tiny sociopath, raising the impaled body over his head, then smashing it to the deck with a victorious yell.

Dabus readies a _flame strike_, and promises himself that if that smear twitches, _it’s going to get it_.

At this point, Regda has joined Heydricus’ side in front of Keak’s opening, and as she does so, “Killer” Keak steps out from his hiding place, with his hands in the air.  “Okay, hey, how is everybody?  Are we all calm, here?” he asks amiably.  “Look, I’m surrendering.”  He removes his sword-belt and quiver.  As he regards the murderous expressions of the Liberators, he begins to speak more quickly.  “I know a lot of you are upset, and you should be.  But the fight’s over, you won.  I’m the guy who knows things about a lot of things, and let’s face it, _speak with dead_ pretty much sucks.  What do you say?”

As Dabus turns to Gwendolyn, and restores her with a second _heal_, Keak says, “Oh good—you got that?  I was just about to take that off her.”

Heydricus glares at the man, but Prisantha uses her _message_ spell to whisper that she, for one, thinks he might be more useful alive than dead.

For the first time since they _charmed_ Zinvellon’s assassin in the Temple of Elemental Evil, the Liberators of Tenh take a prisoner.


----------



## Rackhir

Cool what a battle! You really pulled out the stops for that fight. Terrific enviroment (I loved the ship) and a really neat set of villains. You certainly aren't afraid to push the PCs to their limit. 

However, I wouldn't trust Keak further than I can toss that ship though. I can't imagine that it's going to be as simple as him simply surrendering. There's got to be something more to it than that.


----------



## Joshua Randall

Nooooooooooooooo!!!! Lucius ground into bloodless paste!

*sob*

This might call for another poem. Let's see... where is my copy of _Shelley's Poetry and Prose_ when I need it....


----------



## Circle of Crows

> _As Jespo watches this scene, an unattended iron golem tromps over to his position, and attempts to pulverize the frail conjurer.  Regda has other ideas, however, and nobly intervenes, taking the blows meant for Jespo.  She is no helpless meat-shield, however, and she begins an exchange of ideas with the towering construct.  The golem argues its position that a grievous head-wound might improve her looks, whereas she counters that one cannot smash into pulp what one cannot strike, and puts forth her own contention that a well-enchanted sword is sharp enough to work its way through even iron, provided it is swung with enough conviction.  The golem’s left arm agrees with her, and drops heavily to the deck.
> 
> Unfortunately for Regda, she is not entirely up to the intellectual challenge, and the other arm proves a most convincing orator in its own right.  [/B]_



_

  Did Paarfi of Roundwood help you write this bit? It reads like his style._


----------



## Duncan Haldane

Wow.


----------



## KidCthulhu

[giggles like a schoolgirl and claps hands.]

Again, again, unca contact! Tell me another story!


----------



## Elder-Basilisk

Excellent update!



> Metagame note: Gwendolyn the hero? The insecticore made its save against the prismatic spray by the feelers of it’s chinny, chin chin, doing so only by the grace of the protection from good emanating from the deck of the Headsman’s Whore.




Gwendolyn is actually [Good]?!? Who'd have thunk it?

And the most persuasive "let me surrender" villain plea I've read or heard. Speak with Dead does suck. But at least Speak with Dead doesn't have as many resources to try to trick you.


----------



## dpdx

Oh. My. God. Best single combat I've ever read.


----------



## Joshua Randall

Hey now, don't be dissin' _speak with dead_. Dabus (Clr14) could ask up to seven questions of any recently deceased corpse. That's half as good as _commune_. 

<i>Edit: Why is it that html uses angle-brackets and UBB uses square brackets? Huh? HUH?! I hate that.</i>


----------



## Dakkareth

Elder-Basilisk said:
			
		

> *Excellent update!
> 
> 
> 
> Gwendolyn is actually [Good]?!? Who'd have thunk it?
> 
> And the most persuasive "let me surrender" villain plea I've read or heard. Speak with Dead does suck. But at least Speak with Dead doesn't have as many resources to try to trick you. *




On the other hand you can't torture a corpse  

Cool battle!


----------



## (contact)

Circle of Crows said:
			
		

> *
> 
> Did Paarfi of Roundwood help you write this bit? It reads like his style. *




Paarfi is a *big* fan of the Liberators (particularly Heydricus), and Jespo convinced him to give me a hand with the logs.  He had orignially written the entire battle but . . . I edited him down a bit, and now he is no longer speaking to me.


----------



## MTR

Nice job on the enemies, contact.  That's a bunch of foes any adventurer would be proud to crush.

An update written by Parfi would be neat.  About two pages long, but neat.


----------



## Zaruthustran

The emotion! The terror! The paste! Well done!

And an extra-nice job on the creepy bits with Lucius. I have to remember that head-turning bit. 

Question: why did the halfling go down so easy? He evaded the evocations and Heydricus hit him once (on a charge). Did mighty H take him out with one shot? Or was that poetic license?

-z, loving every minute of it.


----------



## (contact)

Zaruthustran said:
			
		

> *Question: why did the halfling go down so easy? He evaded the evocations and Heydricus hit him once (on a charge). Did mighty H take him out with one shot? *




You know, I'm not sure.  The log is faithful to how my hastily scribbled notes have events, and I don't remember anyone else attacking him.  I think that he had taken damage from a failed save somewhere along the line, either the fireballs or lightning bolts that were targeting that area of the ship.

I do recall that H critted the poor widdle guy.


----------



## Sarellion

Is Jespo a PC now? Somewhere earlier you said that he was an NPC but the newest listing was as a PC


----------



## (contact)

In terms of experience awarded, Jespo gets a full share as a PC-- other than that, he is an adventuring NPC not under the direct control of one of the players.  

How's that for a non-answer?  

Updated the LoT Rogue's Gallery for those of you who were asking.


----------



## CrusadeDave

(contact) said:
			
		

> *
> Updated the LoT Rogue's Gallery for those of you who were asking. *




Now wait just a cotton pickin' minute! It seems that one of the stat blocks regarding one of Heydricus' Cohorts seems to have changed quite dramatically.....

Please, please, please be true.....


----------



## (contact)

*It's twue!  It's twue!*

*Reaping 23, CY 593
57: In which it is shown that sometimes your captives talk before you bring back the torturer.*


“You’ll start by telling us how this construct is controlled,” Heydricus says.

“And I have your word as a gentleman that you’ll let me live?”  Keak asks.  The elf is rather nondescript, save for a faint stubble of soft, downy hair around his jawline that might call his elven heritage into question, and a pair of scars that run from the corners of his mouth, pulling his face down in a perpetual frown.  When he smiles, which is actually most of the time, the scars remind Prisantha of a puppet—the sort that are always beating one another with tiny swords in the marketplace shows.

“I’ll let you live,” Heydricus says.  “But I’ll have your magic, your spellbooks, and you’ll be exiled from this plane.  You must submit to a _geas_ and give your oath never to return.”

Keak nods.  “Well, can I choose the plane?”

“No.” Heydricus says.  “Do you accept my terms?”

Keak sighs.  He frowns for real this time, and then sighs again.  “Okay, I accept.  This vessel is the _Headsman’s Whore_, an Iuzian construct on loan to us, and it is controlled via the brain room.  You can get into the brain room through the purple worm’s run.”

“And where is the worm?”

“I ordered it below—it is tame and only attacks on command.”

“And the rest of the Boneshadow?”

“There is no ‘rest of the Boneshadow’.  You’ve killed them all, and I just quit.”  Keak smiles amiably.  “Look, I assume you were the ones causing all the trouble here in Tenh?  The ones who killed Maskeylene, and Martak and old what’s his name?”

“Suel?” Prisantha offers.

“Ra Mohn?” Heydricus suggests.

“Amyryth?” Jespo chimes in.  “No, no, she was one of ours.”

“Festering,” Dabus states.  “Yes, we killed him.”

“Well,” Keak says brightly, “we succeeded in half of our mission.  We found you.”

-----

The brain-room proves to be a small chamber at the bottom of a labrynthine complex of twisting spherical passages, no larger than a water-closet, and festooned with niches containing hundreds of humanoid and giantish skulls.  

The entire place seems to _throb_ inside the Liberator’s heads, and a faint sepulchural voice is barely audible.  “_Get out_.”

 The intruders feel a compulsion to leave the room, and never return.  Prisantha disregards the enchantment, and Heydricus as a Holy Liberator is immune to the effect.

They discuss briefly the best way to deal with the place, when Heydricus strikes upon a plan.  “Well,” he says, “we’ll just wait until it gets to Nevond Nevnend.  Then it will fall into our trap.”

“What trap?” Prisantha asks.  “Why wait?”

“Well,” Heydricus says meaningfully, arching his eyebrows, “it will certainly be destroyed at Nevond Nevnend.”

“I fail to see how,” Prisantha says.

“Can I see you outside for a moment?” Heydricus asks.  Without waiting for a reply, he leaves the chamber.

“_Geeeeet ouuuuuut_.”

“Yes, yes, I’m leaving,” Pris says.  She follows Heydricus onto the deck and flies with him into the air high above the construct.

“What is with you,” she demands to know.  “Would you have this thing destroy your capital?”

“I was _bluffing_ it, Pris,” Heydricus snaps.  “And you blew it.”

“Well, it wasn’t a very good bluff,” Prisantha says.

“You never know how good your bluff is until you see its results.”

“That’s awfully optimistic.  And since when do you shirk from battle?”

“There is a time and place for everything, Pris.  Aren’t you the one who is always advocating more strategy?”

“In this case, we should just kill it.”

“How?  _I_ don’t know how, and I don’t feel like killing it.”

“I have plenty of spells left.  I suggest we just pound away at it.”

“Thanks for the insight, Thrommel, but in case you didn’t notice, it’s the size of Cur’ruth.”

“How is it you have a problem with brute force all of a sudden?  Isn’t that your usual approach?”

“Right now, I’d rather just park the thing.”

“Heydricus, your problem is that you’ve grown imperious.  That’s why your bluff was foiled.  If you mean to implement a strategy, discussing it with your companions beforehand would be wise.”

“I thought you were supposed to be the _smart_ one,” Heydricus snaps.

“I suppose that we’ve knocked on the damn door so many times, I’ve just given up.”

“Quitters never win, Pris.”

“I’m not speaking to you,” Pris says, and she flies back to the _Headsman’s Whore_ to join the rest of her companions.

In the end, it is observed that without any guidance, the construct travels always into the wind.  In a matter of hours, it has reversed its course, and heads back toward the mountains that form Tenh’s northern border.

Before they leave, Prisantha flies to the ground and follows the construct’s tracks until she is able to find Lucius’ magic items, and scrape a sizable piece of the Sheildlander assassin from the inside of a half-buried jerkin.

-----

Lucius Maturin has been through Hell.  Killed by giants in the Temple of Elemental Evil, his soul had only begun to taste its eternal reward when it was called back into his filthy corpse, and subjected to the greater will of a powerful demonic force.  He was forced to witness and assist while his body and mind plotted against his former companions and only true friends.  Lucius led the cadaverous ones in their missions against the Liberators and the cause of Good, and recoiled from the foul Iuzian rituals he was forced to participate in.

That he would wish to be immediately _atoned_ upon his _resurrection_ should come as no surprise.

-----

“I poisoned Esril?” Lucius asks.  “I really don’t recall.”  The dark-haired assassin looks like he has seen better days.  He sits up in a bed in Dabus’ room, where the cleric can tend to his health.

“Weren’t you always threatening to poison Little Leaf?” Jespo says.

“I’m sure I wouldn’t have said so,” Lucius observes.  “I meant to kill him.  But how did I die?”

As part of Tritherion’s Grace, Lucius’ memories since his death have been suppressed.  The Great Lord of Freedom agreed to remove the Iuzian taint from the assassin’s soul, provided he agree to come into the direct service of The Liberator in the cause against Iuz, and earnestly atone for his wrongdoings.  In Lucius’ case, the only wrongdoings he sincerely regretted were the ones that took place after he died.

“Well, which time?” Heydricus asks.  “You were crushed by giants, along with Keriann, the elves and . . . oh, hell.  The monk.”

“Ren Qi!” Jepso says.  “I never knew her.”

“And Daniere died in that fight as well,” Prisantha adds.  “That was just before I joined you,” she smiles mistily at Heydricus, who seems not to notice.

“Then, a few days ago, you threw yourself under the wheel of a juggernaut to evade capture,” Heydricus says.  “You had joined the Boneshadow.  We scraped you out of your tunic, and here you are.”

“We have taken a captive, an elf by the name of Keak, and he tells us that you were given to the group as a gift by the priestess Aletha,” Jespo says.  “Their rogue had grown intractable, it seems.”

“A captive?” Lucius sits up in his sick-bed.  “Do you need me to . . .”

“No, no,” Heydricus says.  “You rest.  We’ll deal with Keak.”

“I am forever in your debt,” Lucius says to the group.  “From now on, your enemies?  They disappear.  You won’t regret this.”

And so the remaining Heroes of the Temple are reunited.

“One more thing,” Lucius says as his friends prepare to leave.  “Who are the ‘druid f-ckers’?

-----

Over the course of the next few days Keak tells the Liberators that the Boneshadow had been given the location of the Iuzian war-juggernaut, hidden in the Tenha mountains, and commanded to retrieve it, take control of it, then find whatever was causing trouble in Tenh, and kill it dead.  

“Despite popular belief we were never servitors of Iuz, per se,” Keak explains.  “We had no traffic with his priests save to take assignments and collect our payments.  The Boneshadow had relationships with clerics of Hextor, for when we were in need of clerical magic.  Occasionally, we would go to the priesthood of Pholtus.”

“Pholtus?” Heydricus asks, surprise plain on his face.

“They are accommodating enough, if you disguise yourself, and make the right pious noises,” Keak explains craftily.

“Yet you work for Iuz,” Prisantha says.

“That does not mean we serve him.  We are mercenaries, not religious zealots.  The Boneheart serve no master save for the highest bidder.  Iuz simply happens to be the highest bidder in our line of work.  No servant of Iuz is free from his tyranny.  That is why their organization is so worm-ridden and inept.  They spend themselves out backbiting and infighting to gain their Master’s attention, or avoid it, depending on their circumstances.”

Regarding the other members of the Boneheart, Keak says that he is aware that Festering was involved in some sort of secret project, and that Maskeleyne was fleeing Iuzian assassins at the time of his early (if not entirely unexpected) demise.  Cranzer of Riftcrag is also on the outs with the Dorrakan powers-that-be, although the elf is not sure what his offense might have been.  Pansashek in particular has proven to be a rising star among the servitors of Iuz, and Halga has been recently banished from her Master’s presence for some slight against Aletha.

“That’s fine,” Heydricus says.  “Now tell us about Chendl.”

“Chendl?” the elf asks.  “What do you want to know?  The cadaverous ones made from the bodies of your friends?  Panshazek made them and set them against you before fleeing the Marklands.  Your Esril was killed by Lucius, not the Boneheart.”

“That’s good to know,” Heydricus says, “but I want the name of your Iuzian contacts within Furyondy, and the location of all your safehouses.”

“No,” Keak says.  “Never.”

“We have an arrangement,” Heydricus reminds him.  

“You ask me to dishonor myself and break promises made in good faith,” Keak retorts, “and I will do no such thing.”

“Yet you yourself say that you serve no cause save gold,” Prisantha says, “and your loyalty is given to the highest bidder.  We offer you your life.  Do you expect to find a higher bidder?”

Keak smiles at Prisantha and thinks for a moment, then says, “You have trapped me with my own logic, my lady.  Very well, here it is.”

And so he dutifully commits to paper the names of every Iuzian contact and safe-house he knows of in Furyondy, Veluna, Verbobonc and Nyrond.  The list is predictably long, but to the Liberator’s surprise includes King Belvor’s personal baker.

“Wow, that’s bad,” Heydricus says.  

Keak is subjected to a pair of _geas_ spells:  first, that he “never harm nor allow to come to any harm through action or inaction the Liberators of Tenh”, and secondly to “never return to the prime material plane.” 

Keak is supplied with mundane gear and weapons, then _plane shifted_ to Carceri, sans spellbook.


----------



## (contact)

*But what about Elijah?*

As a metagame note, Heydricus' player decided that he would rather run Lucius as a cohort than Elijah, so in-game, Elijah's soul chose to roam the wilds of Tritherion's celestial realm, and there await her eventual reunion with the Liberators of Tenh.


----------



## Dakkareth

I like this method of handling Evil captives ... geased and without magic to Carceri - nice >:>

How would one put this into alignment? Chaotic Neutral? Would make sense. Then again the fact, that they keep their promise of leaving him alive would seem at least a little lawful or good. Chaotic Good? Mmhh. Chaotic Good with (more or less) strong tendencies to neutral (as in not quite caring as long as one's goals are furthered).


----------



## CrusadeDave

*Re: But what about Elijah?*



			
				(contact) said:
			
		

> *
> “A captive?” Lucius sits up in his sick-bed. “Do you need me to . . .”
> 
> “No, no,” Heydricus says. “You rest. We’ll deal with Keak.”
> 
> “I am forever in your debt,” Lucius says to the group. “From now on, your enemies? They disappear. You won’t regret this.” *




Lucius! All is now right in the world. And something tells me that THE LIST just got bigger, though no doubt it will soon get smaller depending on how free a hand Lucius is given.


----------



## Hammerhead

Yes! My favorite Hero of the Temple returns! 

GO LUCIUS!


----------



## Barastrondo

*Re: But what about Elijah?*



			
				(contact) said:
			
		

> *As a metagame note, Heydricus' player decided that he would rather run Lucius as a cohort than Elijah, so in-game, Elijah's soul chose to roam the wilds of Tritherion's celestial realm, and there await her eventual reunion with the Liberators of Tenh. *




!

!!!!!

...


----------



## Sejs

> How would one put this into alignment? Chaotic Neutral? Would make sense. Then again the fact, that they keep their promise of leaving him alive would seem at least a little lawful or good. Chaotic Good? Mmhh. Chaotic Good with (more or less) strong tendencies to neutral (as in not quite caring as long as one's goals are furthered).




Neutral Smart.  Plane Shifting the guy to the Carceri, the Prison Plane is just a darn good idea.  You don't walk out of Carceri.  Nobody walks out of Carceri.  It's basically the Biggest Jail Ever - but one that doesn't care who you are or what you did or how good or evil you may be.  They didn't kill him, which is good policy because he could in theory then be True Ressurected and come back.  And he could ... possibly get out.. somehow.  And even if he does, those Geasa keep him from returning.

And they didn't Plane Shift him to someplace inherrantly hostile.. like the Positive Energy Plane, the Quasi-Elemental Plane of Vaccuum, or the 7th layer of Mount Celestia.  So they kept their word in not killing him, directly or indirectly.


----------



## (contact)

Sejs said:
			
		

> *And he could ... possibly get out.. somehow.  *




I intimated strongly that if Heydricus' player were willing to DM it, I'd love to run Keak in a one-on-one game as a PC and pick his story up in Carceri.

He was fun to role-play, and I really think that his current plight would make for a fun game!  

Escape from New York (D&D style)!


----------



## thatdarncat

Hey, LoT got updated... why didn't I get a notification?

*click* *read*

Hey, what's going on...

*click back a couple of pages*

Oh my...

*read read read*

ahhhhhhhhhhhh satisfaction


----------



## LuYangShih

Nice.  The Geas is rather hard to follow, though.  Inaction can be defined in so many ways.  Theoretically you could rule that by leaving the Liberators Of Tenh alone he is breaking that part of the Geas, since they are constantly putting themselves in danger and harms way, and by failing to take action to prevent that, he is breaking the Geas.  A rather twisted interpetation, but possible.


----------



## KidCthulhu

*Re: It's twue!  It's twue!*



			
				(contact) said:
			
		

> *“I am forever in your debt,” Lucius says to the group.  “From now on, your enemies?  They disappear.  You won’t regret this.”*




Oh boy, does this strike me as words we're going to look back on later and regret.


----------



## Zaruthustran

Let me just say that I truly appreciate the humor of posting a Liberators update on July 4th.

-z


----------



## Joshua Randall

*With apologies to Gloria Gaynor*

First he was afraid,
He was set upon,
By Locke that nasty rogue
In old Hommlet town.

Then he spent so many rounds
Dodging giants' size-H feet;
He got squashed.
But he learned how to carry on -

And then he's back -
By the DM's graces -
He just walked up to find the Libs
With sappy grins upon their faces.

They should've scattered his remains.
They should've used _gentle repose_.
If they'd have know for just one segment
He'd be back to thumb his nose

At PC death. Check out his stats!
Just make his HD into d12
He's Cadav'rous, he's undead.

Weren't he the one who fell o'erboard the construct ship?
You thought he'd been smeared?
You thought he'd lay right down and die?

Oh not not Lucius,
He will survive.
As long as Heyd's got Leadership
You know he'll stay alive.

He's got another life to live,
He's got vengeance g'lore to give,
And he'll survive,
He will survive....

[etc.]


----------



## (contact)

Disco is not dead, but it might be Cadaverous.


----------



## (contact)

*Re: Re: It's twue!  It's twue!*



			
				KidCthulhu said:
			
		

> *
> 
> Oh boy, does this strike me as words we're going to look back on later and regret. *




Well, if the Liberators had *your* DM, yeah!*  But I am really such a big softie that I don't forsee any future trouble. ]


(contact)



*Or *you*, from what I hear.


----------



## zoroaster100

Wow! Wow!  I went on vacation for a week and come back to find a cornucopia of wonderful LoT updates!  And I had planned to go to sleep early tonight...  I couldn't stop reading until I caught up to the last update, and every one of the updates did not dissapoint.  The drama! The wit!  The giant three-headed insectile manticores!  Thanks (contact), you made my day.


----------



## Plane Sailing

I'm sorry to see Elijah depart - she was a bit of a poster-child for the ranger class, and had been around quite a while.

And no sorrow for Elijah's departure? For shame, Heydricus!


----------



## KidCthulhu

*Re: Re: Re: It's twue!  It's twue!*



			
				(contact) said:
			
		

> *Well, if the Liberators had your DM, yeah!*  But I am really such a big softie that I don't forsee any future trouble. ]
> *




Oh, so you just carry that "Rat Bastard DM Club" card around in your wallet in case you need to pick a lock?


----------



## Plane Sailing

*Re: Re: Re: Re: It's twue!  It's twue!*



			
				KidCthulhu said:
			
		

> *
> 
> Oh, so you just carry that "Rat Bastard DM Club" card around in your wallet in case you need to pick a lock? *




Nah, he doesn't turn up there much nowadays


----------



## (contact)

(sniff) The other DMs tease me, and take my lunch.  (sniff)


----------



## (contact)

*Reaping 27, CY 593
58: The good life keeps getting better.*


After seeing to Lucius’ well-being, acquainting his new cohort with the run of Cur’ruth, and assigning to him the security of the Liberator’s home base, Heydricus travels to Nevond Nevnend.  Upon his arrival, he begins to reestablish his capital, gathering the Northern Tenha there, and organizing the distribution of the remaining foodstuffs.  

Back in Cur’ruth, Prisantha, Jespo, Gwendolyn and Dabus begin work on magic items.  The Liberator makes a brief appearance, but is soon gone again, taking Dabus with him on a whirlwind tour of Nyrond, Verbobonc and Veluna beseeching the nobility of those nations for aid.

Goodmonth arrives, and at the end of the first sevenday, Heydricus is in Cur’ruth, meeting with Belvor and the King’s ubiquitous archmage.

“My baker!” Butrain cries.  “Phineas?  It cannot be.” He casts an accusing eye at his wizard.

“Yet it is true, sire,” Heydricus says.  “And he is not alone.”

“Well, it is war, after all,” the King allows.  “Men die, and pies go uneaten.”  He hands his wizard the list of spies.  “Memorize this.”

“And I assume you have heard about the Baron Butrain?” Heydricus says.

Butrain snorts.  “I have, the scoundrel!  I shouldn’t laugh, ha ha.  Do you know he has called his Lords to Willip, and forced them to renew their fealty vows?  I would have loved to have been there for that procession!  Imagine, bending a knee to a farm-beast!  Ha!  Perhaps I should make him do the same, the stubborn mule.”

“Donkey, sire,” the wizard corrects him.

Heydricus smiles.  “This could play well for us, sire.  What if I could remove the spell upon Butrain, and force him to support our cause?”

“I am told that only the witch that placed the curse may remove the spell,” Belvor says.  “What are you about?”

“I cannot speak to the details sire, but I believe this thing can be done, and that I can do it.  Could we not force him to support the war?  What is his choice—do the right thing by the gods and men, or spend the rest of his life looking more like an ass than usual?”

Belvor laughs again.  “More like an ass!  That’s funny!”  He turns to his wizard. “Memorize that.”

-----

The Duchess Maia is entertaining guests when her steward announces the arrival of Heydricus Tritherionson, Lord of Valmont, and Holy Liberator of Tritherion.  The dinner guests are titillated by the presence of a bona-fide adventuring hero, and spend the rest of the evening listening to Heydricus’ war stories, oohing at his description of his losses, and ahhing at his victories.

After the guests take their leave and the servants are dismissed, Maia and Heydricus relax before a fire, sipping mulled wine and exchanging coy glances.

“Maia, do you recall when I would visit you and claim that I had been raising funds for the Liberation struggle in Tenh?”

“How could you doubt it?” Maia purrs.  “They are my fondest memories.”

“Well, this time, I really need the funds.”

“Heydricus, you have only to say so,” she pouts.  “I would glady make a sizable donation, provided . . .”

“Here it comes,” Heydricus thinks to himself.  To Maia he says, “What could I possibly do to repay such generosity?”

But Maia surprises him with her request.  “Your companion Prisantha?  The pretty one?  The last time I saw her, she had just come into the possession of a magical cloak of beauty, and I admired it greatly.  Should you have her craft one for me, I would gladly fatten the coffers of Tenh to the tune of fifty thousand gold pieces.”

For the first time in a long time, Heydricus is left speechless.

-----

“No.  It is out of the question,” Prisantha says, crossing her arms.  “I will not craft vanity items for your . . . for _her_.”

“Pris, don’t be that way,” Heydricus says.  “It’s for _the cause_.”

At this moment, Gwendolyn enters the room.  “There you are, Heydricus,” she says, one hand on her hip.  “What’s this I hear about you promising Belvor that I would remove my curse from Butrain?”

“Well, you see,” Heydricus begins.

“You can re-think your plan.  It’s _never_ going to happen,” Gwendolyn says.

“But, the cause,” Heydricus begins.

“Never,” Gwendolyn says.

“_Never_,” Prisantha says.

Heydricus looks at the two women, takes a breath, and puts on his most charming smile.  “Let me explain,” he begins.

-----

The Baron Xanthan Butrain has called all knights of the realm to Willip, to undertake a Lord’s Quest:  find the means to restore the Baron to his rightful form.  Hundreds of ambitious men, scoundrels and heroes alike have arrived to promise their aid, every one of them hoping to rescue the Baron of Willip, and to thereby reap the reward.

When he is announced, Heydricus sketches a short bow to the donkey, and is rewarded by a lengthy braying.  The elderly charm-festooned adept next to the Baron says, “His Lordship Butrain, the Baron of Willip and Shield of the South bids you welcome in his court, and bids you to regard his demesne as your own.  In the name of King and Country, as your Lord and Sun, he grants you leave to speak your peace.”

Apparently, donkeys salvage dignity wherever they can find it.

Heydricus bows again, this time with some conviction, and says, “My lord, I understand that you have fallen under a terrible curse, and even now your men search for a cure.”

The donkey brays.

The old woman says, “The Baron says that the flower of Furyondy’s chivalry quest upon his behalf, and in regard for their valor, he has offered the greatest prize a father may give to the knight who returns victorious.  The lord offers the hand of fair Xantha, his daughter, his pride, and his rightful heir.”

Ah, the muddy waters grow clear.

“My lord,” what would you say if I told you I have already found the means to remove your curse?

The donkey brays enthusiastically, its ears perking up, its hooves making little clop-clopping sounds as it dances from side to side.

“The Baron would have me tell you that this would make him twice in your debt, and that he could ask for no better son, either as a father for his grandchildren, or the future ruler of his realm.”

“Ah,” Heydricus says, backpedaling.  “I have a . . . _different_ . . . reward in mind my lord, but one I am sure you will find agreeable under the circumstances.”

The donkey cocks its head and bares its jutting front teeth.

Heydricus smiles.  

-----

“No!” King Belvor shouts.  “Never!  You will _never_ wed my line to Butrain’s, and I won’t hear of it.  Heydricus, you have done great things, but promising my boy to Butrain will not do!  Never, I say, and I’ll say it again!”

Heydricus weathers the Royal outburst with an outward serenity that masks his inward glee.  This is going better than he’d hoped.  Standing directly behind the king, the member of the Circle of Four who attends Belvor at all times is gesturing to catch Heydricus’ eye.  The arch-wizard simply nods once, indicating that, in fact, the King of Furyondy will accept this marriage proposal, along with the Baron’s pledge of support in the upcoming war against Iuz.

The fate of Furyondy neatly tied up with one fell diplomatic swoop, the Liberator of Tritherion returns to Cur’ruth, congratulating himself on an afternoon’s work well done.  He wonders out loud what will be served at chow, but never in his wildest dreams might he have expected that it would be his favorite meal for a second night in a row.

Life is good, and it just keeps getting better.


----------



## the_mighty_agrippa

*sniff*

this?  this is beautiful...


----------



## Citizen Mane

At times Heydricus reminds me of a character in a Hammett or Chandler novel.  Shades of Marlowe in particular.  I'm never sure if he always knows exactly what he's doing or if he always keeps on rearranging his priorities and methods to match the newest bit of information he's found.  Good stuff.

Best,
tKL


----------



## Flash

> Life is good, and it just keeps getting better.




Ah yes. Hear that? That's the sound of the other +10 Shoe vs. PCs falling from 30,000 feet!!!

Man I love this story hour!!!


----------



## (contact)

You know, I had no idea what he (Heydricus) was up to--I'd put Gwen in the story as a catspaw for Pris and H's romance, and also to tweak Pris' nose a little, but oh my.

The bit about Butrain being a donkey?  I made it up on the spot, because it was funny, and it showed that Gwen has *no* qualms about using her magic to get what she wants (that will be crucial later, heh, heh).  My crafty players turned it into a political coup, and voila:  Furyondy is sorted out, the issue of the throne is resolved, and the #1 political plotline in my campaign (North vs. South Furyondy) is neatly resolved.

Well, I guess they won the game.  Campaign over, right?


----------



## Rackhir

(contact) said:
			
		

> *
> Well, I guess they won the game.  Campaign over, right? *




Oh YEAH SURE! And Iuz is a paladin in disguise, the peck was the bravest character ever and the Sultans of Smack aren't munchkinisim at its finest.


----------



## the_mighty_agrippa

*????*

except for when dabus and thrommel r-u-n-n-o-f-t together, fras delivers her first celestial litter, lucius finally goes on a killing spree and after gwen gets prisantha and heydricus into the sack...  _dominate person_, if they lacked skills...


----------



## (contact)

Rackhir said:
			
		

> *and the Sultans of Smack aren't munchkinisim at its finest. *




Who are the Sultans of Smack?


----------



## Joshua Randall

*Re: ????*



			
				the_mighty_agrippa said:
			
		

> lucius finally goes on a killing spree



I kept trying to work the following line from RttToEE...

_A short but murderous foray to reestablish the party's reputation as people not to be trifled with._

...into "I Will Survive", but it didn't really fit the beat.

Pity.


----------



## Rackhir

(contact) said:
			
		

> *
> 
> Who are the Sultans of Smack? *




Assuming you are not kidding. 

http://enworld.cyberstreet.com/showthread.php?s=&threadid=806

Its a thread that concentrated on various ways of inflicting increasing absurd amounts of damage to targets. Usually under highly specific situations. You might want to not mention this to the PCs lest they get some ideas (of course the reverse probably also applies). Read and shudder in horror (Note: Reading this thread causes 1d6-2 SAN loss).


----------



## Urbanmech

> Well, I guess they won the game. Campaign over, right?




Don't go getting any ideas Mr. Contact.  You aren't a Rat Bastard for nothing.  Plus if you left everything hanging like this I'd have to find you and give you a swift kick.  

It is nice to see the Liberators actually pull off a bit of a political coup without actually killing everyone involved.  But it was nicer to see them kill the life out of the Boneshadow and their beasties (I loved the three headed insectile advanced mantacores, Savage Species is a great book).  

Wasn't Ombi the evil dwarf from the Against the Giants modules?


----------



## (contact)

Urbanmech said:
			
		

> * Wasn't Ombi the evil dwarf from the Against the Giants modules? *




Yes, he was.  Unfortunately, Ombi got the shaft on round 1 of the fight.

"Who wants to wet my mommy-chooper?"


----------



## Barastrondo

(contact) said:
			
		

> *Yes, he was.  Unfortunately, Ombi got the shaft on round 1 of the fight. *




Humble and heartfelt apologies in advance for the stupidly pedantic comment: 

Actually, the name of the G1-3 dwarf was the much less intuitive Obmi. I note this for two reasons: 

One, it's non-intuitive names like that which ultimately taught me to look at strange names (in game books or not) to see if they were anagrams or Xagygian reverse-names or whatever. It's a little frightening how often authors do that (well, we're used to EGG doing it, anyway). At any rate, it's kind of alarming that I looked at the post and said "that can't be right... Ombi rolls off the tongue too easily..."

Two, maybe this was, um, Obmi's twin brother. Yeah. And then the _real_ Obmi will show up for revenge and last more than a round! Ha ha!

Yeah, right. And maybe Regda is really [CARRIER LOST]


----------



## (contact)

Barastrondo said:
			
		

> *Actually, the name of the G1-3 dwarf was the much less intuitive Obmi.*




Why, you're right.  I think Parrfi screwed that one up (not that he'd ever admit it).


----------



## (contact)

*Goodmonth 11, CY 593
59: If a good dream terrifies you, does that make it a nightmare?*


Jespo Crim and Dabus both pledge ten thousand gold pieces to the treasury of Tenh, helping to secure the bundles and bushels of foodstuffs purchased for the upcoming winter.  Word begins to spread around Southern Tenh that there is a new Duke (although Heydricus has only taken the title of ‘Lord Regent’) sitting the capital, and that there will be food for all, and protection from bandits and warlords.  

Refugees begin to flock into Nevond Nevnend by the tens and hundreds, and Jespo Crim is hard-pressed to _mass teleport_ enough for the short-term, nevertheless the entire winter’s store, but given time, the task is complete.

“You know, Heydricus,” Jespo says.  “I probably should have spent the time crafting magical items as did Gwendolyn, Prisantha and Dabus, but I felt that at least one of your spell-casting companions should aid the refugees.”

“Yeah, great job, Crim,” Heydricus says.  The two men are strolling through the dilapidated Ducal palace, taking an inventory of what hasn’t been looted (very little), defaced (even less), or destroyed.  “I’m thinking about having this molding done in darkwood.  Extravagant, I know, but if we’re to receive royal guests . . .”

“Darkwood will look very elegant,” Jespo agrees.  “You’re not considering gilding it, are you?”

“F-ck, no!” Heydricus snaps.  “What do I look like, an Almorian prince?  Over here we’ll put the musicians.  I’m thinking you and Regda can get married here.”

“Ah,” Jespo says.  “Well, it had occurred to me, as we were making our invitation list, that I have only four friends.  Five, since we must invite Lucius out of professional courtesy.” 

“Uh, huh,” Heydricus says, lifting some crumbled statuary to examine a baseboard.

“Whereas, Regda, you see, comes from a large family, and is very prominent in Willip.”

“Right, prominent,” Heydricus says.  “Can you make me _etheric_ a little later?  I want to have a look at these foundations before we invest too much time.”

“Well, gladly.  But you see, doesn’t it make more sense to hold the wedding in Willip, and _teleport_ my guests _there_, rather than her entire community _here_?”

Heydricus smiles at him.  “Sure, Jepso—it’s your day.”

“And if I may, I’d like to speak to an issue that, well. . . it’s like I said, I’ve only really four friends, disregarding Fräs of course, who is both a female cat and dislikes speaking out loud, you know.  So . . . well, there are certain customs to follow after all, and _wouldyoubemybestman_?”  Jespo is cringing.

Heydricus smiles again and claps him on the shoulders.  “Me?  Really?  Well, hell yes I will, and with pride!  It’ll be great, Jespo, you’ll see.”

“Really?” Jespo says.  Fräs purrs.  “There is one other thing, Heydricus.  I was hoping that in light of my recent efforts for the people of Tenh you might let me be the first Liberator to pick his room?”

“Sure,” Heydricus says smiling at his companion.

Jespo nudges Fräs.  “It’s all about the room,” he whispers sagely.

Life is good, and it just keeps getting better.

-----

Prisantha and Gwendolyn are having an argument.  It’s not their first, admittedly, since the caustic wizardess said the words of her _geas_—but this time, Prisantha is loosing.

“There is no moral distinction,” Gwendolyn reiterates.  “You are equating cowardice with high-sentiment.”

“There are enemies and there are friends,” Prisantha says again.

“And in love, one can never tell the difference.  Trust me on this, Prisantha.  If you want to know something, how do you find out?  You _scry_, you divine, you _vision_.  Don’t play silly schoolgirl guessing games with this man, he’s a killer.  Cast the damn spell, and be done with it.  Either he loves you, in which case we make him show it, or he doesn’t, in which case we look for somebody with more money.”

The argument had begun when Gwendolyn announced that she had been _scrying_ Heydrcius on his “fund raising expedition”, and was pleasantly surprised to find the Liberator actually raising funds (and sleeping alone).  Prisantha objected to such a use of magical power, but in so doing opened the door for an debate that was inching her ever nearer to this _vision_ result:


_Ignorant to their own eyes, some men fumble about clumsily, and assume that others do the same.  When Love is a stranger to the heart of one who has drank so often in its name, can the gods fault him for finding only terror in it?_


-----

Prisantha and Jespo Crim bury the _Headsman’s Whore_ up to the tip of its aftcastle using repeated castings of _transmute rock to mud_.  When the juggernaut is nearly entirely obscured, and the _rock to mud_ spells have been _dispelled_, they _teleport_ back to Cur’ruth and gleefully cross the ‘f-cking construct’ off the List.

-----

Heydricus and Pris are sharing a private word in one of Cur’ruth’s many dungeon corridors.

“. . . and only _then_ do we tell Thrommel,” Heydricus whispers.

Pris frowns.  “Do you really think he will simply say, ‘why, you are right Heydricus, I accept this marriage to a woman I’ve never met, who most likely looks like her father?’”

“I don’t know,” Heydricus admits.  “But I’m not trying to force a decision on the man, simply put the suggestion out there.”

“I can do that from here,” Pris wryly observes.

-----

Heydricus does not usually remember his dreams, retaining some small sense of their general bent, but no specifics.  This night, however, his dream is extremely lucid and clear. 

 In it, Prisantha sits at a table with Gwendolyn.  The two women sit closely, as if sharing a secret, but Prisantha is completely naked, her body glittering in the candle-light as if oiled, or still damp from some recent bath.

“Who do you think is the handsomest?” Prisantha asks.  “Dabus?”

“Or Elenthal?” Gwendolyn offers.

“Thrommel?”

“Or Heydricus?”

And with that the Liberator awakens.  For the remainder of the morning, he finds his mind going back over the dream, and Prisantha’s visage.  He travels to Nevond Nevnend, where Dabus is casting _walls of stone_ to shore up the palace.

“Dabus, I’ve had a dream.”

“Ah, a dream.  I too, have them,” Dabus says.

“But in this one, Prisantha was naked, and she was discussing who was the handsomest.”

“The handsomest?”

“They named me _last_ Dabus.”

“Ah, last.  That is troubling?”

“And Pris was naked.”

“Ah, did you . . .”

“No, no.  But I’ve been _thinking_ about her all morning.  You know, in _that_ way.”

“Well,” Dabus says, laying a consoling hand on Heydricus’ shoulder.  “Dreams never actually mean what they seem to mean, my friend.  Prisantha in your dream represents some larger symbol of your life.  Were there any snakes, serpents, swords or spears in your dream?”

“Wuh, no,” Heydricus says quizically.

“Then we know it was not a dream from our Lord Tritherion.  Our Lord always gives some sign by which we might know his Voice.”  Dabus cocks his head, regarding Heydricus intently.  “Tell me,” he begins sagely, “were you close with your mother?”

-----

“Are we sure it’s working?” Prisantha and Gwendolyn stand shoulder-to-shoulder at the alchemy station in Martak’s former laboratory, pretending to mix potions as they conspire together.  “He looks so . . . _tormented_.”

“They get that look,” Gwendolyn says.

“What look?” Lucius asks.

Both women jump, as neither of them had noticed Lucius standing next to them.  Gwendolyn reaches for her spell components with one hand, and puts the other palm-first in front of Lucius.  “I’m going to pretend that never happened,” she growls, “because everyone here knows that I _will not_ be spied upon.”

Lucius stares blankly at her, tilting his head slightly, as if regarding something curious.

“In fact, if I _ever_ catch you sneaking around me again, you’d better hope that Heydricus has some other lackey to bring back from the dead because there will _not_ be enough of you left to _resurrect_.”

Lucius looks over Gwendolyn’s shoulder at the empty alchemical retorts and beakers, then looks at Pris.  He places one finger to the tip of his nose, and turns to leave.

-----

High Hadley is the mid-sized community that forms the mid-point between the mines of Cur’ruth and Calibut, the Northeastern mining capital of the former Duchy.  In more prosperous times, High Hadley was a bustling trade center, home to a wealthy mercantile class as well as many Tenha nobility.  As things stand, the residents of High Hadley are without question the most prosperous Tenha left in Tenh.  In the wake of the Greyhawk Wars, they turned to sustenance agriculture, and have maintained a relatively peaceful life.  Due to its proximity to Calibut (and the terrifying entity that rules there), High Hadley has not been subject to the endless sacking and raiding that has plagued the rest of the nation.

Thus, it is not surprising that Heydricus is welcomed politely, but without the usual fanfare that accompanies a conquering hero.  He has arrived in an official capacity, informing the town’s leaders of the new Tenh state.  They promise that they should be glad to restore any and all trade that might someday flow, but show no eagerness to kneel before the new Lord Regent.

Still, the trip must be considered a success, and Heydricus returns to Cur’ruth in order to examine more closely his maps of the region, and wonder what might happen should the Platinum mines at Calibut resume their flow of ore for the benefit of the Nation.

“Goddamnit,” he mutters to himself.  “It has to go through Stoink.”

-----

Prisantha leans against Heydricus, in the foyer of his childhood home.  She is very tall, while he is short, but he can feel her breasts pressed against his back as she reaches over his shoulder to point out a chapter in the book he is reading.  “_On matters of initiative, one must seize the importance_,” it says.  Heydricus can feel her breath, and smell the dusky spice scent of her hair.

------

“I’m loosing sleep, Dabus,” Heydricus complains.  The two companions are in Nevond Nevnend taking inventory of the weaponry and armor accumulated for the conscripts that Thrommel has promised to draw from Central Tenh.  The prince has been sent out again, hoping to duplicate his success in rallying the Northern Tenha to the Liberator’s banner.

“It just keeps coming back to me.  Everytime I look at her, I see her _naked_.  I never used to see her naked, you know.”

“Well,” Dabus says, noting a number on a scroll.  “It is normal for a young man to have certain . . . _fantasies_ about his companions.  We spill blood together, and after all, fighting and love are often linked in parable.”

“You think so?” Heydricus asks, cheered by the thought.  “Do you think the others have fantasies, too?”

“I am sure of it,” Dabus says.  “Don’t be troubled, it is perfectly normal.”

“Who do you think Crim fantasizes about,” Heydricus asks.  “Other than Regda, I mean.”

“I shudder to think,” Dabus says, dismissing the topic.  “We are well provisioned for another hundred soldiers, and could support twice that many should Thrommel get them.  Beyond that, we will need to reach out to our allies, but I think it can wait until the Springtime.”

-----

Prisantha is sitting at her desk, except the room she is in seems impossibly narrow.  Heydricus is regarding her from a position near the celiling.  The room looks like a Nyrondeese court, although he is sure that it is her study in Chendl.  She tries to study her spellbook, but the Liberator knows she cannot concentrate, as she has missed his presence at the mines the last few days.  As he watches, a lone tear trickles down her cheek, and his heart goes out to her.


----------



## thatdarncat

heh

Poor Heydricus


----------



## Rackhir

You know (contact) if you're going to keep up with the relationship problems, you should definitely watch some episodes of the BBC series "Coupling". Not only is it one of the funniest series EVER, but it's chock full of ideas on how to throw monkey wrenches in to relationships and just plain odd things between men and women. It's probably playing on PBS in your area, if not the first season is out on DVD.

[waiting for other shoe - More likely combat boots - to drop...]


----------



## the_mighty_agrippa

(contact) said:
			
		

> “And in love, one can never tell the difference.  Trust me on this, Prisantha.  If you want to know something, how do you find out?  You _scry_, you divine, you _vision_.  Don’t play silly schoolgirl guessing games with this man, he’s a killer.  Cast the damn spell, and be done with it.  Either he loves you, in which case we make him show it, or he doesn’t, in which case *we look for somebody with more money.”*






> “It just keeps coming back to me.  Everytime I look at her, I see her _naked_.  I never used to see her naked, you know.”
> 
> “Well,” Dabus says, noting a number on a scroll.  “It is normal for a young man to have certain . . . _fantasies_ about his companions.  We spill blood together, and after all, fighting and love are often linked in parable.”
> 
> “You think so?” Heydricus asks, cheered by the thought.  “Do you think the others have fantasies, too?”
> 
> “I am sure of it,” Dabus says.  “Don’t be troubled, it is perfectly normal.”




tee hee.   if dabus offers heydricus a backrub, i'm leaving.

okeh - no, i'm not.  but having a nekkid pris across from gwendolyn ain't such bad fare for a dreaming.


----------



## Zaruthustran

the_mighty_agrippa said:
			
		

> *
> having a nekkid pris across from gwendolyn ain't such bad fare for a dreaming. *




Yep.

On a completely unrelated note: so, (contact), when are you going to start illustrating these stories again?

-z


----------



## the_mighty_agrippa

could it be?

could heydricus' terror of non-disposable women be the opening dabus has been yearning for?


----------



## Barastrondo

(contact) said:
			
		

> *"...Were there any snakes, serpents, swords or spears in your dream?”
> 
> “Wuh, no,” Heydricus says quizically.
> 
> “Then we know it was not a dream from our Lord Tritherion.  Our Lord always gives some sign by which we might know his Voice...."*




There is also a hound and a hawk, which Dabus has omitted For Some Reason.

Gwendolyn and Prisantha's little plot (yes, Gwen gets top billing) kind of reminds me of a cool little cultural note from Talislanta. Essentially, there was this culture of warlocks and witches, the Dhuna, and Dhuna women were infamous for being able to steal a man's heart with a single kiss. Now, the thing was, that actually kind of worked against them in affairs of love, because Dhuna men (usually warlocks themselves) knew that the witches could do this, and therefore were never sure if they actually had deep feelings for a woman, or if they were just being enspelled. Hence, the women would often present the men that they favored with little handmade tokens of love; a nicely woven cloak, a carved bit of jewelry, and so on, so that a warlock could be relatively sure that the witch who made his head swim was sincerely interested in him and not just casually cheating her way into his heart (or pants) with magic. It was a touch I always saw as cool and romantic, and even better, it made sense as an outgrowth of a culture with a strong enchantress tradition.

Gwendolyn would hate living among Dhuna, I'm sure. It's much easier when the guys aren't on to you (and don't seem to be asking to make Spellcraft checks at that).


----------



## (contact)

Poor ol' Pris-- As a Holy Liberator, Heydricus is immune to Enchantments.


----------



## Morte

> Well, I guess they won the game. Campaign over, right?




Listen, sunshine, I just got out of hospital after a surprise two week visit that bored me silly. The second thing I read after I got out was this SH. You better not stop, or I'll be emailing you a few interesting bronchial bacteria.



> Life is good, and it just keeps getting better.




Why do I feel the urge to cackle insanely and rub my hands with glee when I read this?



> gleefully cross the ‘f-cking construct’ off the List




Has it occurred to any of the players/characters that "scry and fry" can work both ways? Are they taking any measures to avoid it?

Jespo's wedding would make such an excellent moment for a commando raid against the liberators...


----------



## (contact)

Morte said:
			
		

> *
> Listen, sunshine, I just got out of hospital after a surprise two week visit that bored me silly. The second thing I read after I got out was this SH.*




The first thing being your prescription dosage requirements, I hope.



> *Jespo's wedding would make such an excellent moment for a commando raid against the liberators... *




Yeah, wouldn't it, though?


----------



## (contact)

*Goodmonth 18, CY 593
60:  More pinions for the spear.*


As the Liberators finish their work on magical items, and Heydricus assures himself that the reclamation of Nevond Nevend has found a self-sustaining momentum, Prisantha calls the group together and announces that she has two things to share.

First, she takes a scraping of skin from the forearm of each Liberator (including the familiars).  “This will be for our _clones_,” she says.  “I took flesh from Thrommel before he left as well, and this process will ensure our continuation in the face of the unthinkable.  I mean to store the _clones_ in Martak’s secret chamber, in the head of the Easternmost statue.  I have linked the chamber to our secret passage via a _phase door_, and seen to it that only those of us present here will be able to use it.”

Next, she presents Heydricus with a pair of items.  The first (secretly crafted by Gwendolyn), is a somewhat plain-looking _cloak of charisma_ for the Duchess Maia, given against her promise of financial aid. 

“For the people of Tenh,” Prisantha loftily clarifies.  

The second item is a gift for Heydricus, a much more finely made _vest of magnetism_, bearing the tri-part seal of Tenh, along with the holy symbol of Tritherion, and the Liberators’ own device—a tall spear festooned with seven blue and seven red pinions.  Heydricus is nearly overcome with emotion, and clasps Prisantha’s hand in a meaningful (if chaste) embrace.

Heydricus’ own spear features only one red and two blue streamers, although he means to add to the decoration very soon.  The Lesser Boneheart members Panshazek and Cranzer of Riftcrag are at the top of the List.

-----

Prisantha stands in front of the completed _clones_, each one a naked and perfect duplicate of its original.  If she regards Heydricus’ nude form for longer than would be considered proper, no one is around to notice.

-----

Panshazek is _scryed_ again, but this time, there is no spell misleading the divination.  He is seen to be relaxing in the same alchemical laboratory as before, although there is no active work readily apparent.  He is attended by a pair of cherubic youths, both just slightly pre-adolescent and possessed of an innocent beauty; one boy and one girl.

But Prisantha’s _true seeing_ foils the illusion, and Panshazek is seen to be a massive bird-like demon, made entirely of fire, and giving off a thick, noxious smoke.  A sort of anti-pheonix, Panshazek furls and unfurls his flaming wings with a vile majesty.

His attendants are no children, to be sure, but beastly vulture-headed winged creatures with avian lower-torsos and humanlike arms protruding from their grotesquely malformed upper bodies.

The Liberators prepare spells, and with Lucius, Gwendolyn and Regda ensconced in the _portable hole_, Prisantha _teleports_ the _improved invisible_ group to Panshazek’s secret laboratory in Dorraka.

The foul demon notices them immediately, apparently able to _see invisible_.  “You?” he croaks, grinning slyly.  “This is unexpected.”

“Your plans for us were foiled, beast!” Heydricus crows.  

“Are you sure of that, Liberator?” the demon says.  “Are you _aware_?  Perhaps we should talk.”

But by that point, Gwendolyn has emerged from the _portable hole_, and without another word being spoken, she arcs a _horrid wiliting_ through the room, pulling flame from Panshazek’s wings and withering his two vulture-headed lackeys.  Of course, to her eyes, she just unleashed her most powerful spell at an unarmed old man and his bright-eyed grandchildren.  _Here’s to hoping that The Plan turns out to be a good idea_.

To her relief, Heydricus leaps forward and begins cutting into the grandfatherly man, slicing strips from his form with forehand and backhand blows.  His efforts are rewarded by a nearly sub-sonic screeching emerging from the thing.

Jespo follows Gwendolyn out of the bag, and stumbles about in a very undignified fashion, growing tangled in his long robes, until he finally rights himself and summons a horde of _black tentacles_ that fill the back of the room and seize the leg of the young girl, as she rises into the air.  She wrestles with the tentacle, slashing and biting it before finally tearing free and flying upwards beyond the reach of the _tentacles_ with a raucous subhuman cry.  A thin _tentacle_ tip clings to her ankle, severed from its source by her frantic biting, but still struggling feebly to kill . . . kill . . ._kill_.

The young boy reaches behind himself, and emerges with a formely unseen bow, then fires three shots at Heydricus.  Two of the arrows are mis-targeted due to the Liberator’s _displace self_, but the third strikes home.  Lucius returns fire on the boy, striking him through the neck in what must certainly be a mortal blow, assuming of course, that he is mortal after all.  The boy-thing glares at Lucius as it shakes its head.

At that moment, Panshazek the anti-pheonix spreads his frail arms (or gigantic firey wings, depending on whether you have _true seeing_), and intones, “Paskaviik Ta’hasish Mulu, I invoke our bond!  Fly to my aid in the name of He Who Sees All!”   As he finishes his invocation, Panshazek flickers once, and is gone.

His disappearance is followed by a sudden _shuddering_ in the room, and then a six-armed woman with the lower half of a huge serpent appears directly in the midst of the Liberators.  She wields a different weapon in each arm, many of them obviously enchanted, and six flashing blades whirr hypnotically as the edges grate across one another, producing a terrible cacophony.  “I hear and obey, Eternal Terror,” the demoness says.  And as if to prove her obedience, she begins carving heroes, cutting Regda, Dabus and Prisantha simultaneously.

Dabus reacts to the sudden onslaught by uttering a _holy word_.  As the booming tone echoes through the fight, all three of his enemies (and Lucius) stagger away from the sound, sickened and deafened.  Heydricus reacts to the sudden break by leaping at the demoness, and he works his _holy spear_ through her field of blades, and runs her through the sternum, heart and head.  In that order.

Both the girl and boy child target Dabus for their next volley, and the stalwart cleric grunts as several barbed arrows punch through his plate armor and bury themselves into his skin.  But he is made of stern stuff, and he shrugs off the pain, then motions to Heydricus.  The two Tritherionites position themselves on opposite sides of the creature, a strategy that does not seem to dismay her in the slightest.  She continues weaving her blades in a complex pattern, forcing both men to grant her weaponry their full attention.

Prisantha backs away from the struggling marilith, and says, “I _wish_ Panshazek was directly in front of me.”  Her spell twists space, and suddenly a desiccated and worm-ridden corpse appears in the air directly in front of her, and then falls to the ground with a wet sticking sound, breaking into several filthy pieces.

“Well, that was unexpected,” Prisantha observes.

Dabus and Heydricus exchange blows with the marilith, receiving aid from both Lucius and Regda in the form of bow-fire, and after suffering a series of withering strikes, the serpent demon is destroyed, evaporating into a fine astral mist.  

Jespo Crim points his finger at the girl-child and speaks a _power word stun_.  The creature twists in mid-air for a moment, then falls into the midst of the _black tentacles_, its unseen wings seizing up.  True to their nature, the _tentacles_ tear it to demonic shreds.

“Great job, Crim!” Heydricus shouts, and to the remaining demon, he says, “In the head or the gut?  Your call.”

The vulture- thing cannot hear Heydricus’ taunt, but being a creature of personified Abyssal Evil he understands a death threat when he sees one.  He concentrates, and summons several duplicates of himself that phase in and out of one another, confusing and temporarily foiling his foes.

As the Liberators begin to separate the phantasm from the demon, there is a ghostly laughter that echoes through the room, and in a burst of flame, the phoenix-demon reappears directly within the mass of _black tentacles_, its illusion cast aside.  The _tentacles_ do not seem to even exist for the demon, and it spreads its sickening fiery wings to their full reach and opens its beak wide, revealing three writhing cyst-encrusted tongues.  The wings’ passage leaves behind bright pinions of flame that coalesce in the air and form a horrid abyssal _symbol_ that  fills everyone looking at it with a sudden terror.

Fortunately, only Jespo and Lucius are fully stricken with the fear effect, and they turn to flee, ‘never split the party’ be damned.  Gwendolyn responds by freezing Lucius in place with a hastily-cast enchantment.  Regda is also quick to act, and she proves that the arms of a lover are good for more than just soft nights under the moon as she seizes Jespo in a crushing arm-lock.  

She whispers, “it’s okay baby, Redga’s here,” in her throaty voice, attempting to stroke his head with one mailed hand as the frantic conjurer struggles feebly against her iron hold.

Prisantha has had quite enough, thank you very much, and she finishes the fight as her cohort began it, with a powerful _withering_ spell that destroys both demons outright.  Like their fellows, they dissipate into a fine mist as they are banished from the mortal plane.

As Regda solidifies her hold on Jespo, (and asks Dabus to heal the inadvertent bruises and sprains she’s given him), the rest of the Liberators make a quick search of Panshazek’s manor.  They find that his home is on a hill, and several adjoining chambers have tall, lordly windows that look out over the misery and violent squalor that has the misfortune to call itself Dorraka, the capital of Iuz’s empire on Oerth.

The city’s buildings seem to perch against their own weight and hang precariously over their streets, each one looking as if it might collapse at a moment’s notice.  Several vermin-infested rubble piles prove that some times, they do.  Garbage and filth litter every thinly-trod intersection, corner or alleyway of the city, and small trash-fires are everywhere.

Iuz’ sprawling Imperial Palace towers over the rest of the city like a patient vulture, promising that in the end, all will be consumed.

As the Liberators take in the view, they see pestilent beggars run-over by charging abyssal horses pulling smoking carriages, small-scale riots led by demon-possessed madmen, and gangs of orcs alternately defending the ubiquitous Iuzian clergy against looters, or simply taking what they like from the common folk as they pass.  The streets are lit by thousands of shuffling zombies set aflame, and the sounds of faint moaning and even fainter screaming can be heard.  

They also see that as is rumored, the streets of Dorraka are in fact paved with bones.

“I have no desire to remain here,” Dabus says, somewhat unnecessarily.

“But the corpse,” Prisantha calls from her place next to Panshazek.  “It is months old, at least.”

“Whatever we fought was not Panshazek,” Heydricus says.  “Did you hear the name that it called out before it disappeared?”  He receives no reply.  “The first time it disappeared,” he clarifies.

“_Paskaviik Ta’hasish Mulu_?” Prisantha says.  “Yes, it is abyssal for “_Thing That Spawns Ten Thousand Pains_.” That was undoubtedly the personal name of the marilith.”

“No,” Heydricus says, “_He Who Sees_.  That‘s a name for Prazrael, the winged demon-prince.  This was no Iuzian we killed, it was a spy!”


----------



## dpdx

Ruh-roh, Shaggy...

Spy for whom?


----------



## Tellerve

Um, wouldn't he be a spy for Prazrael?  I should say 'was' a spy for Prazrael?  At least that's how I took to understand it, but that really doesn't necessarily mean much 

Great battle nonetheless!  Have you all moved to 3.5...are you going to?

Tellerve


----------



## the_mighty_agrippa

okeh, regda is officially creeping me out.


----------



## (contact)

Tellerve said:
			
		

> *Um, wouldn't he be a spy for Prazrael?  I should say 'was' a spy for Prazrael?  At least that's how I took to understand it, but that really doesn't necessarily mean much *




Do you all remember that in the TOEE2, the PCs first fights were against Prazrael cultists who were there to spy on the Temple?



> *Have you all moved to 3.5...are you going to?*




We've actually decided to switch to Rolemaster, I think.

Ha hahahahahahah.  (whew)

No, we are not cool enough to have pre-release 3.5 rules (*coughPiratecatcough*), so as of this post I haven't even seen them.  

I'm sure we'll switch-- we tend to like to play "by the book" for a good while before starting in with the house-rules (and I like just about everything I've heard about 3.5e so far), but I do have a DMs community I might go to for advice on what to allow, and what to "rule-zero".

-----

For example, I will probably nerf any spell that automatically grants a suprise round (etharealness, teleport, etc.) in order to force the PCs to spend that round adjusting.

Unfortunately, many of the kinds of fights I like to run are decided by the second round, and if spellcasting PCs win initiative . . . few enemies can take *two* initial spell volleys and still put up a decent fight (*coughMaskaleynecough*).


----------



## coyote6

Heh. A demonic servant of a demon lord killed one of the Boneheart, and took his place, thus infiltrating Iuz's inner circle. Then the Liberators popped in, ignored his offer to parley, attacked, and destroyed him. Well, his form on this plane, at least.

So, the Liberators just _expanded_ The List, by pissing off a demon lord. Oops.


----------



## Barastrondo

Awwww yeah. First off, we see there's this "anti-phoenix" (which, by the way, is an outstanding image); then we note he's attended by a couple of vrocks. Instantly we see that there is a motif.

Then, we get the confirmation. Prazrael (aka Pazrael, aka Pazuzu, aka 
"Hey there, Liberators, messing with a Demon Prince now, are we?") his own bad self. 

Completely slick. And I _looooove_ me some villains with a motif. 'Specially vultures and such. (Heh.)



> Prisantha backs away from the struggling marilith, and says, “I wish Panshazek was directly in front of me.” Her spell twists space, and suddenly a desiccated and worm-ridden corpse appears in the air directly in front of her, and then falls to the ground with a wet sticking sound, breaking into several filthy pieces.




5,000 XP well spent!

Right?

Right?


----------



## Spatzimaus

Barastrondo said:
			
		

> *
> 5,000 XP well spent!
> 
> Right?
> 
> Right? *




I'm guessing it was only _Limited Wish_.


----------



## Joshua Randall

(contact) said:
			
		

> Do you all remember that in the TOEE2, the PCs first fights were against Prazrael cultists who were there to spy on the Temple?



Obscure memories tell me that someone tried to trick the Prazrael guys into thinking the PCs worked for Iuz. Yup:



> _from the RttToEE story_ *Two: Into the Moathouse.* [...] Ahlana _silences_ the priest, Gnomishic _greases_ the floor, and as the PCs are retreating, sets their foes on fire. Ahlana screams, "This is how we punish those who dare trifle with Iuz!" hoping to confuse the Prazraelians as to who their foe really is.



So, (contact), did the late Ahlana's plan work a little too well? Has Prazrael been hanging out in Dorraka all this time spying on Iuz and waiting for the Heroes of the Temple to show up?


----------



## (contact)

Joshua Randall said:
			
		

> *So, (contact), did the late Ahlana's plan work a little too well? Has Prazrael been hanging out in Dorraka all this time spying on Iuz and waiting for the Heroes of the Temple to show up?  *




This is called "beating Heydricus' player with his own stick."

I didn't write the Prazraelians into this campaign-- he did!  There will be more of this type of stuff revealed very soon, as the campaign begins to bookend and self-refrence.


----------



## Barastrondo

Spatzimaus said:
			
		

> *
> 
> I'm guessing it was only Limited Wish. *



\

Oh yeah. D'urr. 

I blame Gwendolyn. A superior line like "I always knew someday you'd be _wishing_, and I'd still be... _limited wishing_!" tends to stick in your head and gum up the works.


----------



## (contact)

*Goodmonth 19, CY 593
61:  Shopping and killing both come in sprees.*

Cranzer of Riftcrag has had a rough couple of months.  Like all the Iuzain rulers of the conquered lands, he enjoyed the heady days after the Greyhawk War and the bounty of gore, plunder and pain that came in its wake.  Appointed by the Old One himself as the de-facto uber-boss for all of the Bandit Kingdoms, he found a nearly endless supply of informants willing to keep him informed of the slightest treachery or sedition.  His agents were appropriately terrified, the better part of the land’s resources were funneled back to Dorraka, and the people were bled dry.  Fear was in its home, and all was well.

But curiously, things got _better_ in the Bandit Kingdoms.  Through no fault of his own, the new generation of gang-bosses and guildmasters grew savvy, and learned how to give every appearance of compliance while steadily increasing their own autonomy.  Cranzer’s hold on the region began to slip, and as pressure mounted from the Throne of Skulls, he soon found himself promising results he could not deliver.  The fiasco with the Bleeding Stone was the final straw, and in Aletha’s eyes he read a grim promise:  “The next time you fail, the Boneheart acquires an opening.”

She never would have dared torture him had his renders been there.

-----

Despite the warm midday sun, the streets of Riftcrag are strangely deserted.  No face peers out from a window, no elders congregate on their stoops.  There is no traffic of any kind, save for the Lord’s procession.

Cranzer is seen through Prisantha’s _crystal ball_ to be a sturdy and short man, altogether too hairy to be fully human, but not feral enough to be named a beast.  His eyes dart fearfully from side to side behind a mask of disdainful arrogance.  

He is walking along one of Riftcrag’s main thoroughfares with his retinue in tow.  A pair of hulking half-ogres dressed to the nines in fashionable adventuring gear (replete with plate armor and greatswords) move ahead of him, peering into alleyways and around corners.  At his right-hand is a demonic orc wearing the vestments of Iuz’ clergy—grey-green scales speckle his fecal-hued skin, and a pair of large, vestigial tusks jut from his cheeks, curving around behind his head.  The orc is jostled from time to time by one of a quartet of grey renders that follow Cranzer placidly and occasionally shuffle close to sniff at him.  Cranzer has a market-day bushel in his well-manicured hands, and as he walks he plucks a ripe summer fruit from the basket and bites into it greedily, sucking at the juice like a vampire at his first debutante’s ball.

As the Liberators materialize around him in the empty street, Cranzer is suddenly seized by a spell-effect, and his form shivers for a moment, then transitions into an otherworldly state.  The newly translucent wizard looks around himself, utterly surprised by the adventurers appearing in his midst. 

As quickly as he materializes, Lucius is gone again, using the distraction and chaos of the fight’s opening moments to hide within a nearby opening.  Regda appears with an arrow strung to her bow, and after taking a quick appraisal of her available targets, she buries her shaft into the orc.

In response, the fiendish orc gives her a feint, and then leaps around a corner, disappearing into the shadows.  Lucius is not fooled, however, and tracks the creature with his eyes.  The orc, confident in his skills, does not notice the hidden rogue watching his every move.

Heydricus leaps at Cranzer, but his blows whir through the air, passing harmlessly through the ghostly form of the mage.  “_Dispel_ Cranzer, and he’s dead!” he yells to his spellcasting companions.

Prisantha uses a _mislead_ spell to distract the corporeal bodyguards surrounding her target, then utters a quickened suggestion; “You negotiate a deal, _or you die_.”

“You can’t make a threat and a _suggestion_ at the same time!” Heydricus complains.

“Mind your business,” Pris says.  “Do I tell you how to swing your sword?”

Cranzer’s only response is to point his finger and send a thin, grey ray beaming into the center of Heydricus’ chest, just before he goes _invisible_.

“See?” Heydricus says, as he ignores the ray.

“You dare assault Cranzer the Magnificent!”  A thin, reedy voice emerges from the thin air.  “Half-witted cretins!  Do you not know who I am?  You shall suffer the torments of the Abyss at my hands—_you will beg me for death before the sun goes down_.”

“I’m already begging you to shut the f-ck up!” Heydricus yells.

Dabus calls upon a _holy smite_, burning skin off the flesh of the renders and half-ogres, and filling their eyes with a celestial light.

Jespo sends a chained _Tasha’s hideous laughter_ through the blinded bodyguards, and in an instant, all four renders and one of the half-ogres has begun to titter and giggle.  The renders shake their ponderous heads from side to side, and exhale air in a low whistle through the gill-like nostrils running along their topsides.  The half-ogre chuckles, then begins to slap his knee, his eyes watering.  Get it?  The third one _ducks_.

“Great job, Crim!” Heydricus yells as his blade whistles through Cranzer twice, and catches the ghost-like mage once, drawing translucent blood into the air, where it pools out, as if underwater.

Lucius fires three arrows from point-blank range into the hidden orcish cleric; _whomp, thunt, pak_, and the orc’s eyes begin to glaze over.  The foul priest frantically finishes a spell, placing a field of silence directly in between Heydricus and the illusionary Prisantha, and backing away from the deadly assassin.  

Of course, he backs away into Regda’s reach, and after a crushing overhand blow from her greatsword, lies still.

The real Prisantha is well outside of the _silenced_ area, and sends a _horrid wilting_ arcing through the fight, instantly turning all four grey renders into something resembling Large-sized prunes, and killing the laughing half-ogre as well.  

Gwendolyn points her finger at the remaining half-ogre, and snuffs his life out in an instant.  Or at least, he topples over and falls face-first into the dirt with a sound that a plate-armored sack of tubers might make if it were casually tossed off the turnip truck.  I think they call that dead in Riftcrag.

Dabus concentrates on Tritherion’s _righteous might_ and grows to the size of the dead render-prunes, then steps forward to menace the ghostly Cranzer, his steely gaze telling the mage that, _you know and I know that ‘fifty-percent’ means half of them will hit_.

And half of them is more than enough, as it turns out.  In a matter of seconds, the largest difficulty facing the Liberators of Tenh is “how the hell do we get to the etheric plane to loot Cranzer’s body”?

-----

_Aside:  Perhaps an observant player can read the look of horror on a DMs face when his fearsome encounters are blithely brushed aside.  Perhaps this, in itself, should be a form of foreshadowing for those who understand The Way Things Work Here in Wonderville._


----------



## Joshua Randall

As a partial contributor to the stats and tactics for Cranzer, let me just say that _this is completely unacceptable_.   I refuse to sit idly by while the smug PCs slaughter the carefully crafted villain NPCs. From now on, the following changes are in effect.

Each classed NPC's abilities will be purchased with double the usual points; i.e., a 64 point buy.
A minimum of three templates will be applied to each villain.
The DMG's recommended wealth for each NPC shall be quadrupled. However, all such wealth shall exist as items that only the villains can use (1E Drow style).
NPCs shall receive a +5 fudge bonus to all their rolls.
Darned uppity players. Next thing you know they'll be wanting to keep gaining levels after 20th.


----------



## Rackhir

(contact) said:
			
		

> *Goodmonth 19, CY 593
> 61:  Shopping and killing both come in sprees.
> Aside:  Perhaps an observant player can read the look of horror on a DMs face when his fearsome encounters are blithely brushed aside.  Perhaps this, in itself, should be a form of foreshadowing for those who understand The Way Things Work Here in Wonderville. *




I am curious as to why you feel these encounters have gone so horribly wrong with regards to the villians not putting up much of a fight. Have you simply been underestimating their effectiveness? Is there some sort of synergy kicking in especially with the new batch of cohorts? 

Particularly at high levels it is definitely difficult to pick a balance, since things are so much more lethal, the margin between a cake-walk and a TPK can be fairly narrow. As there is not the time to regroup or turn the tables if one side is at some sort of disadvantage.


----------



## (contact)

Rackhir said:
			
		

> *I am curious as to why you feel these encounters have gone so horribly wrong with regards to the villians not putting up much of a fight.  *




I don't actually feel that way.  This is just a literary conciet-- a homage to the same passage in the TOEE2 game (DMed by Heydricus' player) that presaged a similar event/series of events.

So it's kind of a backwards-refrencing foreshadowing smart-assed thing to say.  

Kind of an insult before injury thing.


----------



## the_mighty_agrippa

> As they travel to the Temple of Fungal Evil  (magic-resistant DC 19 Jock Itch!  Where’s my lucky dice?), the party spots a pair of trolls investigating the ruined access doors.  Anton, reveling in his new-found power, traps the beasts up to their waists in a _rock to mud_, and after a _suggestion_ by Pris that the trolls should touch their toes, followed by a quick _dispel magic_, the mighty trolls become just another speed bump.
> 
> _Aside:  Perhaps an observant player can read the look of horror on a DMs face when his fearsome encounters are blithely brushed aside.  Perhaps this, itself, should be a form of foreshadowing for those who understand The Way Things Work Here in Wonderville._




*ooh...*


> The _charmed_ rogue turns out to be a vile assassin, and crowingly admits to being hired by none other than Zinvellon himself to kill the party.  The rogue tells the PCs that Zinvellon really *“has a cobb up his ass for you guys”*, and had attached this assassin to an Alu-Fiend sorceress by the name of Anna, with the explicit instructions to find and terminate the PCs with extreme prejudice.




*i love that line...*

*and finally....*



> The first order of business once the Temple is put behind them is to kill the assassin.  Augustin relishes the duty, and our band of heroes make short work of the villain.  *Hey, maybe we can fight 12th level monsters after all.*




or maybe not...


----------



## KidCthulhu

My suggestion would be do something to fudge with their cycle of "Scry, teleport, kick a**.  Repeat if necessary".  The scry teleport thing is very powerful, but Iuz is a frikkin' god.  If he hasn't figured out the Liberator's big trick yet, he deserves to be brought down.  Don't these people talk to each other?  Wasn't there a memo?


----------



## Skaros

KidCthulhu said:
			
		

> *My suggestion would be do something to fudge with their cycle of "Scry, teleport, kick a**.  Repeat if necessary".  The scry teleport thing is very powerful, but Iuz is a frikkin' god.  If he hasn't figured out the Liberator's big trick yet, he deserves to be brought down.  Don't these people talk to each other?  Wasn't there a memo? *




There was a memo, but Iuz didn't send it out next-day delivery...cause its more evil that way.


----------



## Sarellion

I think that after the third fight in this way, I would be a little bit annoyed.

isn´t there something to stop scrying with some spell?


----------



## Lazybones

It's true, I've seen this similar style of scry-buff-attack in a lot of high level story hours (Wulf's, Sep's, Kid C's, and now (contact)'s).  Inveitably in these situations the PCs grow to a level of power where they can smite all sorts of terrible foes, and with resurrection magic, death ceases to have any terror for them.  

Of course, knowing C's style, I have no fear whatsoever that comeuppance will be ladled out with a big, bent, two-handled ladle of DOOM!

Or something like that. 

Great couple of updates; I love the style of this story (something like Vance meets Pratchett, with a couple good-sized belts of scotch thrown in for flavor).


----------



## (contact)

KidCthulhu said:
			
		

> *The scry teleport thing is very powerful, but Iuz is a frikkin' god.  If he hasn't figured out the Liberator's big trick yet, he deserves to be brought down.  *




This is entirely true.  What the Liberators are slowly finding out is that Iuz *does not care* that they've been wasting His clerics willy-nilly.

The Old One has other concerns on his necrotic and worm-ridden mind.  The Liberators will find themselves in trouble when they reach the tipping point with regards to the *organization* of Iuz becoming concerned enough to do actually organize and do something about them.

Of course, other outside forces may be at play, as well . . .


----------



## (contact)

And I should also point out, for the record, that _I have no problem with PCs using all avaliable spells and tactics to their maximum efficiency_.  

That said, my one gripe is that it the relative power levels of a pre-buffed and a post-buffed 3e party are *so* radically different, it becomes a real challenge within this campaign to provide them with tough encounters that are able to handle the full might of the optimized Liberators, without going so far beyond the pale as to strech my game's credibility.

In other words, Cranzer was 12th level when the PCs started the freaking LoT campaign, and he's been sitting on his hairy behind most of the time since then, so if he's 15th level by the time they get around to mauling him it would be a miracle. 

It would just strain my sense of disbelief as a player if all of a sudden every Iuzian were 19th level, just because the PCs need foes that tough to give them the appropriate amount of hell when they scry-buff-jump bad.

But yeah, I did come up with a fix, but it's one I wouldn't reccomend trying at home.  It nearly got me lynched.


----------



## Duncan Haldane

(contact) said:
			
		

> *That said, my one gripe is that it the relative power levels of a pre-buffed and a post-buffed 3e party are *so* radically different, it becomes a real challenge within this campaign to provide them with tough encounters that are able to handle the full might of the optimized Liberators, without going so far beyond the pale as to strech my game's credibility.*



*

Unfortunately 3.5 is going to make that worse.  For instance, in 3e at higher levels one could spend most of the day with buff spells on, prepared in some ways to respond to an ambush.  

But with 3.5 buff spells only lasting 1 minute per level, it can't be done that way.  The ambushing group can buff themselves up mightily before the ambush begins, which the victims of the ambush can't start buffing until the ambush is underway.

Ambushes, especially scry/teleport/kill types are going to be much deadlier in 3.5

And thanks again for a great story hour, contact.

Duncan*


----------



## Zaruthustran

If I were an Evil Servant of Iuz and realized that all my Evil Buddies are getting bushwhacked by the Scry/Buff/Teleport Liberators, then I'd do what Saddam did: use body doubles, surround myself with bodyguards, stay on the move, and be paranoid as you can be.

One thing for a Bad Guy to do is to always be with a dominated bodyguard. This guy would be disguised with mundane disguises, what for to be proof against True Seeing. And he'd always be at hand. When the PCs scry, they'll see both of them side by side. As far as I know, there's no "zoom" feature on Scry--it just shows the subject and his surroundings. It's totally believable that at the time the PCs scry, the bad guy is standing close enough to the decoy as to make it unclear which one the Scry spell is centered upon.

Make the decoy a disguised Flesh Golem (or some other magic-proof thing) and it'll maybe soak a few rounds of attacks and spells. 

Another thing for Bad Guys to do is RUN, then come back with reinforcements. For instance: a Bad Guy could have a contingency that "Whenever anyone teleports within 60' of me, I Teleport away". Poof! Now the PCs are stuck facing the bodyguards, while the Bad Guy buffs, preps, and grabs reinforcements. If the Bad Guy isn't a caster he can just wear a Spell Storing something-or-other, or have a couple bodyguard spellcasters with quickened Teleports nearby. 

Or, arm the bodyguards with Beads of Force, Bands of Bilaro, Grease or Rock to Mud spells--heck, even Bolas and Tanglefoot bags. These cheap things immobilize the Good Guys until more Bad Guys can arrive.

The classic smokescreen is also effective. Cheap Wondrous Items, first level spells, or friendly air elementals can whip up Concealment modifiers right quick. These should give the Bad Guys enough time to prep up or escape. Stack Concealment with Displacement with Etherealness and you can be pretty safe from Heydricus, Dabus, and Lucius.

Got (dead) Friends? Ghostly pals or Spectral cohorts (traveling in the pavement) can be a nasty surprise. Give them the Blindfight feat and have them attack with cheap Ghost Touch weapons--while they're still encased in a wall or the floor. They get to reroll the miss chance for striking an unseen opponent, and are proof against weapons, most spells, and Turning (turning doesn't work against undead with Total Cover). Give them Sense Life effects, clairvoyance effects, or ghostly familiars flying far overhead, what for so they can get an idea of where to swing.

Speaking of Undead, I once made a 1st level monk that was pretty deadly. It was a 1st level monk Mind Flayer ghost. The Charisma bonus from the Ghost template made its mind blast pretty nasty, and it could blast from the ethereal. The Charisma bonus from Mind Flayer made the ghost powers pretty nasty. The Wisdom bonus from both gave it a great unarmored AC. The ECL was 21, but maybe this guy would make a good (as in "Evil") hit man for use against heroes.

But I'm not worried. I think (contact) has his players' doom well in hand. 

-z


----------



## KidCthulhu

Contact, I'm not suggesting you pull out the "hose 'em" stick.  I think you've got the right idea, to keep your world real and accurate.  But I can't wait to see what you have up your sleeve.


----------



## Derrick Reeves

Surely Scry-Buff-Teleport is going to be less effective in 3.5, with Will Saves against Scrying?  This alone should put the Liberators on a go-slow.


----------



## Morte

(contact) said:
			
		

> like a vampire at his first debutante’s ball.




Nice. Yours?



> In other words, Cranzer was 12th level when the PCs started the freaking LoT campaign, and he's been sitting on his hairy behind most of the time since then, so if he's 15th level by the time they get around to mauling him it would be a miracle.
> 
> It would just strain my sense of disbelief as a player if all of a sudden every Iuzian were 19th level, just because the PCs need foes that tough to give them the appropriate amount of hell when they scry-buff-jump bad.




Ya know, I've worked out the thing I like about this SH. Behind the operatic action and prose, which are fun, there's a really solid story/world going on. I don't know if you plan it or wing it or it's reactive to the players, but that doesn't really matter so long as it sticks together.

You clearly put serious thought into your NPC groups, and how they hang together or don't, and it's all believable and consistent. We may only see the surface because that's all the PCs find (who were those druids and why were they raiding the ore?) but the depth is clearly there.

As for the scry and fry ops, the Liberators picked the right target. If you tried something like this on the church of Pelor they'd close ranks, alert their members, erect defences/traps and start work on the counterattack. Iuzians are easier. But some suitably heavyweight opponent(s) will get the idea in the end. I look forward to it.


----------



## (contact)

Hey, thanks for the votes of confidence, everyone.  I've just shared them with the demonic entity that possesses my body when I'm DMing, and he finds your support . . . well, he actually finds your support alien and utterly incomprehensible, but he _is_ a metaphysical embodiment of pure evil.

I'm sure if it were cosmologically possible, he would be grateful for the kind words as well.



			
				KidCthulhu said:
			
		

> *Contact, I'm not suggesting you pull out the "hose 'em" stick.  I think you've got the right idea, to keep your world real and accurate.  But I can't wait to see what you have up your sleeve. *




(Whispering)  _A toddler vampire swarm_.


----------



## (contact)

Morte said:
			
		

> *
> 
> Nice. Yours?*




Um . . . probably?


----------



## the_mighty_agrippa

well, i f*cking love the story hour(s).  the overall campaign actually rekindled my interest in d&d in general & greyhawkin particular.


----------



## coyote6

Zaruthustran said:
			
		

> *Another thing for Bad Guys to do is RUN, then come back with reinforcements. For instance: a Bad Guy could have a contingency that "Whenever anyone teleports within 60' of me, I Teleport away". Poof! Now the PCs are stuck facing the bodyguards, while the Bad Guy buffs, preps, and grabs reinforcements. If the Bad Guy isn't a caster he can just wear a Spell Storing something-or-other, or have a couple bodyguard spellcasters with quickened Teleports nearby. *




A couple of 17th+ level wizards standing around as bodyguards? Now that's power inflation. 

I think (contact)'s point was that it strains credibility for him if everybody has access to all this stuff. Bad guys can prepare for this sort of thing, but they have to dedicate a lot of resources (wealth, spells, etc.) to walking around all the time, _just in case_ someone decides to scry-buff-teleport. It can become rather silly.

And most of 'em will simply cause the Liberators to slightly modify the tactic, to scry-buff-teleport-greater dispel-greater dispel (repeat the last part as needed). Or, when Pris hits sufficient level, scry-buff-teleport-disjunction. Or, the Liberators teleport in a bunny rabbit or the like, watch the sixteen _contingencies_ go off, chuckle for an hour or two, and then pop in when the bad guys have used up half their resources for the day.


----------



## thatdarncat

coyote6 said:
			
		

> *
> Or, the Liberators teleport in a bunny rabbit or the like, watch the sixteen contingencies go off, chuckle for an hour or two, and then pop in when the bad guys have used up half their resources for the day. *




Teleport-Scry-Teleport-Scry would work as well.


----------



## SpaceBaby Industries

I'm surprised no one has mentioned _Mind Blank_.  Now there is the ultimate Scry-Fry thwarter.  Can't Teleport to what you can't detect, right?

I know what you're thinking: that's an 8th level Wizard spell.  You're pushing suspension of disbelief if everyone is suddenly 15th level or more.  Fair enough, but there's a reasonable solution to this as well.   For the discerning Boneheart members, or at least the ones who have the financial wherewithal, consider an amulet that casts _Mind Blank_ once a day (command word activated).  (8 x 15 x 1800) x 1/5 for the limited casting = 43,600 GP.  Sure, it's pricey, but the truly paranoid and powerful would buy one.  With a 24 duration per casting, you stay protected all the time, so long as you remember to utter the command word each morning.

Not as much style as Vampire Toddler Swarms, but it's a thought.


----------



## (contact)

How much is a new SpaceBaby?  Say, standard model, basic features?



			
				SpaceBaby Industries said:
			
		

> *For the discerning Boneheart members, or at least the ones who have the financial wherewithal, consider an amulet that casts Mind Blank once a day *




One of the things that really limits NPC villains is the need to keep their magic item total low.  If the Iuzians were built with the same sort of resources that PCs are assumed to have, there'd be a lot more Good-aligned blood left on the floor when all was said and done.

The trouble is, in the LoT especially, anything that the bad guys have, the good guys will get eventually.



I've thrown a monkey wrench into their scrying from time to time-- Maskaleyne had his "away team" which was designed to teleport in on the PCs as they were buffing (didn't work out, tough luck.  RIP fellas), Zeflen in Calibut foils scrying because he stretches the definition of "a being", etc.

But for the most part, I think it's okay.  My group self-polices very well-- if they were actually straining the fun factor with cheesy tactics, they'd cut it out, or we'd just house-rule a fix.  As it is, we're all having a good time, they take the occasional defeat along with the victories, and the campaign crunches along.

Jespo simpers, Fras hisses, Regda coddles, Lucius plots, Belvor booms, Gwendolyn sashays, Dabus reassures, Thrommel dies, Pris bats her eyes, and Heydricus admires his muscles in the mirror.

In some ways, the fighting is really just the backdrop for the fun stuff (IMO).  I love political campaigns, and Heydricus coming up with something like the marriage of Butrain's daughter and Thrommel did more damage to my sub-plotting than any amount of scry-buff-teleports would!  In fact, between that, their trip to Nyrond, and the letter to Halrond, they really won the game. 

Tenh is essentially Liberated.  (Although don't tell the Pale or the troll army occupying the Southern border-- they might disagree.)

Scry-buff-teleport is no more or no less than clerics weilding maces, or monks who can't use swords.  It's kind of silly, but C'est la D&D.

That said, we *did* house-rule that teleport requires a partial action (3.0e terminology) to orient, thus preventing the surprise round - -> win initiative bloodbaths.  There aren't many ways to build a bad guy that can get past two rounds of the Liberators.  Ask Maskeylene if you don't belive me.  I'd built that guy with *love*, even created a new template (Rotted One) for his pretty behind, and he barely got to say something evil before they wasted him.  I was like, "for this I spent four hours?"  

The Will save vs. scrying will lessen the frequency of, but won't prevent what we've seen in the past, and I'm okay with that.

The other nice thing about picking Iuzians for enemies, is that they are both deep and broad as an organization.  Everything from barbarian giants to humongous bleeding obelisks could concieveably make their way onto The List.

-----

You'll see two things in the next few updates:  

First, you'll see that the Liberators are definately vulnerable, a point that was presented in a unique (at least to our experience) fashion.  See, the killing of Panshazek in Dorraka *was* sufficiently meaningful enough to trigger an organized response.  Now, the Liberators aren't just taking out peripheral servants or out-of-favor VIPs in the Provinces-- they are killing Boneheart members *at the seat of Iuz' authority*.  This is bad, mmmmmkay?

Second, you'll see that sometimes Bad Guys don't have enough levels between them to even have a chance.


----------



## SpaceBaby Industries

> One of the things that really limits NPC villains is the need to keep their magic item total low. If the Iuzians were built with the same sort of resources that PCs are assumed to have, there'd be a lot more Good-aligned blood left on the floor when all was said and done.




Now, I'm not implying you're one of _those_ DMs, but the dominating evil entity you mentioned early might be, so here's another thought.  Make the item in question useable only by Eeevil characters, or better yet, Iuz worshippers.  The latter prevents Lucius as well, thereby a LoT proof modification.  Excepting being able to spoof via sufficient Use Magic Device, which I don't think anyone has from what I've seen.

As an added "rub it in" factor, the price would, at least in theory, go _down_  with this modification - a further 30% reduction.  Sport a flashy Iuz UnHoly Symbol complete with Peace of Mind Blank(tm) for a mere 30,520 GP!  A mere pittance for someone who has looted an entire nation.  

Admittedly, one could always scry known associates and/or bodyguards, but at least this means the LoT have to work at it a little bit.  There's also that immunity to mind affecting spells and mind reading.  That has to be a plus when you're in the Boneheart.



> Jespo simpers, Fras hisses, Regda coddles, Lucius plots, Belvor booms, Gwendolyn sashays, Dabus reassures, Thrommel dies, Pris bats her eyes, and Heydricus admires his muscles in the mirror.




Sounds like everyonem players and DM included, are having a blast, so that means the campaign is a rousing success.  What more could you ask for?  



> How much is a new SpaceBaby? Say, standard model, basic features?




Ah, the one thing you could still ask for?  I suppose the title is misleading - we don't sell SpaceBabies here at SBI, we offer their high quality services to clients of discriminating tastes.  When you need an Epic DC level Aura of Cuteness for example, you've come to the right place.

For D&D situations, may I suggest the SBI Master of the Arcane package:


----------



## Zaruthustran

(contact) said:
			
		

> Jespo simpers, Fras hisses, Regda coddles, Lucius plots, Belvor booms, Gwendolyn sashays, Dabus reassures, *Thrommel dies*, Pris bats her eyes, and Heydricus admires his muscles in the mirror.




Laugh. Out. Loud.  

My oh my, that earned me a few quizzical looks here in the cube farm.

-z


----------



## Joshua Randall

The whole Scry-Buff-Teleport issue gets rehashed from time to time, with no real consensus or solution ever being reached (i.e., like most Internet-based discussions). There is a representative sampling of the issue here 

And by the way, (contact) can generate more views talking about *problems* in his campaign than I can in my entire story to date. Bah.


----------



## (contact)

It's not a problem, Joshua, it's a _feature_.  

. . . And I read the Company of the Red Kestrel.


----------



## Joshua Randall

I shouldn't have said Scry-Buff-Teleport is a *problem*; I should've said it's *a way that the Liberators can kick more ass.*

Also, folks, did you hear what (contact) said about reading my story? If that's not a ringing endorsement I don't know what is. Stop on by The Company of the Red Kestrel story hour  - my six other readers (six-and-a-half if you count (contact) ) will thank you for it.


----------



## Prince Atom

(Fails his Will save vs Epic Cuteness, and thus his Lurk roll)

What a cute li'l Raistlin wannabe!  

Seriously, SpaceBaby, cute kid.

And now that I'm out of the shadows, let me just say that anything by (contact) is a must-read.

Man, I wish my group could play like this, but the only DM who likes high-level play doesn't believe in material rewards for his players....

TWK


----------



## (contact)

*Unkown Date
62:  Goooooooooood morning, Wonderville.*

Heydricus is the first to awaken.  He is lying on a low, unadorned stone bier.  His bones ache, and he feels like his head has been pulped, condensed, strained through a sieve and stuffed into an undersized container.  His first thought is that he must have been extremely drunk last night.  The room he is in is oval shaped, and dimly lit by _everburning candles_.  Seven other biers are present and upon each of them lie the other Liberators of Tenh, still and unmoving.

He realizes with a sinking feeling that he is in Martak’s secret chamber.  These must be the Liberator’s clones he is looking at, but what does that make him?

As he is pondering the mystery, and taking stock of the masterwork weapons and armor lying next to him, Prisantha sits up, and is followed in short order by Jespo, Fräs, Gwendolyn, Lucius and Dabus.  

“I thought this was getting too easy,” Heydricus says by way of greeting.  The last thing any of them remember they had returned to Cur’ruth, divided the spoils from Cranzer and Panshazek, Prisantha took flesh from their arms, and . . . then nothing.

“We’ve been killed!” Jespo says with a horrified expression on his face.  “The bastards!”

“But by whom?” Prisantha asks.

“How the hell should I know?” Heydricus replies.  “The real question is, how long have we been dead, and what happened to the people relying on us?”

None of his companions have an answer.  Thrommel’s body is present, but does not stir.

“Maybe Thrommel stepped up and avenged us,” Heydricus says.

“And did something worthwhile without my _suggestion_?” Prisantha asks.  

“I wouldn’t hold my breath,” Jespo snarls.  Fräs hisses.

Prisantha turns to Heydricus.  “This is probably the work of the juggernaut you wouldn’t kill.” 

“We don’t know that,” Heydricus says defensively.

“I think it likely,” she says sagely.

“No, no.  With our luck it was the druid f-ckers,” Heydricus retorts.

“Well, it wasn’t the Boneshadow,” Lucius laughs.

“Still, we are all well, and that is what matters,” Dabus says.  “Let me prepare spells, and Tritherion will enlighten us.”

While the spellcasting characters pore over their tomes or meditate quietly, Lucius approaches Heydricus.  “We should talk,” he says, his voice kept low out of respect or conspiratorial necessity.  “I’ve been doing some thinking.  It’s not that these other friends of yours aren’t good people, but the ante has been upped, and we may want to ditch some ballast.”

“What are you talking about, Lucius?” Heydricus whispers back.  “Speak plainly.”

“These women you’ve surrounded yourself with,” Lucius says.  “And I mean Crim and the priest as well.  I don’t think they’ve got the right stuff for what we have in front of us.  Dabus is more in love with his honor than Keriann was, and the others don’t have the guts to make the bastards pay. “

“Lucius,” Heydricus sighs.  “Shut up and stop thinking.”

-----

“_Dabus Thrice-Born.  You have evaded My Halls so often, I am beginning to doubt our Pact. _” Tritherion’s voice fills Dabus with a warm and comforting sensation.

“Great Lord, pull this veil from my eyes, and answer me True. Was this done by the hands of the Old One or his followers?”  

“_You have disguised two questions as one, Dabus, and I may not answer. _”  

“Were we killed in Cur’ruth?” 

“_Were you killed, you would be with Me. _”

“Were we slain in battle?”  

“_No, you were not slain. _”

“Did my former body die in battle?”  

“_Your former body died defending innocents. _”

“Had we previously encountered the ones who attacked us?” 

“_No. _”

“Was the Juggernaut involved?”

“_No. _”

“During the attack that killed us, were any members of the Boneheart present?”  

“_No. _”

“Was this attack the result of us attacking Cranzer and Panshazek?”  

“_Not directly, no. _”

“Was Aletha involved?”

“_Yes, if water can be said to be involved in a rainstorm. _”

“Does Aletha believe we are dead?”  

“_No. _”

“Does Aletha know we are alive?” 

“_No. _”

“Does Aletha turn her gaze from Tenh, thinking we are gone?”  

“_Again, you ask two questions. _”

“Dabus sighs.  “Is Thrommel alive and well?“ 

“_Two-part questions simply cannot be answered.  This is unlike you, Dabus. _”

“Is the Aiman still alive?”  

“_No. _”

“Are the celestial emotes below?”  

‘_No. _”

“Did our attackers discover them?”  

“_Yes. _”

 “Have the Iuzians brought back to life any members of the Boneheart?”

“_They have ressurected Panzshazek._”

-----

After Dabus completes his _commune_, and shares his findings, Prisantha uses a pool of water to _scry_ Thrommel, but receives only a grey mist for her troubles.

“Thrommel is dead,” Jespo says with a curious mixture of dread and vindication.

“No,” Gwendolyn says, “Scrying the dead results in a black field.  This is different.”

“He is neither dead nor alive,” Prisantha states.  “And that could mean many things.”

“I am not sure your assessment is correct,” Jespo says. 

“Yet you do not have my experience with _scrying_,” she replies.  

“This is obviously the work of Aletha, and I find it hard to believe that she would suffer Thrommel to live,” Jespo says.

“Aletha is _involved_, but that does not mean this is her work,” Prisantha says.  “It was not the Boneheart that did this, nor their construct.”

Lucius emerges from the shadows at the back of the room and gives an exaggerated sigh.  “Pathetic,” he sneers.  “You mumbo and you jumbo and we still don’t know sh-t.  Why don’t we just do this the old fashioned way?”

Prisantha ignores him.  She casts a second _scrying_, this time seeking for Elenthal.  The drow ranger is seen to be lying face-down at the edge of a rooftop, observing foot traffic below him.  As she watches, he carefully removes a handful of trail-food from a pouch and slowly brings it to his mouth.

Pris breaks her _scrying_.  “Well, he’s still in Stoink, so we couldn’t have been dead that long.”

“We don’t know that,” Lucius says.

“Yes we do,” Prisantha snaps.

“We know he’s on a rooftop, we don’t know he’s in Stoink.  And we damn sure don’t know how long we’ve been dead.”

“If he weren’t in Stoink, he’d be fighting giants.”

 “Wow, you really are stupid under all those headbands.”

Prisantha glares venomously at the assassin.  “He calls himself ‘Giantkiller’,” she says.  “If he weren’t in Stoink, I think he would be killing giants, not townsfolk.”

Lucius laughs.   “I call myself ‘ladykiller’ sometimes, but I haven’t gotten any in years.”

 “I wonder why?” Gwendolyn says sweetly.

Lucius shrugs.  “Bitches are scared of me.  But let’s stay focused, here.  Can we all agree that _somebody_ knows what happened, and why?”

“Of course,” Prisantha says.

“Then let’s find that f-cker, and make him talk.”

 “Why don’t you start by searching the grounds?” she asks.  “Perhaps you might discover a clue.”

Lucius frowns at Pris and cocks his head to the side.  “Well, I guess the number one reason is that you’re not my boss, _are you_?”

Heydricus intervenes.  “I think it sounds like a good idea, Lucius.”

“Then consider it done.”  Lucius springs forward, and in an instant is through the _phase door_.

He returns after several minutes, with dire news.  The secret passage has been blocked by a cave-in.  He was able to find his way into the lower levels, but they are partially collapsed and deserted.  There are several ripe corpses scattered throughout the complex, but no sign of any wholesale butchery.

“Most folk escaped,” Lucius says.  “At first I thought maybe they’d just policed the bodies, but there’s really not that much blood. Which means this wasn’t Iuzians, or their servitors.  No proper Iuzian would pass up a chance for a massacre.  And I found a messenger—from the Pale, no less.  He was shot in the stomach with a crossbow bolt and bled out hiding under the bed in the quarters next to Mialec.  And no, I didn’t find her.” 

Lucius regards the group evenly. “But I did find his message in with her things.”  He hands a piece of parchment to Heydricus.  “It’s about some trial.”  Lucius looks at the group.  “We’re trapped in here, and there’s no way out.  I say we eat Crim first.”  Lucius smiles at the frail conjurer. Regda frowns and crosses her arms.

 “Unless somebody can put a hole in that wall.”  Lucius indicates the interior face of the statue that forms the front end of the chamber.

“We don’t take orders from you, Lucius,” Prisantha says.

“It’s not really an order, think of it more like a healthy suggestion.”

“I make the _suggestions_ around here.”

Dabus sighs.  “Stop it, you two.  I can go etheric, and scout the complex.”

Lucius turns on him.  “Just what we need, more mumbo jumbo.  Why not just put a hole in that face and we’ll _all_ scout the f-cking complex?”

“You want a hole in the face?” Gwendolyn says with a sour smile.  She turns to Dabus, “I’ve got this one.”  

Dabus shakes his head, and _stoneshapes_ a man-sized hole in the chamber’s back wall, letting in afternoon sunlight from the outside.  The spellcasters prepare protective and enhancement magics, and Prisantha links the group’s minds with a _telepathic bond_.  The _stoneshaped_ hole is in the center of the great statue’s mouth, and after a moment, Lucius climbs down to the grounds, and secures a rope for those Liberators who cannot fly.  

-----

Cur’ruth has been destroyed.  The hard stone underfoot has bubbled and slagged, through a series of _transmute rock to mud_ spells, if Prisantha’s guess is correct.  The better part of the above-ground complex has collapsed, and forms a treacherous rubble pile hunkering flush against the bluff face.

Lucius leads the party into the rubble, searching for some clue as to what happened.  After a few minutes he calls out.  “Hey, it’s Jespo.  C’mere, Crim!” 

Jespo hikes up his skirts and delicately picks his way through the rubble until he is standing over his own body.  Only the upper half of the original Jespo remains—the lower half is simply gone, as if it were severed from the torso by a single massive bite.

As Jespo studies his corpse, Lucius studies Jespo.  The anemic conjurer does not seem overly disturbed by either the gore, or the surreal experience of gazing at his own dead body.  “I would think a dragon did this,” Jespo says offhandedly.  “Or rather, I would like to think a dragon did this.”  Jespo turns to Lucius.  “More heroic, you see.  Come along, Fräs.”  

One by one, Lucius introduces the Liberators of Tenh to themselves; blackened, blasted and maimed.  He grunts with satisfaction and surprise—not a single one of them flinches.  No gaze is averted, and Lucius sees nothing but hard-eyed determination on every face.  (Except for Gwendolyn, who refuses to have anything to do with either Lucius or the grisly search.)

None of the bodies have any magic items on them, save for Heydricus’ corpse, which is sprawled in what might be taken for a protective pose in front of Prisantha’s arrow-ridden form.  Heydricus’ body is still wearing the new vest Pris had made for him, although the fire damage and huge rents have ruined its magic.  Prisantha gently removes it from the decomposing Liberator, and tucks it away, vowing to remake it once she has taken revenge for her own murder.

The group has gathered near the former entrance to the mines, and is discussing likely next steps.  Heydricus is primarily concerned with his followers, and the Tenha he pledged protection to.  Lucius, predictably, wants to hunt down and kill the enemies who perpetrated the crime, but surprisingly is supported this time by both Prisantha and Gwendolyn, who reason that as long as the killers remain alive, none of them are safe.  Jespo and Dabus support Heydricus (with Fräs abstaining), and the group is stymied before Lucius changes sides and throws his vote in with the Liberator of Tritherion.

“I mean, what the f-ck do I know?” He asks with a bitter laugh as he gestures toward the rubble pile that was formerly Cur’ruth.  “I was in charge of security.”


----------



## Rackhir

(contact) said:
			
		

> *
> First, you'll see that the Liberators are definately vulnerable, a point that was presented in a unique (at least to our experience) fashion.  See, the killing of Panshazek in Dorraka *was* sufficiently meaningful enough to trigger an organized response.  Now, the Liberators aren't just taking out peripheral servants or out-of-favor VIPs in the Provinces-- they are killing Boneheart members *at the seat of Iuz' authority*.  This is bad, mmmmmkay?*




Well it would appear that retaliation has finally caught up with our heroes. The above statement implies that the Iuzians were responsible, but the commune was unclear and points at other possible agents. I'm guessing that Thrommel is mind blanked and captured by whomever is responsible for the assault, perhaps the previously mention Philotians (guys from the Pale)? Could have been pointed in their direction by a tip from the Iuzians.


----------



## Joshua Randall

Y'know, if Lucius doesn't stop acting like such a dick, I'm going to stop writing songs about him. (Or maybe the threat should be: *keep* writing songs about him?)

Seriously, the Lucius I remember from the RttToE was much less petulant and annoying than this Liberated Lucius. What gives? Am I just viewing past story hours through rose colored glasses?


----------



## (contact)

Joshua Randall said:
			
		

> *Y'know, if Lucius doesn't stop acting like such a dick, I'm going to stop writing songs about him. (Or maybe the threat should be: keep writing songs about him?)
> 
> Seriously, the Lucius I remember from the RttToE was much less petulant and annoying than this Liberated Lucius. What gives? Am I just viewing past story hours through rose colored glasses? *




Yes.  

But I think you're also bumping up against a narrative difference between the TOEE2's shorthand of "Lucius makes threats against the party, but in the end they decide to return to Hommlet," and the more dialouge-heavy LoT.


----------



## Zaruthustran

Creepy. So, how did this all work out? Did you run a combat, kill everyone, then do the clone thing? Or did you assume that the overwhelming counterattack succeeded, and start the very next session in the clone chamber?

-z


----------



## (contact)

Zaruthustran said:
			
		

> *Creepy. So, how did this all work out? Did you run a combat, kill everyone, then do the clone thing? Or did you assume that the overwhelming counterattack succeeded, and start the very next session in the clone chamber?*




The latter.

I created new character sheets for the PCs (and NPCs) sans magic items, then as we were getting ready to play, I asked for their character sheets.  I put them away, and handed them the clone sheets, and said, "you wake up on your stone beir, within Martak's secret chamber".

They took it as well as could be expected, and played along, but I was definately persona non grata around their house for a week or so.    Heydricus' player was bitter enough to send emails to some of my gaming buddies that he doesn't even know, like an appeal to some higher court of sympathy mixed with a queer sort of pride that his DM was _really sick and wrong_.

-----

The original intent of the session was to play out the strong Eeeeeevil counter-attack, but as I was statting that encounter (and deciding on its tactical approach) I realized that I was most likely setting up a TPK.

Later events would prove me right, in fact.

I thought about scaling it back, but then it got my mind going that it would be O(TP)K so long as the bad guys didn't find the Liberator's clones (they wouldn't unless they went etheric, which wasn't part of their plan).

Then I thought, it would be so much cooler from a player's perspective to experience the wonder and mystery of being that clone if you didn't already know the answers.


----------



## Skaros

Awesome!  Really!

Great update.  I love Lucius, the evil bastard.

At least your players have a DM that cares enough about the campaign to wait until there are clones in place before bringing on the TPK counter-attack of Eeeeviiiiiiil.

More, more, more.

Skaros


----------



## Morte

(contact) said:
			
		

> Heydricus is the first to awaken.




Yep, that's retaliation. I knew I could rely on you, (contact).



			
				(contact) said:
			
		

> Then I thought, it would be so much cooler from a player's perspective to experience the wonder and mystery of being that clone if you didn't already know the answers.




And with style, too...


----------



## Tellerve

While I can understand your players bitter response on not getting to test their mettle and tactics against the counterattack I do have to say I think you picked the best course of action.

As it is you characters can't even mistakenly use meta-game knowledge and have their clones go after the real culprits right off the bat.  And I think your right about it being very neat to play the clones with that lack of knowledge.

One thing though, weren't they all naked as clones?  I remember pris looking over Heydricus' clone.  I was kinda expecting there be some sorta mention of that this time, but I guess the shock of waking up as a clone was too much.

Tellerve


----------



## Enkhidu

Joshua Randall said:
			
		

> *Y'know, if Lucius doesn't stop acting like such a dick, I'm going to stop writing songs about him. (Or maybe the threat should be: keep writing songs about him?)
> 
> Seriously, the Lucius I remember from the RttToE was much less petulant and annoying than this Liberated Lucius. What gives? Am I just viewing past story hours through rose colored glasses? *




Here's a reminder of what Lucius is like - from (contact)'s original thread:



> A little backstory:
> 
> Lucius is a LE assassin (2e-3e hybrid). He grew up in refugee camps, having first fled Geoff with his mother and abusive father, ending up in the Shieldlands. It was there he (long story for another time) came to understand the *finality* of death, and murder's ability to 'solve problems'. Specifically the one his mother was having with his father.
> 
> After fleeing the Shieldlands, he grew up near Knulb, and started 'work' for the Nine Sisters at a young age. It was in Knulb that he became fanatically devoted to the doctrines of St. Cuthbert. The Cuthbertians recruited heavily out of the refugee camps, and Lucius was a sucker for their doctrine of struggle against Iuz.
> 
> He double-tithes, and always asks for Canon Turgeon's advice. As Canon Turgeon, along with Sister Keriann (we'll meet her soon, she's also a Cuthbertian cleric) represent the Lawful Good 'voice of reason', they manage to keep Lucius in line.
> 
> It made for some damn fun role-play, with a LG and a LE both professing devotion to the same church doctrine, but twisting it to their own ethos. Of course, in the end, Lucius would always humbly defer to the Canon. His defrence (bordering on obsequiousness) was also generally hilarious, because everyone else *despised* the Canon. So Lucius would show up with 'instructions' from the Canon, and try to press that agenda. Over the course of days, those 'instructions' would degrade, becoming more and more evil.
> 
> Day 1:
> Lucius: "The Canon says we should ask those guys if they saw anything."
> 
> Party: "F*** the Canon. Shut up, Lucius."
> 
> Day 2:
> Lucius: "The Canon said we should interrogate those guys."
> 
> Party: "F*** the Canon. Shut up, Lucius."
> 
> Day 3:
> Lucius: "The Canon wants me to capture those bastards and cut them until they talk."
> 
> Party: "We'd better get back into the dungeon now."
> 
> Lucius was very strongly of the belief that total unity is the only means through which the small group could oppose the Temple. So while he thought the party was handling the politics all wrong, he sublimated his opinion (like a proper fascist) into the party’s decision. Plus, he never really got the free time to go on a killing spree, although he certainly meant to.


----------



## (contact)

Tellerve said:
			
		

> *One thing though, weren't they all naked as clones?  *




Heh, that would have been just too cold.    I assumed that Pris dressed the clones and armed them with mundane gear when she sequestered them.

After all, while alive is good, alive and dressed warmly is even better.


----------



## Skaros

Weeee want the funk!  Give us the funk.

Anyway, was this your typical lvl 8 clone spell, with a level lost all around?

Owwwwwwwwww, if so.

No more clones...no more magic.

Bring on the 2nd wave of baddies.

Skaros


----------



## Tellerve

I suspect it is indeed that spell, and while it is nasty to loose a level, I think an utter party kill with no chance of recovery is advisable to 1 level loss and the "temporary" misplacement of their items.  Not that a lot of groups would agree with me *shrugs*

Tellerve


----------



## (contact)

I didn't impose the level loss, since this was essentially an arbitrary and diceless killing.


----------



## CrusadeDave

*Good Update*



			
				(contact) said:
			
		

> *I didn't impose the level loss, since this was essentially an arbitrary and diceless killing.   *




(contact), this was a great update. Way to raise the stakes and let the players pay for letting their desires to Kick A$$ get in the way of solving their problems with the emotes and the other political problems in Tenh.

Why exactly did Dabus ask a question about the Emotes to Tritherion? It's not like he had ever given them a spare thought recently...

The Liberators really seemed to get into a A$$ Kicking rut. Now it's okay to Kick A$$, but they've been reckless, and sloppy (Tau's dissapearance, dismissing parley opportunities, killing Demon Lord agents impersonating Iuzians, getting way too personal about the Druids).

Of course I also approve of not imposing the level loss, since that would get in the way of the inevitable vengence A$$ Kicking. 

I suppose I'm guilty of the same rut that the Liberators were in. I guess I read this Story Hour to see the Liberators Kick more A$$ than their adversaries.

So, let's bring on another update so we can see them Kick some more A$$.


----------



## thatdarncat

*Re: Good Update*



			
				CrusadeDave said:
			
		

> *So, let's bring on another update so we can see them Kick some more A$$.
> *




As much as I want another update, I suspect the wrong a$$ is going to get kicked:



			
				(contact) said:
			
		

> *
> The original intent of the session was to play out the strong Eeeeeevil counter-attack, but as I was statting that encounter (and deciding on its tactical approach) I realized that I was most likely setting up a TPK.
> 
> Later events would prove me right, in fact.
> *


----------



## the_mighty_agrippa

wheeee!

lucius rawks.  i think them "girls" underestimated the point of him referring to himself as a "ladykiller."

go lucius.


----------



## (contact)

*Unknown Date
63:  Blood up to here, and no change of clothes.*

To Nevond Nevned, then, and away from Cur’ruth for possibly the last time.  The Liberators are somber and quiet—their home of the last nine months has been destroyed, their bodies looted, and their attackers are unknown and at large.

The Dorrakan Irregular Light Infantry are Iuz’ most elite, most adaptable and most flexible fighting forces.  Renowned throughout the Marklands for their daring and ability to project remarkable levels of force even while operating in small bands, the Irregulars are entrusted only with the most crucial military missions.  

Like waiting for days to spring a scene-of-the-crime ambush on the Liberators of Tenh.

The first volley of arrows is fired without a word being spoken, or any noise betraying their position.  The Liberators’ spellcasters are pelted with arrows, but Prisantha and Gwendolyn’s _stoneskin_ spells protect them from harm.  That leaves only Jespo Crim as an eligible wizardly target, and the second volley is all aimed in his direction.  Jespo is hit twice, then three more times, then once again as an insult, and the anemic conjurer slumps to the ground dead, before he even manages to look surprised.  

Regda bellows a primal cry, and nocks an arrow to her own bow.  She scans the battlefield and finds six archers visible from behind partial cover amongst the rubble of Cur’ruth.  She shoots one in the stomach and crotch.  “For Jespo!” she shouts.

One of the crouching orcs stands and points a gauntleted hand at her, and Regda is _held_ mid-cry.  A second spellcaster emerges from behind cover, this one unarmored and adorned with the ritual fetishes of the Old One’s shamanic worship.  This orc raises his hands in supplication, and _summons_ a massive demon-dog in the Liberator’s midst.  The thing is the size of a pony, and has a mane of spiky razor-sharp bristles framing its snarling face.  It seizes Prisantha in its mouth, and begins to worry her back and forth.  While its teeth cannot penetrate her _stoneskin_, it manages to distract and trouble her enough to prevent her from casting spells.

Heydricus quickly slides his feet and interposes himself between Pris and the beast, levering it off of her with the sharp edge of his sword.  As the dog releases its hold to focus on this new enemy, Heydricus slices its fore-half into three parts with two strokes of his single double-edged sword.  Destroyed, the howler fades into mist.

Prisantha rewards his chivalry by casting a quickened _mirror image_ followed by a _horrid wilting_; the second spell sucks the moisture from all of the visible orcish archers and their sorcerer, provoking startled gasps and pig-like grunts from her foes.  Dabus follows this with a _blade barrier_ that sends bright-red gobbets of green-skinned flesh flying into the air, and creates a whirling elipse of conjured steel that prevents the orcish skirmishers from advancing on the Liberator’s position.  The shamanic summoner is killed outright, and if the flying heads are any indication, a pair of the archers die as well.  

A thick and sonorous droning begins from the orcish position, and several of the characters are forced to fight off waves of a sudden drowsiness that accompanies the sound.  A disgusting, ten-foot-long human-headed fly emerges from behind a partly-collapsed retaining wall, and begins making the flight across the battlefield in short hops, taking care to avoid the _blade barrier_.  Disturbingly long fore-limbs end at extra-jointed human hands, and it appears to be preparing a spell as it wings down toward the Liberators.

Gwendolyn is quicker, however, and she _holds_ the thing before it can realize its (no doubt) wicked intentions, and it crashes at Prisantha’s feet.  Lucius begins a crouching, concealed jog through the rubble of the battlefield, making his way toward the armored caster.  As he approaches, the fellow emerges from his cover, _summons_ another howler into the party’s ranks, and makes a circular gesture with his free hand.  At this signal, the entire group of orcs (including a half-dozen hidden skirmishers) begin to scatter into all directions.  Lucius fires a single arrow into the cleric’s leg, ensuring that he will run neither far, nor fast.

“You can bitch about that to Iuz when you see him next,“ Lucius mutters to himself, as he stalks the orc.  

Pris, meanwhile, has lost interest in the fight, and begun to worry about her family and their safety.  Her mind drifts to her grandparents, and then naturally, to Anon.  “_Should I be surprised that I’m worried_?” she wonders to herself.  “_I am fond of Anon—after all, he was my first. _”  

“_What? _” Heydricus thinks back over the _telepathic bond_.

“_Shut the f-ck up, and fight, wizard! _” Lucius replies.

“_Did everyone hear that? _” Prisantha thinks, aghast.  Gwendolyn pats her arm and shares a sorrowful nod.

Lucius can think very loudly, as it happens.  “_What part of ‘shut the f-ck up’ don’t you understand—they’re escaping! _”

Heydricus simply must be imagining things . . . yes, imagining.  He didn’t hear that.  Battlefield hallucinations.  Surely it happens all the time.  

With this much more comfortable belief-poultice in place over the road-rash of reality, he leaps at the howler next to Gewndolyn and begins demolishing it with a massive display of overkill.  He strikes the fading corpse of the thing enough times to ensure that the howler’s mother, its grandmother, and any of its grandmother’s bingo-buddies will all feel the pain.  

Prisantha, blushing bright red from her follicles to her toenails, pretends to be suddenly startled by the _held_ chasmae next to her, and attempts to give it the coup-de-grace with her decorative waist-knife.  The process is like cutting into an overdone roast with a sharpened twig, but she applies herself with a tenacity born of embarrassment; by the time Lucius, Heydricus, Gwendolyn and Dabus have killed the cleric and hunted down another quartet of fleeing orcs, Prisantha is up to her elbows in thick, demonic fly-juice, and is watching the struggling thing die.  The chasmae is apparently not _summoned_, as its corpse, and its blood remain material even after its wings stop their feeble buzzing.

Dabus places his hands on Jespo, and softly asks Tritherion to make clear to his soul the path back to his perfectly _healed_ and restored physical form.  Redga watches this process with a sort of slack-jawed wonder, and afterwards shakes Dabus’ hand so hard his shoulder nearly dislocates.

Heydricus is busying himself with looting the orcish dead, and Gwendolyn is trying to restore her hair to some semblance of togetherness after her protracted _flying_ chase.  Thus, Lucius is left alone with Prisantha, as he kneels down next to her in front of the dead chasme.  

Lucius regards the gruesome scene with an admiring smile.  “I think I was wrong about you, and I’m the type who admits things like that.”  He puts a friendly arm around the enchantress.  “You’ve got your sh-t together, I think, but you suck at knife-fighting.  If you’re going to kill a helpless victim, you should think about using your knife in a butcher’s grip, like so.  Matter of fact, that knife is worthless—take one of mine.”

Prisantha smiles back, vainly trying to put a stray lock of her hair in place with the back of a gore-stained hand.  She accepts Lucius’ knife and his lesson with equal grace; perhaps it is true what they say in Baator—“Abyssal blood mends all quarrels.”

-----

The party finishes its search of Cur’ruth without further incident or discovery.  They _teleport_ to the gates of Nevond Nevnend (the only part of it Prisantha has ever seen, in fact), prepared for the worst.  What they find is that the town has reverted quickly to lawlessness in the absence of their Right and True Lord, and perhaps taking a page from their Bandit Kingdom’s neighbors, the largest gang in the city has moved in to the newly renovated Ducal Palace, and declared themselves In Charge.

Of course, amongst men like this, “In Charge” means, “Not Going To Share Any of the Food Stores.”  

After the coup, a few uninspired and poorly-attended riots broke out, but in the end, the people of Nevond Nevnend didn’t have enough time under the rulership of Heydricus to shift their paradigm away from the horror of Iuzian rule.  The overall attitude was, “Who’s the new guy?  Isn’t that the old guy?  You wanna break stuff?  I dunno, do you?”

Unfortunately for Heydricus’ would-be successor, the Liberators do not share the populace’s apathetic point of view.




_Metagame note:  It is self-evident in D&D that a 7th-level warrior with three 3rd-level sergeants and a score of 1st-level toughs fighting beside him should never try to fight seven player-characters of levels 12-18.  But there it is:  whoever is DMing for these bandits is an even bigger bastard than I am. _
Heydricus kills the sh-t out of them.

That settled, Heydricus’ old servants emerge from their sanctuaries, and even Mialec is discovered to be alive and well, hiding within the sprawling palace grounds.  Once restored to her rooms as the Ducal Steward, she gratefully fills the party in on a few facts—the date is Patchwall the 3rd, eleven days since their last living memory.  Mialec says that it has only been five days since word of Heydricus’ death began to filter in from the first of the Cur’ruth Tenha to arrive in Nevond Nevnend.

Several Cur’rutha are summoned, and they relate the following story—the Liberators had scrambled out against a well-organized light infantry assault sometime around midnight on Goodmonth the 25th.  The fighting was fierce, but brief, and after a cursory search revealed no further military force in the area, the population was ordered back to bed.  An hour after that, the ceilings began to melt.  Huge sections of the mines began to fill with roiling, bubbling mud, and the above-ground structures started to collapse.  

Tired, confused, and without access to their best spells, the Liberators of Tenh scrambled out a second time to meet this new challenge, but never returned.  One local saw Jespo ripped in half by “a gigantic floating eyeball, if’n you can believe that, sirs!  I swear I weren’t drinkin’!”  

Others say that Prisantha and Redga were seen kneeling placidly in front of a sweetly-singing woman while their companions were killed nearby.

Heydricus listens with only half of his attention.  He is far more concerned with the well-being of his fledgling realm and the people he has pledged his protection to than he is with past events, no matter how relevant they might seem.  

He takes Dabus with him, and marches to the town square, intending to give an impromptu speech.  Lucius tips his new “boss” a wink, and disappears into the crowds ahead of the Liberator, presumably to work security, and most likely “encourage the proper response” from any less-than-enthused members of the crowd.  With so much else on his mind, Heydricus lets Lucius go without a second thought, or word of reproach.


----------



## Urbanmech

Nothing breaks up the monotony of Scry-Buff-Teleport like a good TPK.  

I was starting to think that (contact) had lost his Rat Bastard touch since his group "won" the game.  Little did I know that he had thought up such a devlish reset button.  I will never doubt him again.  More story please Mr. (contact).


----------



## Zaruthustran

I'm looking forward to when the group _Scry_s their weapons, _teleport_s to that location, snatches stuff, then _teleport_s away.

-z


----------



## (contact)

MU wah hah hah.


----------



## ForceflowX

Niiiice.


----------



## (contact)

*Patchwall 3, CY 593
64: Using smoke and mirrors to get a better look at all the smoke and mirrors.*

“Nevond Nevnend, proud Tenha,” Heydricus begins at the top of his voice.  There is a murmur among the crowd as they slowly realize that this is no new bandit king, but the Holy Liberator himself come to reclaim his title.  “As you can see with your own eyes, Heydricus Tritherionson is not dead.  Our dreams for a new Tenh are not dead.  The bandits and lawless men who thought to claim my seat are.

“Good people of Tenh, I implore you, do not surrender to the lure of the moment.  The false promises of easy gain are the work of your enemy!  He seeks to turn us against ourselves, and the fear of thin supplies and shortages are his weapons.  Do not believe for one moment that there will not be enough food to fill the bellies of your children come the winter.  I entreat you, hear me and spread the word; prosperity will return to Tenh, but her Tenha must be brave.  We must endure our own resurrection, as we have already endured the tyranny of Iuz and his decadent slaves, and we must strive _together_.  

“If a man offends you, bring him justice.  Bring him first the justice of self that comes with knowledge of righteousness, and only second, the justice of the sword.  It will be a long night before you can in truth know that you live under the security of a strong Tenh state.  During this time, you will find what protection you make for yourselves and your neighbors.  If you are strong, protect the weak—if you are weak, ask for help.

“The bandits that plague us are not our enemy.  They are our brothers and sisters, who have fallen away from the truth, and succumbed to a false belief that only by making others poor can they grow prosperous.  I challenge you, if you are wise, teach your brother, that he may know what you know.  Demonstrate with the deeds of your own hands why the Tenha will slip all yokes.  Show your neighbor to what heights he must aspire through your own right action.

“We are a nation in more than name, we are a people by birthright, bonded by blood and war.  Tell your neighbor that Heydricus lives, the Liberation continues, and Tenh will be great once again!”

-----

The other Liberators and Mialec are waiting for Heydricus upon his arrival.  There are several pieces of correspondence that may help unravel what has transpired since their deaths.

Heydricus’ paramour, the Duchess Maia, writes twice.  In her first note, dated Goodmonth the 22nd, she playfully chides Heydricus and reminds him that there is fifty-thousand gold pieces waiting in his name should he deliver one simple cloak.  She suggests that he deliver it in person, and asks is it true that all magical items size to fit?

In her second note, dated Goodmonth the 25th, she writes simply, “Whatever you have done, I am sure you mean it well, and you must know that I believe in you still.  But, my darling, I must regretfully ask you not to call upon me any further, and in the name of whatever small love you bear me, do not return to Chendl, now or ever.”

 “They framed me!” Heydricus says.

“And they killed you as well,” Jespo says dryly.  “That seems somewhat counter-productive, doesn’t it?”

“Someone close to the King must be involved,” Heydricus continues.  "I bet it’s one of his wizards."

"Oh, sure Heydricus, blame the wizard," Jespo says wearily.  "It could just as easily be Prisantha's associate over in Stoink, you know."

"That's blaming the wizard as well," Pris observes thinly.  "However, I suspect the Boneheart."

"It's not the Boneheart," Lucius says.  

"Consider Stoink," Jespo says.  "This seems like his sort of affair, and for all we know he's framed us in Wintershiven as well as Chendl."  

"You mean framed _me_," Heydricus says.  

"Well, yes I do," Jespo admits, then adds, "I was trying to be polite."

The third letter is the message taken from Mialec’s desk.  She confirms that it is the missive delivered by the Pale messenger, and tells Heydricus that he met privately with the messenger just hours before his death.  The letter states:  

“In the name of the provisional council of high clericy, Wintershiven, Heydricus called Tritherionson and Prisantha known as the Enchantress of Verbobonc are called and summoned as material witnesses in the trial for heresy of the loremaster and archivist Tau, formerly of Pholtus, Wintershiven; to be heard on Patchwall the 15th of this year in the House of High Justice, Wintershiven, in the Holy Name of Pholtus of the Blinding Light.  This is a summons and a demand.”  

It is stamped with the Holy Seal of the Pale.   

-----

Dabus enters into a _commune_.  After several minutes of mumbling and unusually subdued trance, he emerges with the following news:  Belvor has been abducted, although when asked if Belvor was alive, the response was, “_Your questions must be able to be answered by a simple yes or no. _”  Thrommel has also been abducted, and all three acts (the abductions of Belvor and Thrommel, and the attack on the Liberators) were done in conjunction with one another.

"Ah, ha!  So there is a wizard!" Jespo says.

"I thought you said there wasn't one," Lucius says.

"No, I was simply pointing out that Heydricus was blaming the wizard.  Now we have evidence.  It requires great magic to coordinate three separate attacks in three separate places."

"It's the f-cking Circle of Four," Heydricus says, dejected.  “I knew it.”

Dabus continues.  As expected, the abducters are in some sort of a conspiracy, although surprisingly enough, neither the Lord of Stoink nor the Theocracy of the Pale have any involvement.  

While the killers were directed by Aletha, they "_are not hers to order around_," and are not normally servants of the Old One.  None of the attackers was Furyondian, and there were no members of Belvor's Circle of Four present.  

"Then there’s no wizard after all?" Lucius says.  

"I asked if there was any member of the Circle of Four present at our attack," Dabus clarifies.

"We knew there were wizards present already," Gwendolyn says.  "The walls of Cur'ruth did not melt themselves."

The black-haired assassin regards Gwen coldly.  "Clerics can do that," he retorts.

"No they can't," she says.

"Clerics can do _anything_," Lucius states.  "Their power comes from the gods."

 “No they can’t," Gwen says.  

"Yes they can," Lucius says.

Heydricus pats Dabus on the shoulder.  To his eyes, the cleric looks haggard, and worn thin.  "Your divinations are invaluable," he says.  "Can you _commune_ again?"

-----

Dabus _communes_ again, and tells the group that he has determined the identity of the traitor within the Furyondian court.  As suspected, it is a member of Belvor’s Circle of Four—the group of elemental magi who protect and serve the crown.  

Through a process of elimination, Tritherion has confirmed that the traitor is the wizard Piscean, the elementalist of fire.  Further, he was in league with the Iuzians at the time, although Piscean is not himself in the direct service of the Old One. Two of the Circle of Four are now dead, but the elementalist Lizst is in some indefinable state.  

"Well, that's a coup all right," Heydricus observes.  "What a bastard."

Dabus says, "When asked, 'does Piscean know we are alive,' the answer was “_yes_.”  And when I asked 'does he think we will find him,' I was told, “_he is counting on it. _”  And so you all know, I also determined that it was Piscean who was behind the framing of Jespo for debt."

“Oh, the villainy!” Jespo cries.  

Fräs hisses.  

“That’s right,” Jespo agrees solemnly.

“Why, Piscean was the one who gave me a magical token when we left for Tenh!” Prisantha gasps.  “I should have thrown it away.”

Dabus also adds that the Baron Butrian does not believe that the Liberators are responsible for the disappearance of Belvor.  As to other concerns, Elijah’s soul is, sadly, in Iuzian hands.  The celestial emotes as well, have fallen under the control of Iuzians, but the Liberator’s Holy Regalia is still in Piscean’s possession.

Apparently, the conspirators have already split the loot.

“And that’s how we’ll catch them,” Heydricus says, his good humor returning with that unique clarity of purpose that only comes from having a clear target.


----------



## coyote6

Why is it I have this feeling that Heydricus' brilliant plan will turn out less than brilliantly?


----------



## Hammerhead

Mass killing is brilliant, of course. Assuming it works, which it usually does.


----------



## the_mighty_agrippa

congratulations, (contact), on jump starting the campaign in an entirely new (but different & unexpected direction).

i look forward to seeing many new adventures and entrails.


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## (contact)

> _the-mighty_agrippa posted_:*congratulations, (contact), on jump starting the campaign in an entirely new (but different & unexpected direction).
> 
> i look forward to seeing many new adventures and entrails.*




Ironically, I felt at the time that this was the prelude for the campaign's conclusion and climactic battle-- Heydricus was 18th on the cusp of 19th, Pris was on the high end of 17th . . . Heydricus’ cohorts are at 16th, with Jespo on the low end at 15th (after his unfortunate and sudden perforating).

-----

As a meta-game note, those of you who have read Chris’s (Heydricus’player) DM’s notes on the TOEE2 campaign might recall a side-plot involving one of Belvor’s Circle of Four—Piscean the wizard.  Chris inserted this villain behind the scenes when Whistlin’ Pippin still had three jobs (_only three job, mon!?  Him laaaazy!_), and now I’m going to do my level best to kill his character with the guy.

Piscean is one of the fellers Tritherion was talking about way back in chapter 29 when he said, “_beware, for your enemies are multiplied, and they have discovered the knowledge of one another._”  Piscean was the guy who put the Iuzians in touch with the H.M.H.H.C. and facilitated the plot against Thrommel and . . . and . . . oh, hell, you know . . . that wizard that always follows him around.  The one with the big nose?  Talks to his cat?  Crespin Jim, or something like that?

------

Sadly, the 3.5 rule that wizards have to have 2 restricted schools has put Pris and Jespo in a tough bind—in order to stay as specialists, they’d both have to “forget” spells that have been critical to their careers and big in the story to date (_teleport_, or _dream_, etc.), so we’ve rebuilt them as generalists.

Does this mean Jespo will finally be able to put the shade of Anton behind him and learn _fireball_?  Certainly he *can* now, but should he?


----------



## Joshua Randall

I think it would be appropriate for Jespo to learn _fireball_, but to misuse it by catching fellow PCs in the blast radius. Although that could quickly get annoying, so maybe not. Instead, maybe Jespo had a bad experience with hot-footing in the past and now is afraid of all spells with the [Fire] descriptor?

Also, regarding Piscean - given his name, I think he should be a Kuo-Toa, that great D&D ripoff of H.P. Lovecraft's Deep Ones. Or if he personally isn't a Kuo-Toa, then he could have some as cohorts. Or pets. Or decorative lamp shades.

Finally, I am looking forward to the Theocrats of the Pale tangling with the Anarchists(*) from Tenh. Didn't Heydricus's player once say something like this: "Iuzians, Pale; it makes no difference. They can both bring it." Funny how those rashly spoken words can come back to haunt you.


(*) Liberator is just another word for Anarchist, right? Although not the scary, nihilistic, Joseph Conrad's _The Secret Agent_ kind of Anarchist - the cuddly, Chaotic Good, D&D kind of Anarchist.


----------



## Barastrondo

the_mighty_agrippa said:
			
		

> *congratulations, (contact), on jump starting the campaign in an entirely new (but different & unexpected direction). *




How different can it really be? They have to rescue Thrommel again. (Or is that one of the universal constants? The sun rises in the east, Pholtus doesn't have a sense of humor, and Thrommel needs bailing out again.)



			
				(contact) said:
			
		

> *As a meta-game note, those of you who have read Chris’s (Heydricus’player) DM’s notes on the TOEE2 campaign might recall a side-plot involving one of Belvor’s Circle of Four—Piscean the wizard.  Chris inserted this villain behind the scenes when Whistlin’ Pippin still had three jobs (only three job, mon!?  Him laaaazy!), and now I’m going to do my level best to kill his character with the guy.*




Heh heh. Heh heh heh. Poetic justice is pretty nice when it works.



> _Originally, also, posted by (contact) _
> Does this mean Jespo will finally be able to put the shade of Anton behind him and learn _fireball_?  Certainly he *can* now, but should he? [/B]




Mmm. I'm of two minds on this one. Part of me is the prideful "Why does every wizard have to have the same generic spell selection?" aspect — the same urge that manifests in my wife's absolute refusal to take _magic missile_ with her longest-running wizard. It was sort of like the proliferation of two-weapon fighters in 2nd edition, or (heretical statement) the scry/buff/teleport tactic in 3e; it was effective, and cool if everyone's having fun, but kind of monochromatic. Jespo's been doing okay without the fire up until now; it's nice to see a wizard who'll spend those third-level slots on other tricks. 

Of course, the other half of me is the one who threw his first fireball since, say, college a few months back and enjoyed it muchly. (Hey, whatever the game system, vampires need killin'.) So I can't be too hypocritical. 

If it were me, I'd just continue on the path of conjuration, and take evocations only if there wasn't too much other choice; 3.5 does have a few new cool things like the Augment Summoning feat, so there's ample toys to play with. Besides, if you're fighting a fire elementalist, the _fireball_ can probably wait.


----------



## the_mighty_agrippa

i think jespo is just fine the way he is - spell selection wise.  maybe he just doesn't have the nerve or the temperment to master evocations.  maybe he thinks anton was a better man and still carries around that false belief.

who knows?


----------



## Lazybones

Since most of the threads that I'd been reading have sort of quieted down of late, I appreciate the frequent updates here.  Looking forward to the big reckoning that is sure to come shortly.


----------



## CrusadeDave

*What about Esril?*

When the Off Screen TPK happenned, what happenned to Esril?

She get gutted and forgotten? Or did she avoid another death?


----------



## (contact)

*Good question.*

Esril's fate isn't clear-- she isn't with the Tenha in Nevond Nevnend, and her body wasn't at Cur'ruth.  Many of the Cur'ruth Tenha made it safely to other nearby communities, particularly High Hadley, and perhaps she did as well.

Maybe someday we'll play that out, and find out what adventures she might have gotten up to in the name of Kelanen Sword-Saint.


----------



## Rackhir

I take it that (contact), you are taking a breath after the constant updates of recent weeks? Ah, nearly daily updates, just too good to last.


----------



## (contact)

I blame society.


----------



## (contact)

*Patchwall 4, CY 593
65: It’s easier to make the bastards pay when you can find them.*

Morning comes and goes, and Prisantha is able to _discern location_ on Heydricus’ portable hole.  It is within a demi-plane called the “Hyperborean Obverse”, in the dungeons beneath the central tower, on the third level below ground, behind the secret door in the eastern corner of the southernmost chamber, in the rear quarter of the third alcove from the left.

“That’s a good spell,” Dabus comments.

She _scries_ Thrommel again, but still receives a grey field.  Prisantha recalls the cadaverous Anton’s threat against her family and _scrys_ her grandparents.  She is relieved to see her grandmother standing at her kitchen table, crowing delightedly over several crystal decanters that she is pulling from a straw-lined box.  Two priests of Tritherion stand protectively nearby, and watch her as she removes a matching set of goblets, a radiant smile on her face.

Heydricus frowns.  “Since when do farm couples buy crystal?” he asks.  “Someone has been giving your grandmother expensive gifts, Pris.”

Prisantha sniffs at the suggestion.  “Or they are simply enjoying the newfound prosperity of the second farm I bought them.”

“Perhaps they found a stash of halfing loot,” Jespo suggests.  “You know how those people love to hide their treasure.”

Fräs hisses.

Regda nudges Jespo, frowning.

“Well, they do,” he whispers.  “Worse than dwarves.”

 Heydricus suggests that if Thrommel can’t be found, Pris might _scry_ the men who were dispatched along with Thrommel, and the Enchantress is able to locate Urin.  He is seen to be standing on the open plain with six other men.  As they watch, Urin is arguing with one of them about the route they should be taking.  Urin wishes to remain in the lowlands, while the other man intends to strike west for the Sumker river.  They seem to be concerned with bandit activity, and the band looks disheveled and somewhat wild-eyed.

Heydricus and Prisantha _teleport_ to their side, and after fending off the grateful pawing and back-slapping of the men, they learn that Thrommel went missing after taking a meeting with Heydricus himself!  Heydricus’ habit of appearing mysteriously, giving commands and disappearing just as quickly was so accepted that no one thought it amiss when Thrommel ordered the band to, “wait here until my return.”  Two weeks and several mass-desertions later, these six are the only remaining loyal men of Thrommel’s original hundred.

Heydricus places _fly_ spells on all of his men, and they _fly_ as a group back to Nevond Nevnend while Pris _teleports_.  None of the men have ever flown before, and the otherworldly treat, coming as it does on the heels of such crushing despair is a truly joyful occasion.  The flight takes two hours, and the men are laughing and exclaiming to one another the entire time.  Even Heydricus gets caught up in the spirit of the moment, and by the time they land back at Nevond Nevnend, he is beaming from ear to ear.

Lucius, on the other hand does not smile.  “I’ve been out looking for you,” he says.  “We expected you earlier.”

“We took the long way back, Lucius,” Heydricus says, smoothing back his wind-rumpled hair.  “What do you care?”

Lucius grabs Heydricus’ sleeve as the burly sorcerer attempts to push past him.  “Have I _ever_ wasted your time?” he demands.

“What are you about?” Heydricus replies.

“There’s a messenger here, and I think you should see him.  He’s from Butrain.”

-----

“In the name of his highness Xanthan Butrain, rightful King of Furyondy and Regent of the Ten Towns, I greet the most radiant servant of Tritherion and Holy Liberator, Heydricus called the Tritherionson, King of Tenh,” the messenger begins in a voice like a flute.

“They got my f-cking title wrong,” Heydricus complains behind his hand to Jespo.

“Yes, they seem to be having trouble with all the titles today,” Jespo replies haughtily.  

“The message begins.  ‘To wit;’” the messenger bows, unraveling a scroll.  “’My Lord Heydricus,’” he pipes, at which point Heydricus interrupts him.

“Just give me the scroll, lad,” he says.  “I can read.”

The boy complies.  The scroll is in Butrain’s own handwriting.  He writes: 



“These sons of bitches are set to kill you, Heydricus.  I trust that you have had a rider about the happenings here in Furyondy and the spurious accusations that have been cast at your door.  The Council have placed a boy on the throne—and a baseborn wretch at that.  Come back to Furyondy, and lend me your arm—at the least speak for my cause.  Not every Northerner is a lying, backstabbing daffodils, and your word still means a lot in certain influential circles.

“I mean to win this war, Heydricus, and I know I can count on you. 

“Your friend,

“Xanthan”


After Heydricus reads and re-reads the message, he passes it to Jespo (who has already read it over his shoulder), and Jespo passes it to Prisantha (who has already had the text from her familiar, who got it from Fräs, who was read to by Jespo), and then to Lucius, who does not read it.  Finally, Dabus removes the text from Lucius’ hand.

The messenger boy says, “May I just point out, sir, what a great honor it is to deliver a message to your presence, sir.  The name  of Heydricus looms large in the hearts of the Southern men.  We know and appreciate all you’ve done for the Baron, and for all us folk down South.  Sir.”

Heydricus smiles at the lad, and invites him to share a drink.  After the boy fills him in on Butrain’s war preparation, Heydricus is convinced that Xanthan has marched on extremely short notice.  This is not a fight that he has been preparing for, but one he means to win.  He has rushed the flower of his chivalry to Chendl, where he hopes to seize the capitol before the “baseborn wretch” sitting the Furyondian throne can order his forces.

Xanthan Butrain is angered that he hasn’t been given the throne, of course.  But the confirmation of the new King is the insult applied to the injury, and salt in the Baron’s wounded pride.  His diviners have confirmed that Belvor is truly dead, and Butrain feels that he is the most suitable candidate, as well as the candidate with the most direct claim. 

“Well, he’s right about that,” Jespo whispers. 

The Council of Lords, a parliamentary body established to advise the King in times of trouble is currently filling the role of regent, and they have denied Belvor’s claim, at the urging of the sole surviving Chamber of Four Wizard—the fire mage Piscean.

Fräs hisses.

Furyondy believes that Piscean was only able to escape his attackers by using the retributive strike from his _staff of power_, and  has since spent arduous weeks journeying back to Greyhawk from the strange realities beyond the world.  At his urging, the Council of Lords has appointed as heir the son of the Baroness Kalinstren—the base-born adventuring companion of King Belvor that the King placed in charge of Crockport after the great crusade.  Kalinstren is, of course, Belvor’s close friend and ally, but no relative of his.  Were Belvor a less honorable man, there might be whispers that the boy is his son, but not even Butrain and the South could believe that about the noble paladin.

After the messenger leaves, Prisantha _visions_ “the King of Furyondy”, and receives this result:  _A good child, a bad child and a greedy child fight over the last sweet on the plate. _

“But which one is Butrain?” Heydricus wonders.

“I told you we should have left him as a donkey,” Gwendolyn adds with a superior air.

“Well,” Prisantha says.  “I have delivered a _sending_ to High Priest Halrond, and _demanded_ that he travel here by his swiftest means.  I don’t think we’re likely to find much welcome in Furyondy right now, and I am curious about his opinion on all of this.  No doubt, he will be glad to find that we are still alive.”

-----

The next morning, after absolutions, study and exercise, the Liberators gather in Nevond Nevnend’s palatial Royal Courtyard to take breakfast and make any last minute plans.  After the tea is finished, Prisantha pours the water from a flower vase into the serving tray, and _scrys_ Piscean.  The gnarled old wizard is seen to be standing in front of a huge three-tiered amphitheater filled to the walls with knights, lords and other Important Personages of Note.  The villain is addressing the Lord’s Council!

“Don’t you belong to the Lord’s Council, Heydricus?” Jespo asks, but is quickly shushed as Prisantha concentrates on the _scrying_.  Piscean seems to be gesturing broadly, and punctuates his gestures with his new, white staff, matching the white of his beard and his robe.

“Oh for the love of . . .” Heydricus says.

“Yes, the ‘back from the dead wearing white’ thing has been so overdone,” Jespo agrees.  “It really seems to be playing well for the Council, though.  Look at them, they simply _adore_ him!”

Piscean is stirring the assembly into a fever-pitch.  “You have heeded the call of our times, good sirs, and for that you should be commended!  We have raised the young Baron Kalinstren to the throne, and in so doing, we have sent a message to the Old One and his turncoat servitors, Heydricus and his band of traitors!”

The building erupts in a cacophony of genial harrumphing and scattered cheers.  Piscean continues.  “With this great act, we tell him in no uncertain terms that we know what he covets, and that we intend to keep it!  Crockport!  Crockport!”  The assembly takes up the cry.  “For Crockport and for our noble dead!”

“No, I’m not going to have it.”  At some point when no one was looking, Heydricus has grown _extremely_ angry.  “We teleport in, _right now_,” he booms.  “_I am going to kill the sh-t out of that mage_.”


----------



## DM2

Fantastic update!

Man, I love it when the liberators kill the  out of things!

DM2


----------



## the_mighty_agrippa

*heydricus!  heydricus!  heydricus!*


----------



## Zaruthustran

> “We teleport in, right now,” he booms. “I am going to kill the sh-t out of that mage.”




Yeah! That'll show them all that you're not a turncoat traitor!

-z

PS: nice update, (contact)! Love the bit between Lucius and H.


----------



## Elder-Basilisk

Nice touch too. The young baron Kalinstren is the one that the Liberators resurrected out of guilt isn't he? Apparently no good deed goes unpunished. . . .


----------



## (contact)

Sadly, I am not that crafty, Elder-Basilsk.  The young baronet that the Liberators so profitably returned to life was a Nyrondeese noble, and will probably never show his skinny hide in this story hour again.

Kalinstren is the Northernmost Furyondian demense-- it was lost to Iuz during the Greyhawk War (taken by none other than our old friend Zinvellon) and later retaken by Belvor during the Great Crusade.  Belvor's success with the Great Crusade put Zinvellon in the position to requre a revival of the Temple of Elemental Evil in order to restore his reputation (and save his hind-end), which of course put that lazy sorcerer Heydricus on a crash course with destiny, and brought the Liberators to the attention of Belvor and the Furyondian throne.

Belvor, as we learned through the Provost Marshall Reine, bankrupted Furyondy in order to wage his Great Crusade, and has since defaulted on his debts to several Southern Lords, most notably Butrain.

Butrain, of course, is the Lord closest to the throne in the absence of an heir (and no one but the Circle of Four wizards -- Piscean being the sole survivor -- knows that Thrommel is still alive.  Okay, *probably* alive.  For now.)

When Crockport (Kalinstren's seat) was retaken during the Great Crusade, Belvor raised a former adventuring companion of his to the Barony, ostensibly to ensure that the realm would be powerfully and ably managed.

According to Reine, Belvor appointed her because she was filthy rich. 

Now, her somewhat inept and dull son has been chosen by the Council of Lords to take the throne-- the Lords are quick to discount the claim of any Southern Lord, and mean to send a signal to Iuz that they intend to keep all of their land (despite the turmoil of losing a soverign).  To the Baron Butrain it is the coldest slap in the face imaginable:  They overlook his claim and put an up-jumped _commoner_ on the throne?

No doubt, this piece of "advice" was designed by Piscean to do just what it did-- provoke a civil war and destabilize Furyondy even further.

But I don't think anybody involved could have predicted how quickly Butrain would act-- generally armies take months, not weeks to amass.  Butrain's knightly blitzkreig will press the issue and force the Northern Lords and their young King to reply in kind-- the levees will not be called, and the mounted nobility will duke it out for the throne.  It is a massively risky proposition, and the mark either of Butrain's genius or his greed (or both).  

Should this military gambit prove fruitful, Butrain might end the month on the throne of Furyondy, or at least as much of the nation as he can will into order.  The possiblity exists that Furyondy might fracture into several independant fiefdoms, much like Veluna and Verbobonc succeeded from the original realm of Ferrond.

Oh, the villany.  Oh, the treachery. 

The as$-kicking clouds gather on the horizon, and Heydricus' boot says "Piscean" on it.  (Or at least he thinks it does, he can't actually see his feet underneath the battle-bulge in his trousers.)


----------



## Zaruthustran

(contact) said:
			
		

> * The as$-kicking clouds gather on the horizon, and Heydricus' boot says "Piscean" on it.  (Or at least he thinks it does, he can't actually see his feet underneath the battle-bulge in his trousers.) *




"Battle bulge?" 

Wow.

Reading a combat writeup in this story hour will never be the same.

-z


----------



## KidCthulhu

(contact) said:
			
		

> *(Or at least he thinks it does, he can't actually see his feet underneath the battle-bulge in his trousers.) *




Can't see his feet?  Lucky Pris.


----------



## (contact)

*Extra large update!*

*Patchwall 4, CY 593
66—There’s no such thing as bad publicity.*


“Yes, we’ll kill him, but first, we should get our gear,” Prisantha says.  

“You’re right,” Heydricus admits.  “I’ve got a _holy spear_ that needs a wizard-skin sheath.  Dabus, can you _plane shift_ us to this Hyperborean whateverthef-ck?”

“I can,” Dabus says, and after the Liberators prepare defensive spells, he does so.

The Hyperborean Obverse is a flat, featureless plane of solid ice, extending in all directions as far as the eye can see, its low-hanging sky a reflective mirror.  Several hundred yards away, a lone spire rises hundreds of feet above the surface, shaped more like an impossibly large ice stalagmite than any worldly structure.

“Well, it can’t be _infinite_,” Jespo sniffs.  “It is a demi-plane, after all.  I suspect an illusion—the whole place cannot be any larger than a mile or more.  Oh, the vanity of wizards.”  

As Jespo speaks, his voice trembles from his uncontrollable shivering, and his breath puffs out before his face—the Hyperborean Obverse is true to its name, a flat plane of bone-chilling cold.  As the Liberators move toward the spire, the ice creaks ominously beneath their feet.

“Rotten ice,” Dabus curses.  

“Hah,” Jespo says through chattering teeth.  “Shoddy craftsmanship.”  Regda puts her arm around the frail mage, and rubs his shoulders comfortingly.

“No, it’s a trap,” Prisantha says.  “And we can’t all fly.”

“I have a solution,” Gwendolyn says.  “I shall _wish_ that we all be instantly and safely transported within ten feet of Heydricus’ _portable hole_.”  She looks at her companions, then adds, “well, _limited wish_.”

------

Piscean is addressing the Lord’s Council from the floor, waving his staff grandly and clearly enjoying the thunderous response from Northern Furyondy’s most influential personages.  Standing near him are several members of Belvor’s close circle of friends, including Malwyn, a powerful cleric of Heironeous, a former adventuring partner of the missing King.

 Then the Liberators appear, all within ten feet of Piscean’s front pocket.  As they orient themselves, the heroes look about them with crestfallen surprise.  

“Oh, sh-t.” Gwendolyn says.  

Piscean turns to the heroes, an expression of exaggerated shock and surprise on his face.  “Have you come to surrender, you scoundrels?” the wizard demands in a voice loud enough for all to hear.

“We have come to expose you!” Pris replies, thinking quickly.

Heydricus seizes the moment, and pushes to the fore, raising his spear.  “My lords,” he shouts.  “We have been unjustly accused!  Belvor’s assassin stands before you—the traitor is Piscean!  Your treachery has reached its end this day, wretch.  In the name of Tritherion I judge you guilty of murder and high treason!”

Piscean favors Heydricus with a brief smile, a queer look of pride on his face, before he turns to the assemblage.  “Be not fooled by his lies, my Lords!  Have I not warned you that these murderers would return?  Have I not warned you that they would come to divide us on the eve of our greatest danger?  Their lawlessness knows no bounds, and we must stand fast if we are to have our great peace!” 

The chamber erupts into general outrage at this, and several members call for the guard.  The Liberators fan out, ready for action.  Prisantha and Jespo call to Lords they recognize and shout their support for Heydricus’ words, but Lucius remains perfectly still, staring at Piscean intently. 

“Your lies end here, Piscean,” Heydricus replies.  “My Lords, hear me!  This man is the truth-killer!  This is the wizard who betrayed his vows and murdered the other members of the Four!  _This_ is the traitor who imprisoned your King!  Belvor lives, and is held in magical stasis by this wretch!  Piscean meant to kill us as well, and place the blame upon our heads—but _we did not commit this crime_.”  Heydricus raises his hands for silence.  “My Lords, remember us!  Have we not served you well?  Have we not loved our King?  We are true friends of Belvor, and we call upon all those who love Furyondy to cast his poison from their ears, and petition the gods for the truth!”  At this, he turns to Malwyn.  “My Lord, divine the truth of things—let us be judged here and now, and put this traitor to the question.”

Malwyn’s response is to place a hand on his mace, and step away from the Liberators, watching them warily.

“Pathetic!” Piscean shouts.  “What hubris!  What greed!  They have slain our liege and bled our realm, but would still place a claim against our loyalty?”  Then under his breath, he whispers to Heydricus.  “Perfectly done.  I applaud your timing.”

The room is filled with cries and confusion—guards pour into the amphitheater, and call for order as a hundred voices are raised against one another.  In the midst of this chaos, Lucius calmly raises his crossbow and attempts to assassinate Piscean.

As his bolt streaks toward the throat of the mage, Piscean’s _contingency_ activates, and a pair of spell effects take place; a cloud of tangible freezing mist rises up around him, foiling Lucius’ deadly bolt, and searing the skin of the Liberators and nearest High Lords with an intense cold.  At the same time, a _repulsion_ pushes against the Liberators, preventing them from closing with Piscean.

“Fools!” Piscean yells, pantomiming wildly, clearly unaffected by his spell.  “You cannot harm me with your ice magics—I am the elementalist of flame!”  The Lords begin to flee away from the freezing mist, but the fog itself is thick and substantial and hinders their flight.  Several Lords fall to the ground, killed by the clinging cold. 

Gwendolyn quickly dispels the _cold-substituted acid fog_, but the  _repulsion_ effect still hinders Prisantha, Jespo, and Lucius.   Jespo speaks a _power word stun_ at Piscean, and the elementalist’s mocking laughter trails off as he spins backward, wide-eyed.

“Great job, Crim!” Heydricus yells.

At that moment, Malwyn steps forward and shouts for Heironious’ power, _dispelling_ the stunning effect.

“Well, f-ck.” Jespo says.  Fräs hisses.

Piscean raises his staff, and enters a _time stop_.  When he emerges, Prisantha disappears, sent into a multi-dimensional _maze_.  A _prismatic spray_ washes over the Liberators, searing Dabus, Regda and Heydricus with electricity and fire, and turning Gwendolyn to stone.  Jespo Crim cries out once as his heart stops, and falls to the ground dead, Fräs rolling free from her pouch, a perfect stone replica of an otherwise very good cat.  

“Jespie, no!” Regda yells, as the petrified Fräs comes to a stop against her feet.

Lucius drops to the ground, and rolls underneath the _spray_, regaining his footing as the spell fades.

A _disjunction_ strikes the Liberators at the same moment, unraveling their protective spells and rendering their magic items mundane. A large white-furred wolf and a small impish figure composed of frost and ice appear next to Piscean, baring fangs and making arcane gestures, respectively.

Regda secures Fräs inside her satchel, and shrieks a battle-cry, smiting the ice-imp with her greatsword, as the thing burns her with a _bolt of ice_.

Dabus is the next to recover, and he speaks a _holy word_ that sends the sorcerous ice creature back to whatever realm it was called from and deafens both Lucius and Piscean.  As the sound reverberates, Dabus notices Malwyn’s confused expression—why are these traitors and servants of Iuz using holy magics?  

“Speak to him now,” Dabus says to the stalwart cleric.  “Speak to him if you don’t believe us, we’ve told you no lies.”  Then to the deafened wizard, he says, “tell the man how wrong I am if you are not wicked, Piscean.”

The cleric’s eyes narrow as it becomes clear that Piscean cannot hear.  “Heironious forgive me for what I have done,” he mutters, and strikes Piscean between the shoulder blades with his mace, staggering him.  Lucius shakes his head and moves to flank Piscean as Heydricus leaps at him, nearly impaling the wizard with his spear.

The ice-wolf leaps at Heydricus and seizes him with a fierce bite, pulling the Liberator from his feet.  Lucius moves to help his friend, cutting the huge beast several times, but the wolf does not release its hold.

Piscean laughs once, clutching his wounds, and backs away from the melee.  He waves his staff and disappears, _teleporting_ away.  Dabus, Regda and Malwyn fall onto the huge wolf, and begin lashing the creature, drawing huge gouts of blood and crushing bones.  Heydricus manages to free his spear, and impales the creature—but it is fierce enough to fight past mortal endurance, and it keeps struggling until Lucius buries his sword into its back and severs its spine.

Prisantha emerges from the _maze_ as Malwyn faces the Liberators.  “I was wrong about you,” he says, “and I beg your forgiveness.  We have been betrayed, and I can only say in my defense that I am forever for our King, and a true man for Furyondy.”

Dabus places a hand on the man’s shoulder.  “It is forgotten,” he says.  “Piscean is our enemy, and friends of Belvor shall always be friends to the Liberators.  Aid me now.”  Dabus and Malwyn begin to _cure_ the Lords wounded by Piscean’s _chill fog_.

“Where is that vile man?” Pris asks, as she looks over the carnage.

“He _teleported_ away,” Heydricus says.

“Oh no he didn’t,” Pris replies, and she _sends_ a _demand_ to Piscean that he “return to the Lord’s Council at once.”  

Her only reply is a mocking telepathic taunt; “Love the attitude,” the wizard _sends_ back.  But Prisantha is not to be outdone, and she _limited wishes_ a second _demand_.  This time, Piscean replies, “Yes, yes, I know what you wish, but I think it best if I decline. Please stop making _demands_ of me.  Thank you so much.”

“I can _scry_ the villain,” Malwyn offers.  “If you wish,” he adds humbly.

“Excellent,” Heydricus says.  “He’s on the run, now—but he can’t hide.”

The Assembly of Northern Lords has degenerated into panic.  Many of the Lords have fled, and those who remain are calling out orders angrily.  Guardsmen pour into the room, but in the face of the general confusion and contradicting commands are milling about indecisively.

Malwyn empties a holy water vial into the basin of his shield, and casts his _scrying_ spell.  “He’s still in the room!” he shouts, looking about himself.  He is near the southern door—right there!”  The party follows his pointing finger, and notices Piscean slouching behind a group of arguing Lords.

As the Liberators lock eyes with the wizard, he shakes his head sadly and targets them with a _horrid wilting_ spell that sucks the sweat from the heroes, and kills several more High Lords and guardsmen.  With a word, he invokes a _quickened greater invisibility_ spell.

But Tritherion has other plans, and Dabus centers a _dispel magic_ on Piscean’s area, and forces the wizard to appear.



_Metagame Note_:  This is another example of my dice’s ridiculous love for Dabus.  Piscean had six spells active, and Dabus failed against two of his higher-level effects, before succeeding against a fourth-level spell.  _Improved invisibility_ was only one of four active spells at this level, and amazingly, the very spell Dabus’ _dispel magic_ removed!



As Dabus finishes his incantation, Heydricus charges Piscean and strikes him with his spear, but the wizard’s abjurations protect him from the worst of the damage.  Dabus and Lucius run after Heydricus, while Malwyn and Regda rush about, attending to the most critically wounded bystanders.

Piscean regards Heydricus with a slightly exasperated scowl. “Come on,” he whispers, “we’ve given them their show, now _join me_.”  And in a booming voice he yells, “Fiends, I invoke the true deweomer of righteous incantation!  I will make you pay a thousand times over for your vile perdifery!”  Somewhat apologetically, he whispers, “Legislators love hyperbole.”

Piscean casts an admiring gaze over Heydricus’ form.  “Join me and let us be at peace,” he whispers.  “Don’t worry, I despise the Old One as much as you.  I have your magical items, and of course you may have them back, save for your holy relics.  Wouldn’t you like to serve the real power in Greyhawk?”  Piscean smiles knowingly.  

“The real power?” Heydricus scoffs.  “I’m not hiring.”

Piscean frowns, his pale and wrinkled countenance turning down until he resembles a fierce and aggravated prune.  “So be it . . . _dead guy_.” 

Piscean sends a _prismatic spray_ into the face of Tritherion’s Holy Liberator, burning Heydricus’ skin, and singing his clothing into smoking and wispy tatters.  The end of the spray falls just short of Prisantha and Dabus, but Lucius is struck by a single beam, which burns a hole through his chest, killing the assassin.

Heydricus drops his spear, and seizes Piscean in his thick arms, his muscles bulging out from underneath the shreds of his vest.  As Heydricus wrestles the wizard’s arms behind his back, he says, “Somatic _this_, bitch.” 

Dabus points a _dimensional anchor_ spell at Piscean, but just as the ray is arcing toward the wizard, Heydricus shifts into the spell’s path.  “Damn!” Dabus curses as Heydricus is _anchored_.  Prisantha is ready, however, and she freezes Piscean in place with a _hold monster_ spell.

“I got him!” she shouts, pleased with herself.

As Piscean stiffens and ceases to struggle, Heydricus tears shreds from his ruined shirt and binds and gags the wizard, nodding to Pris.  After a moment’s reprieve, the Liberators are surrounded by Furyondian royal guardsmen.  “You . . . you’re under arrest?” one of them says warily.  The guards are wide-eyed with fear, but seem determined.

“Friends, countrymen!” Malwyn shouts from the other side of the room.  “The Heroes of the Temple are not our enemy—Heydricus speaks the truth!  I was misled, as were we all by the treachery of an evil wizard.  Let us have order here.  Order, I say!”

A few voices shout their agreement, but are swiftly drowned out by a chorus of disbelieving Lords calling for the arrest of everyone involved.

“Lords, heed me!” Heydricus yells, but to no avail.

“Drop your weapons!”  The commander of the guardmen has pushed to the front, and regards the Liberators warily, as he motions for silence.  “Surrender now, and we will have the truth of things.”

Prisantha looks squarely at the man and smiles into his eyes, striking him with a _silent, still charm person_ spell.  “Friend, attend me well,” she says, and then speaks a _stilled mass suggestion_:  “Gathered Lords, listen to Malwyn, your trusted friend, and heed the Liberator.  We are innocent of any wrongdoing.”

“I believe you lady,” the guard captain says.  “And I know you are good and true.  But you must submit to my custody until these others can be made to see.  Please,” he says pleadingly, “I have my orders.  Come with me now, and peacefully.”

Heydricus  leans toward Dabus, giving him the _portable hole_.  “Take Piscean and our fallen companions, and get out of here.  I will submit to this arrest.”

“Not alone you won’t,” Pris says.  “If you’re staying, I’m staying.”

“We’re all staying,” Dabus asserts, but Heydricus shakes his head.

“Don’t be stupid, get the mage out of here, and kill the bastard.  You’re not _anchored_, so just go.” 

In the face of a direct order, even loyal Dabus cannot protest, and scooping the corpses of Jespo Crim and Lucius along with the statue that used to be Gwendolyn into the _portable hole_, he gives Heydricus one last confident gesture, and _plane shifts_ the Liberators to Tritherion’s holy realm.

Yet even as the Liberators of Tenh fade away, Prisantha remains behind.  “I’m not leaving you, Heydricus,” she says, taking his hand.  “You need me.”

Heydricus smiles at her grimly, and turns to the guardsman.  “Allright,” he says, stalling for time, “I submit, but you’ll have to go find a Knight of Furyondy to arrest me.  You don’t have the authority.”

Fortunately for the guardsman, and unfortunately for Heydricus, the Council of Lords boasts the largest concentration of Furyondian knights in the realm.


----------



## DM2

Awesome update.  Truly amazing.

I loved every sentence.

Lucius, remaining still, staring at the guy while everyone else is busy...I love it.

The better rez him!

DM2


----------



## the_mighty_agrippa

(contact) said:
			
		

> *
> Then the Liberators appear, all within ten feet of Piscean’s front pocket.  As they orient themselves, the heroes look about them with crestfallen surprise.
> 
> “Oh, sh-t.” Gwendolyn says. *





brilliant... just brilliant.



> *
> The room is filled with cries and confusion—guards pour into the amphitheater, and call for order as a hundred voices are raised against one another.  In the midst of this chaos, Lucius calmly raises his crossbow and attempts to assassinate Piscean.*




damn, i was really hoping lucius was going to pull off an indy jones here.

"the bolt sinks into the elementalist's eye, the feathers stained a deep crimson.  lucius calmly reloads his crossbow and turns to the gathered nobles, 'f***er.'"



> *
> Heydricus drops his spear, and seizes Piscean in his thick arms, his muscles bulging out from underneath the shreds of his vest.  As Heydricus wrestles the wizard’s arms behind his back, he says, “Somatic this, bitch.” *





tell heydricus' player i owe him drinks for this one line alone...


----------



## Morte

I was waiting for that. I just knew it was going to be something special. And I wasn't disappointed.

So, did the players look nervous when he cast Timestop?


----------



## (contact)

Morte said:
			
		

> So, did the players look nervous when he cast Timestop?




A little.  They had the numbers, so I think they felt pretty confident--it's awfully hard to kill Heydricus with spells.  It wasn't this fight that really scared 'em though, it was the one after the next that really scared 'em.  See, if you want to kill Heydricus, you need an undead 



Spoiler



, a 



Spoiler



with adamantine gear, and 15th-level sword-fodder.


----------



## Barastrondo

(contact) said:
			
		

> “You’re right,” Heydricus admits.  “I’ve got a _holy spear_ that needs a wizard-skin sheath.




IYKWIM, AITYD.

Tremendously fun update. You know how the best gaming stories hinge on being able to take a specific moment of greatness at the table and translate it such that your audience didn't actually have to be there to get it, but in fact they feel as if they were there laughing alongside your players at the time?

There are more of those perfectly translated moments in a Liberators post than in five years' worth of conversation at your FLGS.


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## Lazybones

(contact) said:
			
		

> A little.  They had the numbers, so I think they felt pretty confident--it's awfully hard to kill Heydricus with spells.  It wasn't this fight that really scared 'em though, it was the one after the next that really scared 'em.  See, if you want to kill Heydricus, you need an undead
> 
> 
> 
> Spoiler
> 
> 
> 
> , a
> 
> 
> 
> Spoiler
> 
> 
> 
> with adamantine gear, and 15th-level sword-fodder.





Spoiler






Spoiler



Bah, you tease, you.  I'm heading out of town for a mini-vacation over the long weekend, and I fully expect to see an update as nice as the last one waiting on my return!





(*aside to other readers* See, you just can't let these story hour authors think they're in charge, even if the story is as great as this one!)

P.S. I agree with the others, great one-liners.


----------



## Joshua Randall

> As his bolt streaks toward the throat of the mage, Piscean’s _contingency_ activates, and a pair of spell effects take place; a cloud of tangible *freezing* mist rises up around him, foiling Lucius’ deadly bolt, and searing the skin of the Liberators and nearest High Lords with an intense cold. [...]
> 
> “Fools!” Piscean yells, pantomiming wildly, clearly unaffected by his spell. “You cannot harm me with your ice magics—I am the elementalist of *flame*!”



I am confused. If Piscean is the elementalist of flame, why did his contingency activate a _cold-substituted acid fog_?


----------



## Capellan

Joshua Randall said:
			
		

> I am confused. If Piscean is the elementalist of flame, why did his contingency activate a _cold-substituted acid fog_?




If you're prepping to attack an elementalist of flame, what's the last thing you'd bother to protect yourself from?


----------



## Sejs

> As his bolt streaks toward the throat of the mage, Piscean’s contingency activates, and a pair of spell effects take place; a cloud of tangible freezing mist rises up around him, foiling Lucius’ deadly bolt, and searing the skin of the Liberators and nearest High Lords with an intense cold. [...]
> 
> “Fools!” Piscean yells, pantomiming wildly, clearly unaffected by his spell. “You cannot harm me with your ice magics—I am the elementalist of flame!”
> ~~~~~~~~
> 
> I am confused. If Piscean is the elementalist of flame, why did his contingency activate a cold-substituted acid fog?




Because Piscean is a big fat liar?  Lucius' bolt triggers the wizard's contingency...or chain contingency, as it brings up more than one spell - Cold Fog and Repulsion.  Then Piscean starts crowing about how the _Liberator's_ cold spells can't harm him, etc etc.  The cold fog was Piscean's - when he was hollering, he wasn't talking to the PCs, he was talking to the assembled lords.

Trying to make it look as if the spell that he was immune to (because he's a badass), that was killing the nearest lords (because the PCs are traitors to the throne) and harming the Liberators (because they're -inept- traitors to the throne) - was cast by Heydricus and crew.  Not the wizard with element-identification issues, Piscean.


Edit/Additional:  Personal hunch - either that's not Piscean...it's just someone pretending to be him, or he is colossally forward thinking to have that kind of spell setup already in place for just this kind of occurance.  The fact that the Fire Elemental Wizard of the Four even -has- Elemental Substitution (Cold) really strikes me as strange, though.  Not to mention the whole Icy Realm pocket plane, and the ice critter summons.  Sumpin' just ain't right, here.


----------



## Zaruthustran

(contact) said:
			
		

> Piscean frowns, his pale and wrinkled countenance turning down until he resembles a fierce and aggravated prune. “So be it . . . _dead guy_.”




A Liberators update is good. But a Liberators update with a clever Star Wars reference is GREAT!

-z


----------



## DM2

Hey, I'm usually pretty patient, but, well...

I think I speak for many when I say we're dying to find out how and if Heydricus kicks the bucket!

DM2


----------



## (contact)

Sejs said:
			
		

> *The cold fog was Piscean's - when he was hollering, he wasn't talking to the PCs, he was talking to the assembled lords.*




Completely correct.  I didn't add any text describing his mannerisms, but Piscean was never looking at the PCs at any time-- he kept his eyes on his audience, save for expressions intended for dramatic effect.



> he is colossally forward thinking to have that kind of spell setup already in place for just this kind of occurance.




Well, it doesn't require a genius to realize that Heydricus will probably try to kill you at least once before he comes around to your way of thinking.    But ascribing his _chain contingency_ spell-effects to the Liberators was purely spin-control!

The combination of _acid fog_ and _repulsion_ was Piscean's day-to-day standard, triggered on the contingency, "if I am attacked."

He was surprised (as was I!) when the Liberators teleported in.  But hey, Gwen _limited wished_ to be next to Heydricus' _portable hole_ . . . 

A showman to the core, Ol' Piscean couldn't help but cackle at the opportunity to Defend the Honor of the Realm in front of the most influential men and women in the North.   Win or lose, he would come out of this smelling like a rose.



> *The fact that the Fire Elemental Wizard of the Four even -has- Elemental Substitution (Cold) really strikes me as strange, though.  Not to mention the whole Icy Realm pocket plane, and the ice critter summons.  Sumpin' just ain't right, here.*




Yeah, huh?


----------



## (contact)

Patchwall 4, CY 593
67—I’ve got dreams, dreams to remember.


So intent is Dabus upon his captive, that he fails to fully take in the bountiful warmth and healthy smell of the most perfect glade in the Multiverse.  Tritherion’s realm is within the plane of Bytopia, a place where every man and woman gets exactly what they have earned, and justice looks no further than the tip of a petitioner’s sword.  Above them, on the other side of the small warm sun and soft clouds, another land mirrors the one upon which they stand, far enough away that the hills and rivers seem to be smudges in the sky.

As Regda removes Jespo’s corpse from the _portable hole_, Dabus _dispels_ the statue of Gwendolyn, returning her to the flesh.  She smiles coyly at Dabus, and embracing him whispers her thanks into his ear, provoking a blush from the stoic cleric.  Regda, on the other hand, presents the body of Jespo Crim, clutched in her large, powerful hands.

“I will beseech my Lord Tritherion to return Jespo to life, Regda,” Dabus assures her.  “But first, we have justice to attend to.”  Dabus knocks the bound and gagged wizard to his knees, and places his spear at the man’s neck.  “In the name of Tritherion,” he intones, “and in the name of the Furyondian Crown you conspired against, for crimes committed . . .”

Gwendolyn grabs Dabus’ spear, and pulls it away from Piscean’s throat.  “Don’t be hasty,” she says.  “Why don’t we talk to him before you kill him?”  Dabus nods curtly.

As soon as his gag is loosened, Piscean sneers at the cleric, “Justice?   A simpleton’s notion.”  He looks into Dabus’ eyes.  “You just don’t get it do you?”

“I get that you’re evil,” Dabus replies.

Piscean sighs.  “Good and evil are concerns of the common.  You three are _powerful_, and that distinction supersedes the mental yokes of the masses.” Despite his bonds, the wizard habitually makes sweeping gestures with his hands.  “By virtue of our own will, we live on a higher plane, devoid of moral responsibility.  If you choose to use your power to improve the lives of your lessers, so be it, but don’t presume to lord your lack of vision over _me_.”

Gwendolyn puts her hands on her hips, and attempts to _dominate_ Piscean.  The wizard resists her spell, and speaks a single word, _teleporting_ away.

“Oh, sh-t,” Gwendolyn says.

-----

Prisantha and Heydricus are taken into custody.  In light of their exalted standing, and newly-won noble titles, the guards allow them to keep their weapons, and secure a promise of compliance.

“Do you gentlefolk place yourselves within my custody, and swear to make no attempt to escape until such time as you may be judged by the peers of the court?”

“So long as I am kept safe, I swear it,” Heydricus says.

This seems good enough for the _charmed_ guard, who takes no oath from his new best friend Prisantha, and the two are led to the spacious Windward Tower, a prestigious guest-home for visiting royalty.  “I could not secure your freedom,” he says to Prisantha, “but at my discretion you are to be confined to the tower environs, excepting constitutional walks within the Lord’s Park or attendance at religious services.  You shall be kept in a state befitting your rank, and a service staff will be appointed, at your discretion.  If you require anything that cannot be obtained locally, you may make arrangements with the King’s seneschal.”

After the guard leaves, Prisantha and Heydricus are left alone.  They wash and change clothes, but Pris complains about the ill-fitting dress.  “In the morning, I’ll send for my dressmaker,” she says.  “In the meantime, we should pick our rooms.”

“Rooms?” Heydricus says, “We won’t need two.”

Prisantha gasps.  “We won’t?” she demures, batting her eyes.

“Hell, no,” Heydricus says, surveying the room with his hands on his hips.  “That f-cker has allies—and they might try to kill us!”  Heydricus tests the bar on the tower door.  “I’ll sleep on the floor, and keep my armor on.”

-----

Dabus _resurrects_ Jespo Crim.  This close to Tritherion, his spells fill him with an unusual grace, and Dabus grows slightly, giving off a slight golden glow. 

Jespo sits up, and pats his familiar-pouch, a concerned look on his face.  I can’t feel Fräs—where is my cat?” 

Regda lowers her head, and hands Jespo his familiar.  “I’m sorry, baby,” she says, “she got stone-turned in the fight.”

“Petrified?” Jespo says brightly.  “Child’s play!”  He casts a _dispel magic_, but the spell fizzles.  “But . . . but . . .” he stutters.

“The sun was in your eyes,” Regda says.  “Try again—you can do it!”

“I cannot,” Jespo admits.  “That was my last _dispel_.  Poor Fräs!”

Dabus is praying to Tritherion, asking for assistance in the form of a _greater planar ally_.  As he completes his spell, a shimmering figure appears—humanoid, but so perfect of form as to make every human on Oerth look like a poor casting, and this creature the true mold.  It seems male, despite its asexual features, and stands easily seven feet tall at the shoulder.  A pair of feathery white wings fold and unfold behind it as the celestial waits quietly for Dabus’ full attention.

Gwendolyn regards the angelic being. Something about it is familiar, she thinks, then she realizes—when Dabus invokes his _righteous might_, this is the form he takes!  It is this celestial that he becomes!

“I am Sonahmiin Inarthulu Alpha Tritherion,” the celestial says to Dabus, “and I know you well.  I am the one who grants your spells, Dabus Thrice-Born, and it is I who answer your _communes_.  What would you have of Tritherion?  _What would you have of me_?”

-----

Heydricus and Prisantha do not have a restful sleep.  As soon as they secure their room and place their heads on their pillows, they fall into a _dream_.  In it, Piscean stands on the Hyperborean Obverse, no more than thirty feet from the dreamers.  The air is chill, but they feel no cold.  Piscean seems younger, and somehow more handsomely regal.

He smiles.  “Welcome to my home,” he says, waving his hands grandly.  “It is humble, but it is all mine.” Piscean begins to stroll toward his tower, the dreamers following behind him without moving.  “I am not, of course, the fire elementalist,” he chuckles.  “It has long been the practice of the Four to claim a false element to confound our enemies.  And that,” he adds laughing, “is a secret that not even  the King knew.”

As the spire looms ever closer toward the dreamers, Piscean continues.  “Piscean, in fact, is an assumed name.  I have had many names, but my mother called me Ivid.  You may call me whatever  strikes you, and sounds pleasant to your ear.

“I have watched you since you first set yourself against Zinvellon, and I shared your pride at your victory.  When you were the celebrated heroes of Chendl, I rejoiced with you, and it was I who ensured that your favors should come from the highest places in Furyondy and the hands of the King himself.  It was I who set you above the other mercenaries and adventurers clamoring for the goodwill of the realm.  When Martak perished, I was the first to know, and it has been I who have labored to keep Thrommel from your throne.

“Yes, I said _your_ throne.  I love Furyondy, more than you could know, but I do not love this current division.  Ferrond needs a king, and Belvor is not that man.  Nor is his churlish son fit for the task.  Butrain may command loyalty, but he will never inspire love.  

“I mean for Ferrond to be greater than it is, Heydricus, and I mean you to be its king.  I can build the Kingdom, but the people must see you at its head.  Take the beautiful Prisantha as your bride, and let us give the realm rulers fit to be _worshipped_!  What army or ill-will could stand before you, the two greatest adventurers of modern memory—and perhaps, should you seize this opportunity—of all time?

“You have played your role.  You have planted the seeds, and once the Northern and Southern Lords have spent themselves, and the land has bled for a space, they shall be grateful when you expose Belvor’s loyalists (myself included, of course) as traitors to the realm, and they shall thank you taking the Throne.  It will be the most glorious beginning that our world has seen, and together, we will make of it an empire that could not be imagined by lesser men.

“Know you this,” Piscean says, floating toward the dreamers.  “I offer you both power and the time required to wield it well.  I have plucked the secrets of immortality from the ethers, and I can make you eternal—I do not speak of the false forever of undeath, but true immortality, stolen from the gods themselves!”

Piscean places a hand on each dreamer’s shoulders.  “I will send for your reply, my children, and please, you must trust that I know what is best for us all.  I have led us this far, and together we shall finish our great work.”

-----

Heydricus is the first to awaken, his armor rustling against the stone floor.  He glances at the window, and notes that dawn is still hours away.  Prisantha sits up and coughs gently, pulling the covers about her chin.  They awaken the night-woman, and instruct her to fetch wood for a fire, and bring wine and cheese from the kitchens.  

“Apparently Dabus didn’t kill him,” Prisantha says.  

Heydricus nods.  “Or he didn’t stay dead,” he says.  “We have to try and kill him faster than he can make new _clones_, I imagine.”

They discuss their _dreams_, and Heydricus mentions that he has been having many unusual dreams of late.  Prisantha pretends not to hear, and tries to change the subject by wondering what Piscean’s true goals are.

“Apparently, he desperately wants my spear up his a-s,” Heydricus says offhandedly.  “Today, after we find out what happened to our friends, I’m going to kill him once and for all, and then we’ll put Belvor back on his g-ddamned throne.”


----------



## Xiryc

(contact) said:
			
		

> See, if you want to kill Heydricus, you need an undead
> 
> 
> 
> Spoiler
> 
> 
> 
> , a
> 
> 
> 
> Spoiler
> 
> 
> 
> with adamantine gear, and 15th-level sword-fodder.





Spoiler






Spoiler



What's the CR on [SPOILERS], anyway? And what about undead ones? Do they shamble around saying "Kevin Spacey _is_ Keyser Soze!"?


----------



## (contact)

Xiryc said:
			
		

> What's the CR on [SPOILERS], anyway?




In this case, it was 19, 17, 15 and 15.


----------



## Morte

(contact) said:
			
		

> “Don’t be hasty,” she says.  “Why don’t we talk to him before you kill him?”  Dabus nods curtly.




*screams with outrage, and stomps off in a huff*


----------



## Zaruthustran

Well written, (contact). I do hope you have this stuff double-archived somewhere(s). And as I say to Sagiro and Piratecat so I say to you: the exploits of Heydricus and co. should be a book. Your adventures are 100x better than what's currently on the fantasy book shelves.

-z


----------



## (contact)

Zaruthustran said:
			
		

> Well written, (contact). I do hope you have this stuff double-archived somewhere(s). And as I say to Sagiro and Piratecat so I say to you: the exploits of Heydricus and co. should be a book. Your adventures are 100x better than what's currently on the fantasy book shelves.
> 
> -z




Hey, thanks for the kind words, Z.  I think that there are any number of authors out there who pretty much smoke this story hour, so maybe your local bookstore just sucks?  

There is also something to the "D&D story" form that even the best fiction can't replicate:  the shared experience that leads to shared expectations.  When Piscean casts "time stop" you (the reader) cringe, because you already *know* how bad that can be.  Maybe you've had a 17th-level party TPK'ed with that spell, or maybe you just read the description one afternoon and thought, "Wow.  I wonder what *that* baby could do?"

Either way, you have an instant and shared connection with the narrative that non-gamers don't, and one that fantasy fiction usually can't create.  If you look at my SH, a huge chunk of it is playing on or against those D&D expectations.  Part of what makes the LoT fun to read (at least in my opinion) is that it is so very D&D.  People scry--> buff--> teleport and "win teh gaem"; assassins can kill people with one shot-- but only if they have 18 seconds to study the bad-guy, etc.

So when a novel says that Lucius is staring at Piscean, you think,  "aha, characterization!"  When the LoT says that Lucius is staring at Piscean, you think, "oh, snap!  That Piscean f-cker is about to get taken out!" 

I'm not sure that either the LoT or my writing in general would stand up on its own without those elements, but maybe someday we'll find out.    Remember that many of these characterizations (particularly PCs) aren't mine, anyway!  Could I write Pris?  I dunno, but thankfully I don't have to.

-----

In addition, many of these great ideas aren't mine anyway!  The hit squad sent after the Liberators was orignally developed by Incognito (IIRC, I've lost the original emails over time), the He-Man-Heydricus-Haters-Club was an invention of these boards, many of the sub-plots were either sparked or fleshed out by the LoT Plot Thread, etc . . . so, unlike most novels, D&D is a group activity, and that is part of it's appeal for those of us who play.  This Story Hour is fun for the same reasons, IMO.

-----

For those of you who'd like to see the compiled LoT (or TOEE2, or Risen Goddess, or Great Delve) story hours, you can find them on my D&D site, along with links to my art portfolio, Rule 0 info for our games, etc.

*Spoiler note*:  Because I use this site for my campaign information, some of the entries in the "Campaigns" section are significantly ahead of the LoT Story Hour, and contain massive spoilers.

-----

And Morte, c'mon back!  Gwendolyn is a new adventurer, remember?  If Dabus was a little to twitterpated by her hazel eyes and the Bytopian sunlight reflecting off her auburn hair, who can blame him?  

It'll all work out . . . one way or the other!


----------



## Morte

(contact) said:
			
		

> assassins can kill people with one shot-- but only if they have 18 seconds to study the bad-guy, etc.
> 
> So when a novel says that Lucius is staring at Piscean, you think,  "aha, characterization!"  When the LoT says that Lucius is staring at Piscean, you think, "oh, snap!  That Piscean f-cker is about to get taken out!"




Ha. I like that. I didn't actually know about the assassin thing (I don't play P&P D&D), I thought it was characterisation. Rather intriguing characterisation, as it happens. I was suddenly interested to see more of Lucius...



> And Morte, c'mon back!




Didn't take me long... 



> It'll all work out . . . one way or the other!




When do they get fresh clones made?


----------



## (contact)

Well, there goes my theories.  Nice, Morte.  



			
				Morte said:
			
		

> When do they get fresh clones made?




Interestingly enough, Prisantha has not made another set of clones.


----------



## (contact)

*Patchwall 5, CY 593
68—Gossiping is what happens when idle minds sling masterwork stones.*

“I will do this thing for you, Dabus Thriceborn,” Sonahmiin says, “and in return, you must make an oath to me; there is a young boy who even now sleeps underneath the High Prentiss. Swear to me that you will take him into your home and raise him in every way as if he were your own son.  Do you accept?”

“Without hesitation,” Dabus replies.

This seems to please Sonahmiin, who places a hand on Dabus’ cheek.  “Know you, that it is not because of any failing that you were not chosen to be the Liberator.  I heard your prayers, and you were an admirable candidate.”

“You used to pray to be _Heydricus_?” Gwendolyn says, slightly aghast.

“All the young men of our faith do,” Dabus mutters defensively.

“But few with your zeal or sincerity,” Sonahmiin says.  “In this case, Tritherion chose to call his Liberator from outside of the faith, and we believe that this has made your role by the Liberator’s side of even greater importance.”

“Excuse me, sir,” Jespo says to the angel, tugging on his robe.

“Not now, Crim,” Sonahmiin says without turning around.

“But, my familiar, sir,” Jespo continues.

“Yes, I know who your familiar is, Crim.  I am trying to have a discussion with a  worshipper here.”

“Wait a minute—_you_ were the angel who appeared when we were fighting Zinvellon!”

“Yes I was,” the celestial admits.  “Now, be silent!”

“You were the angel _who didn’t help us at all_, if I recall.”

Dabus is shocked.  “Jespo!” he scolds.

“_Didn’t help_?  I raised your cat, Crim.”

“No you didn’t, you pulled the old bait-and-switch!”

“Crim!” the angel booms.  “_What must I do to get you to shut up_?”

Jespo holds up his petrified cat, and with an exasperated wave, the celestial _dispels_ the effect.  The angel turns his winged back on the wizard, who is snuggling his newly soft and fiercely purring familiar.

“And what of this one?” the angel asks Dabus, indicating Lucius’ corpse.  “I have heard your frequent supplications for his _atonement_, and it seems a shame to let him pass into the afterlife before he has had an opportunity to redeem his soul.”

“Well, I was going to ask for him to be _resurrected_, but I ran out of spells.”

“Very well.”  Sonahmiin takes a knee in front of Lucius’ body, and gently scoops the assassin into his arms.  The little man looks positively tiny in his embrace, like a child’s doll, limbs hanging limply to the ground.  The celestial breathes once onto Lucius’ face, and anoints his brow with a single tear, wept in sincerity for the wickedness of the world.  Lucius’ eyes flicker open, and for the first time in their memory, Gwendolyn and Dabus see the cold-hearted assassin smile.

“Actions are the currency of the simple,” the celestial scolds Lucius.  “You must learn the importance of motivations.  It is not enough to make your enemies from among the wicked—your cause to fight will be judged in the end.”  The celestial’s stern frown lightens, “and yes, she is still alive.”

“Who?” Gwendolyn asks, but no one answers.

“Which reminds me,” Dabus said.  “I had meant to _commune_, but perhaps I could just ask you?”

The celestial nods his permission, and the spell vanishes from Dabus’ mind.  Dabus says, “What about the other members of the four?  Are any  of them alive?”

“Yes, one is,” the celestial replies.  “The air elementalist Lizst.  He has been turned to stone, and his body hidden.”  After a pause, he says, “that’s four questions.”

“Is Lizst evil?” Dabus asks.

“Yes, but he is also dutiful and loyal to the throne.  Ivid is evil as well as a traitor.”

“Whom?” Dabus asks.

“Ah, you do not know,” the celestial says.  “Forgive me, I answer so many _communes_ it can be difficult to sort out who knows what about whom.  Piscean’s real name is Ivid, known to you most likely as Ivid the Third.  That’s seven questions.”

-----

Ivid the Third is an infamous name indeed.  Called the King who lost his Kindgom, Ivid III’s name is synonymous with inept rulership.  Under his weak-willed and by all accounts uninterested rule, the Great Kindgom lost the province of Ferrond (which would later split into Furyondy, Veluna and Verbobonc), the province of Northroost (which immediately become the Sheildlands, the Bandit Lands and Tenh), and the province of Nyrond (which would over time split into the Kindgom of Nyrond and the Theocracy of the Pale).

Ivid III’s reign was believed to have ended when  his own High Lords assassinated him, and placed a regent on the Fiend-Seeing Throne—the Rauxes line took the crown years later, and Ivid III’s great-great grand nephew’s great grandson Ivid IV lost a large portion of the remaining Great Kindgom during the Greyhawk Wars, some four hundred years after Ivid III’s fated rule.

If Sonahmiin is to be believed (and who could doubt the word of a celestial-born, save Jespo Crim), Ivid III did not die by the assassin’s knife, but has lived on, and somehow come to be known as Piscean, fire elementalist of Furyondy’s Four.

-----

“So if Piscean is Ivid the Third—is he possessed, or of sound mind?” 

The celestial frowns.  “This is the sort of sloppy questioning that I’ve been scolding you about, Dabus.  That is a null result.  Eight.”

“Sorry,” Dabus says.  He is eating a huge peach, and the juicy fruit is dribbling down his chin, distracting him.  The other Liberators are taking their ease in the glade; Jespo sleeps in the sun, Regda is stretching and practicing her handwriting, while Lucius and Fräs  are playing with a whirligig toy.  Gwendolyn has gone to the nearby creek for a bath, and has forbidden anyone to follow her.

Dabus wipes his chin, and casts the peach aside.  “Is Piscean possessed?”

“No, not in the sense that you mean the term.  However, his mother made bargains with an entity of power before the child was born—a creature somewhere between myself and the Old One in stature.”

“Does Lizst know about Piscean’s treachery?”

“He does not—he was petrified before he could see his attackers.  I suspect Piscean wants to keep him alive against some future contingency.”  The celestial smiles and says, “But my opinion does not count against your questions. Ten.”

“Are agents of Iuz with Piscean?”

“Spiritually, yes.”

“Does the Old One know Piscean’s true identity?”

“Oh, yes.  They have known about one another since before Iuz was born.”.

“Has Belvor been soul-trapped?”

“He has.”

”Does Piscean carry the gem containing Belvor’s soul?”  

“At all times, yes.”

“Is Piscean mad?”

“As you understand the term, he is.”

“Does he plan the death of the young regent Pelegrin?”  

“Yes.”

“Does he seek to create a new Great Kindgom?”

“I’m sorry, you are out of questions.”  The celestial looks genuinely pained, yet resolved.

“What’s your opinion, then?” Lucius asks without looking up.

“Well, I suspect that Ivid seeks to recreate the kingdom—to undo with his extended life what he lost with his natural one.  But that is only a theory.”  

“When you’re answering these _communes_,” Lucius looks at the angel, “how often do you just make sh-t up?”

-----

After Prisantha prepares spells, but before she has a chance to _scry_ Dabus, the two Liberators receive a _sending_ from Piscean;  “Will you accept the hand I have offered?  Will you rule for me?”

Prisantha replies that she is not in the habit of making alliances with people who have had her assassinated, thank you for asking.  Heydricus, predictably, shares a similar sentiment.  He replies that he is a free man and a servant of freedom, and notes that all of Piscean’s power and achievement pales when weighed against Tritherion’s metaphysical truths.  He also mentions something about Piscean jumping long onto the end of a short _holy spear_.

As they are congratulating themselves on their steadfastness and preparing to _scry_ Dabus, the Liberators are interrupted by a knock at the door—Malwyn, cleric of Heironious is introduced by the suite’s major-domo.

“Well, it isn’t pretty,” he says by way of greeting.  “The Lords are against you two, I’m afraid.  It’ll be a hangman’s court for sure.  But don’t look so glum!  I’ve been fighting to get this thing heard in an ecclesiastic court.  Your status as Tritherion’s chosen would normally do it, but the charge is high treason.  Nonetheless, if we can get you tried by my church, I’ll have more luck getting you off the hook.”

“You are so kind,” Prisantha says, remembering her courtesies.

“Yeah, great,” Heydricus says as he ushers the man to the door.  “Good job Mannin.”

As Heydricus is scooting the cleric out of the chamber, the Viscountess Trill arrives, along with several items of clothing Prisantha had contracted on her last visit in Chendl.  The heavyset and diminutive woman bustles in, and begins delicately unpacking a _bag of holding_.  “I just want you to know,” she says conspiratorially, “that I am on your side, and I don’t believe a word.  Not a word.”

Heydricus rolls his eyes, ignoring Prisantha’s admonishing glare.  “Well, I’m glad someone hasn’t rolled over,” Heydricus says sardonically. 

“Like Maia?” Prisantha says prettily.  “I asked the duchess here, thank you.”

“Shall we try these on, dear?” Trill says, ignoring the tete-a-tete occurring several feet above her head.

“Yes,” Prisantha says.  “Heydricus, would you please excuse us?”

“F-ck no, I can’t leave,” Heydricus says.  “Are you crazy?”

“Heydricus!” she gasps.  “Language!”

“_Never split the party_, remember?”

“Fine,” Prisantha sniffs.  “Turn around.”

And Heydricus does so, facing the mirror Prisantha had asked the servants to bring in for her _scrying_.  As he watches his most stalwart (and most mind-bendingly dangerous) adventuring companion undress, he can’t help but compare her favorably to the Duchess Maia, and any other lover, for that matter.  

“What on earth is going on here!” the duchess exclaims.  “Your hair is dry as a bone—why, it’s like something’s been sucking the moisture out of it!”

As he watches Prisantha dress and undress, Heydricus becomes aware of a rapidly growing embarrassment. He begins to pace and tries to think about swordplay, or his other companions.  “Any day now, Dabus,” he mutters to himself.  But despite his best intentions, his eyes keep returning to the mirror, and Prisantha’s fetching expression of delight as she tries on her new clothes.

As he is promising himself for the third time that he will be a gentleman and close his eyes, Heydricus notices a small birthmark on Prisantha’s shapely flank—one he explicitly remembers from a recent dream.  “Now how the hell could I know that?” he wonders aloud.

“What is that, Heydricus?” Prisantha says.

“I was just wondering when I would get some of that,” he says, then hastily adds,  “_Fine tailoring_, I mean.  Clothes make the man, you know.”

“I will take your measurements next, dear,” the duchess croaks.  “You look like a ‘spring’ to me.”

Heydricus rummages in his pouch.  “What are you doing?” the duchess asks. 

“I thought I’d just pay you now in case I die,” he says lamely.

“I assure you sir, I am no mercenary,” she replies.  When she grows indignant, the duchesses’ diction thickens until the word ‘mercenary’ sounds just like ‘masonry’.  She is no masonry, she’ll heave you new.

“I have heard the vicious rumors about you,” she says, “and I refute them all.  I am one who is of the opinion that gossip is a poor substitute for an education.”  She says this last in a tone that indicates it has been said so many times as to be worn thin at the credibility seams.

“Rumors, about me?” Heydricus asks, warming to the subject.

“All mischievous lies, I am sure,” the duchess lies.  “I don’t believe a word.  I am sure you are as virile as any other man, sir,” the duchess pats his arm.  “And someday you will recognize all your children.”

“What?” Heydricus says.  “What?  All my what?  Virile?”  The Liberator is fuming.  “That son of a bitch!  He wrecks my plans, kills my friends, slags my fort, scatters my followers, kidnaps my King and spreads rumors that my d-ck is limp!”

“Heydricus!” Prisantha gasps, embarrassed.  “It’s been a long week,” she says by way of apology.

“Perhaps we shall get your measurements next time,” the duchess says, bowing stiffly.  “Something suitable for the execut . . . trial, I think.”  The duchess leaves, closing the door behind her.

“About goddamn time,” Heydricus says, his embarrassment forgotten.

“Children?” Prisantha asks, tapping her foot.

“Just _scry_ my goddamn follower, and let’s kill somebody,” Heydricus says.


----------



## Morte

(contact) said:
			
		

> “Ah, you do not know,” the celestial says.  “Forgive me, I answer so many _communes_ it can be difficult to sort out who knows what about whom.  Piscean’s real name is Ivid, known to you most likely as Ivid the Third.  That’s seven questions.”




*thud*

Woah. I mean _woah_.



> Dabus wipes his chin, and casts the peach aside.  “Is Piscean possessed?”
> 
> “No, not in the sense that you mean the term.  However, his mother made bargains with an entity of power before the child was born—a creature somewhere between myself and the Old One in stature.”




Hmm... *strokes chin*



> “Oh, yes.  They have known about one another since before Iuz was born.”.




Good line. 



> “Does he seek to create a new Great Kindgom?”
> 
> “I’m sorry, you are out of questions.”  The celestial looks genuinely pained, yet resolved.




What timing.



> “When you’re answering these _communes_,” Lucius looks at the angel, “how often do you just make sh-t up?”




I didn't like Lucius when you first brought him back, but now I find him endearing. NPC? Cohort?



> “_Never split the party_, remember?”




I'm glad to see somebody's on the ball. Although that could be an unfortunate turn of phrase soon...



> “Now how the hell could I know that?” he wonders aloud.




The thot plickens.



> “Just _scry_ my goddamn follower, and let’s kill somebody,” Heydricus says.




Quite.


----------



## (contact)

Morte said:
			
		

> I didn't like Lucius when you first brought him back, but now I find him endearing. NPC? Cohort?




Lucius is Heydricus' second cohort.  He replaced Elijah after her unfortunate (and apparently supernatural) beheading.


----------



## Zaruthustran

(contact) said:
			
		

> “I assure you sir, I am no mercenary,” she replies. When she grows indignant, the duchesses’ diction thickens until the word ‘mercenary’ sounds just like ‘masonry’. She is no masonry, she’ll heave you new.




Whoa--I suddenly got a crystal clear image of Auntie Shrew from _The Secret of Nimh_.



> “Excuse me, sir,” Jespo says to the angel, tugging on his robe.




Yeah! Go Jespo! 



> “When you’re answering these communes,” Lucius looks at the angel, “how often do you just make sh-t up?”




Yeah! Go Lucius!



> As he is promising himself for the third time that he will be a gentleman and close his eyes, Heydricus notices a small birthmark on Prisantha’s shapely flank—one he explicitly remembers from a recent dream. “Now how the hell could I know that?” he wonders aloud.
> 
> “What is that, Heydricus?” Prisantha says.
> 
> “I was just wondering when I would get some of that,” he says, then hastily adds, “Fine tailoring, I mean."




YEAH! Go Heydricus!

Awesome update. 

-z


----------



## Zaruthustran

(contact) said:
			
		

> Hey, thanks for the kind words, Z.




Thanks for the entertaining story.



> I think that there are any number of authors out there who pretty much smoke this story hour, so maybe your local bookstore just sucks?




Har har.  

But seriously, consider the mass-market fantasy authors. You surely blow them away. Then consider the well-known and even talented formula writers such as Salvatore. I think you'd compare favorably.



> There is also something to the "D&D story" form that even the best fiction can't replicate:  the shared experience that leads to shared expectations.  When Piscean casts "time stop" you (the reader) cringe, because you already *know* how bad that can be.  Maybe you've had a 17th-level party TPK'ed with that spell, or maybe you just read the description one afternoon and thought, "Wow.  I wonder what *that* baby could do?"
> 
> Either way, you have an instant and shared connection with the narrative that non-gamers don't, and one that fantasy fiction usually can't create.  If you look at my SH, a huge chunk of it is playing on or against those D&D expectations.  Part of what makes the LoT fun to read (at least in my opinion) is that it is so very D&D.  People scry--> buff--> teleport and "win teh gaem"; assassins can kill people with one shot-- but only if they have 18 seconds to study the bad-guy, etc.
> 
> So when a novel says that Lucius is staring at Piscean, you think,  "aha, characterization!"  When the LoT says that Lucius is staring at Piscean, you think, "oh, snap!  That Piscean f-cker is about to get taken out!"




Terrific points and I agree that the shared (and assumed) D&D experience is what makes this story hour so much fun. But the shared experience doesn't preclude mainstream appeal. Look at the success of Scream, Pulp Fiction, Evil Dead, Mulholland Drive, any Kevin Smith film. These flicks are fun if you're ignorant, but fantastic if you get the inside jokes, spoofs, clever innovations, and references.

And even given that it's true that the LoT can only truly be appreciated by the group of longtime gamers that have a solid grounding in geek culture, that's a pretty big group. Especially if the collection is sold in PDF form and/or limited print runs. Sold on Amazon through Advantage, of course (had to get the plug in there--but seriously, it's a terrific way to get your book out)

Case in point: The Gamers. This film is only funny if you're a hardcore game geek. But if you're a hardcore game geek, it's really funny. By any measure The Gamers is successful. Sure, the producers aren't millionaires--but they do make a comfortable income from DVD sales, it's opening doors for them, and--most important--they're bringing joy to all the good size small male and female humans in this campaign setting. 



> I'm not sure that either the LoT or my writing in general would stand up on its own without those elements, but maybe someday we'll find out.    Remember that many of these characterizations (particularly PCs) aren't mine, anyway!  Could I write Pris?  I dunno, but thankfully I don't have to.
> 
> In addition, many of these great ideas aren't mine anyway!  The hit squad sent after the Liberators was orignally developed by Incognito (IIRC, I've lost the original emails over time), the He-Man-Heydricus-Haters-Club was an invention of these boards, many of the sub-plots were either sparked or fleshed out by the LoT Plot Thread, etc . . . so, unlike most novels, D&D is a group activity, and that is part of it's appeal for those of us who play.  This Story Hour is fun for the same reasons, IMO.




Some editing and exposition would need to be applied to these story hour posts, sure. And you could solicit help from your players and cohorts for characterizaion. I guess there may be legal or ethical issues with profiting from others' ideas, but I'm not a lawyer. I bet your contributors would be satisfied with a mention in the forward. All I know is that this story hour is a rocking good read and I want my non-Internet obsessed buddies to read it. And it'd be nice if you saw some financial reward for this labor of love. 

-z


----------



## the_mighty_agrippa

absolutely great update.  seeing heydricus come face-to-face with the he-man haters' machinations was brilliant; seeing him come face-to-glass with pris was even better.

lucius and crim are some of my favorite characters ever.

thanks!


----------



## Joshua Randall

Ahhh... that hit the spot.

I really needed some Liberatorian goodness after a totally hellish week spent closing on a house and then moving into it. (For more details, please consult the movie "The Money Pit".)

[ObD&Dism] Of course the move would've been much easier had I been able to borrow Heydricus's _portable hole_. [/ObD&Dism]

Thanks, (contact), for brightening my day.


----------



## Lazybones

Zaruthustran:

While I love the story, selling this or any SH for profit (even c's or Sep's) would likely result in a prompt telephone call from WotC's Legal Department.  Even under OGL, publishing a novel using someone else's trademarked content would put you on very dubious legal ground.


----------



## (contact)

Well, yeah, you'd have to file off the serial numbers.  

Thanks for the kind words, all.  The next couple of updates are all about the ass kicking.  People are turned to stone, killed, trapped in the spaces between dimensions, poisoned, shredded with flying glass,  put to sleep and disintegrated.  

And the bad guys get it even worse.


----------



## Rackhir

Lazybones said:
			
		

> Zaruthustran:
> 
> While I love the story, selling this or any SH for profit (even c's or Sep's) would likely result in a prompt telephone call from WotC's Legal Department.  Even under OGL, publishing a novel using someone else's trademarked content would put you on very dubious legal ground.




I really don't think it would be that much of a problem. Frankly if I'm reading a story I would much rather see a description of the spell cast/action performed rather than just going "He cast a FedEXed, Biggie Sized, whipped-cream exchanged Chocolate Storm". I always find that it jerks me out of my involvement in the story when I hit something like that. It's about the only complaint that I have about Sep's story hour. 

I understand why it's done when writing up story hours, it saves a lot of time and effort just giving the D&D description, rather than working up a descriptive paragraph, every time Dabus does a communion. But in a Novel/Novella etc... I'd really rather be reading the description rather than the gaming "shorthand" so to speak.


----------



## Zaruthustran

*LoT: the Movie*



			
				(contact) said:
			
		

> Well, yeah, you'd have to file off the serial numbers.
> 
> Thanks for the kind words, all.  The next couple of updates are all about the ass kicking.  People are turned to stone, killed, trapped in the spaces between dimensions, poisoned, shredded with flying glass,  put to sleep and disintegrated.
> 
> And the bad guys get it even worse.




Sweeeet. All in a day's work of being a hero.

Tangent for everyone: if you were casting the LoT Movie, who would you chose to portray Heydricus, Pris, Dabus, Lucius, Crim, and the rest of the crew?

I'd go with... 
Heydricus: Hugh Jackman (played Wolverine in the Xmen movies) 
Jespo Crim: Alan Rickman (played Snape in the Harry Potter movies). Or Tom Hanks.
Lucius: Johny Depp? Maybe too pretty. Antonio Banderas?
Dabus: A cleaned-up Tom Sizemore. Or an aged Matt Damon.
Thrommel: Ben Affleck.
Gwen: Vanessa Marcil. The babe from that new "Las Vegas" show. See this image (safe for work): http://www.famousbabes.com/pics118/vanessaML/vanessaML007.jpg
Pris: Believe it or not, Alicia Silverstone. She can pull off both "pretty" and "smart-yet-naive."

-z


----------



## Barastrondo

Warning: The girls are hard. I honestly can't think of quite so many Hollywood actresses that are both being pushed in the "young and gorgeous" roles and who have proven acting chops. (For instance, I'd totally choose Susan Sarandon as Gwendolyn, except that you'd never believe she was in school at the same time as Pris.)

Heydricus: Brad Pitt. Good physique, -eating-grin, can still be helpless in a romantic subplot. 
Prisantha: Rachel Weisz. 
Jespo: Steve Buscemi. Or Rowan Atkinson.
Dabus: Ewan McGregor. He can do anything, including straight-faced sincerity in comedic situations. 
Gwendolyn: Parker Posey. Maybe Angie McCormack. 
Lucius: Guy Pearce or John Rhys-Meyers (Gormenghast, Velvet Goldmine).
Regda: Vin Diesel.
Thrommel: Keanu Reeves. Or if you'd rather have an actor than a statement, Affleck's not a bad choice. 
Belvor: Brian Blessed. Duh. 
Piscean: Kenneth Brannagh. 

But who to direct? Should I be hopelessly derivative and say Gore Verbinski (Pirates of the Carribean, The Ring, The Mexican, Catch Me if you Can)? Yeah. There you go.


----------



## (contact)

Susan Sarandon for sure.  I imagine the Wizard's Academy as less like our modern institutions of learning and more like the old mideval universities where whoever had the coin could attend for that day.  Kind of a "pay to play" school that catered a little more to the wealthy and well-connected.


----------



## (contact)

[Hypnotic Stare]

You did not read this post.  This post does not exist.

[/Hypnotic Stare]


----------



## (contact)

*Patchwall 5, CY 593
69—Stalk, stalk, stalk.*


Through her _crystal ball_, Prisantha sees Dabus in a shining celestial realm, lost in deep discussion with an angel.  “Oh my,” she sobs.  “They’re dead!”

“No, no,” Heydricus says.  “Lucius is there.  They must have _plane shifted_.”

They see Dabus walk over to a narrow stream and say a few words, his holy symbol clutched close to his brow.  “Ooh, he’s _scrying_ us!” Prisantha says.  “Wave!”

Heydricus starts to wave, then thinks twice, and puts his hands on his hips.  He snatches up a broken piece of worked stone, and uses it like chalk to scrawl ‘get here now’ on the floor next to Prisantha.

The celestial quintet _plane shift_ back to Oerth, and find themselves within a chilly and stark mountainous region. 

 “Ah, Geoff,” Sonahmiin says.  “How you have suffered.”

Between Gwendolyn and Jespo, the four adventurers and deva are able to _teleport_ to Prisantha’s side.  Hugs and greetings are exchanged, and Heyricus seems particularly interested to meet the angel whose body Dabus has been borrowing to smite evil with.  After catching up, Prisantha writes a brief note of apology for the jail-break, and the Liberators of Tenh walk unchallenged out of the nicest prison money can buy.

-----

Prisantha _discerns_ the location of Lizst’ statue.  Surprisingly, it is in the royal wing of the Palace in Chendl—in a room given over to busts and portraits of former nobility!  They find Lizst right where Prisantha’s spell indicated they would, and note that it has even been cleverly covered with a layer of dust, and ensconced to the back of a section filled with the most dull and uninspired of all the works.

“Why, Belvor himself must have come through here every day,” Prisantha says.  She casts a _greater dispelling_ at the statue, but her spell fails to break the transmutation.  “This is tough,” she admits.

Gwendolyn has no better luck, but Jespo Crim proves up to the task.  As Lizst returns to the flesh, Sonahmiin pats the frail conjurer on the shoulder and says, “Jespo, I apologize.  I underestimated you, and thought uncharitable thoughts.”

Lizst is wounded, and must be _healed_, but Dabus can and will, and in a flash, the elementalist of air stands whole and restored before them, and is hearing the tale of Piscean’s treachery—and his true identity.

“Amazing,” Lizst says.  “I never suspected him—he seemed such the sycophant.  And frankly, he seems far to competent to be the infamous Ivid III.”

“We are going after him now,” Heydricus says, “and we’re going to get Belvor back.  Come with us,” he suggests, nearly drooling at the probability of having the odds tipped in his favor for a change.

“I cannot,” Lizst says, without a trace of emotion.  “You tell me young Pelegrin has been made King—my duty is with him.”

“What?” Heydricus says.  “The kid is a pawn!  We’re rescuing _Belvor_, g-ddamnit!”

“I am sworn to the throne, not the man,” Lizst says coolly.

“The cowardice of the wicked should not surprise anyone,” Sonahmiin says, staring hard daggers into the eyes of Lizst, his celestial anger radiating off of him in waves.

But the wizard is not intimidated.  He stares back at the celestial, saying, “Neither should the arrogance of an angel.”

The two stare at one another for several long minutes while the rest of the party wonders if it is to be a fight after all.  

Prisantha sighs and says, “Well, I hope someone around here takes care of their job, so we don’t have to keep pulling Furyondian asses out of the fire.”

“Aren’t  you Furyondian?” Dabus asks.

“Verbobonc,” she says.

“Ah,” he replies.

“Hush!” Lucius says, as he is watching the confrontation nearly as intently as it is being waged.  Eventually, the celestial turns and walks away from the wizard, although Lucius would later swear that he saw Lizst look away first.

-----

“Last night, I was thinking,” Heydricus says, as his companions prepare spells and ready weapons.  The group is milling about in one of the palace’s forgotten ballrooms—Dabus is rendering his companions immune to cold.  “I remembered the Sheildlanders that we led against the Temple, and the horror of that day.  You know, I have always thought of that foray as a great defeat.  But last night, I realized—we gave those people a gift.  We gave them an opportunity to confront an enemy that had plagued them—a cowardly enemy hiding behind the apron-strings of a cowardly god.  For a brief and shining moment, their destiny was their own, and retribution was before them.

“How many victims of these cruel men never have that chance?  How many live their lives, suffer and die, never knowing their true tormenter?  How many of those victims has Piscean made?  Today, we are fighting for our own purposes, but we are also fighting for them—the innocents who do not possess the power to avenge the wrongs done by his hand.  

“Piscean . . . Ivid . . .  is wrong about what it is to be mighty.  Power is not a license to serve the self, it is a great and meaningful duty.  Sometimes we fail, we are human, but Piscean has embraced his failure and elevated it in his own mind into a _truth_.  Whether we live or die, by our acts, by our _action_, we are expressing our understanding.”  Heydricus starts to say more, then trails off, and lapses into silence.

“Well said,” Dabus states.  “Retribution.”

“Retribution,” Jespo says. 

“Here’s to one less a-shole,” Lucius mutters, but his cynical words do not conceal the admiration in his eyes as he looks at the Liberator.

-----

Sonahmiin opens a _gate_ to the center of Piscean’s Hyperborean Obverse, and leads the party into Piscean’s lair.  Unformed and organic in shape, the interior of Piscean’s tower is still entirely unnatural in appearance; the room is a warped oval, formed from several smaller oblong sections merged together seamlessly; the whole of the place foils the eye’s attempt to trace its outline and turns the viewer’s gaze back upon itself. 

Rough stalagmites of ice jut from the floor, both singly and in clusters.  Here and there, the stalagmites reach the ceiling and become columns, or protrude from the walls at unusual angles.  Some of the stalagmite nests have had steps and shelves cut into them, forming crude balconies and terraces.  Drifts of snow are piled against all angles and edges in the place, some of them are no larger than a man, while other mounds reach nearly halfway to the tall ceiling.

As the other Liberators follow the angel through the _gate_, they notice that an outcropping of stalagmites directly in front of them have all been sheared off at four feet in height, and lying motionless upon this icy bier is Piscean, either sleeping or dead.  The pale mage is lying on his back, arms folded across his chest.  Behind him, ice-crystals have grown out to form a fan-like shape framing the old man’s body.

As the Liberators move toward Piscean, weapons in hand, Sonahmiin places an _antimagic zone_ directly on the beir.  Heydricus bounds over toward the platform, and regards the mage carefully.  

Lucius notices that several glittering objects are encased within one of the nearby stalagmites, as if flash-frozen within the thing.  Keeping an eye on the bier, he moves to investigate, but as he does so, the stalagmite begins to creak and shudder, tearing itself free of its ground.  As it begins to slowly totter toward the assassin, twin spikes of ice crystallize at equidistant points in the center of the mass.  They grow out a full ten feet before animating, and as the stalactite shuffles forward, these icy limbs begin to beat at the air with a clumsy whip-like motion.

As the party reacts to this threat, several other stalactites animate, seven in all, each one containing objects within its mass:  weaponry, clothing, jewelry and gear—adventurer’s gear.

“Hey, that’s my sword!” Regda says happily.  

“And that one has my _crystal ball_!” Prisantha gasps.  

Each of the Liberators has a frozen counterpart—an animated golem of frost and ice with one adventurer’s worth of magic items encased within it.

Heydricus _displaces_ himself, and moves to a position where he can strike Piscean if the old man moves.  As he does so, Sonahmiin settles the matter by chopping the prostate body into pieces.  At that moment, the golem encasing Gwendolyn’s _staff of frost_ unleashes a _cone of cold_ that blasts the heroes at the _gate’s_ opening.  Jespo Crim responds by entangling a pair of the creatures with a summoned field of _black tentacles_.

“No soul escaped this corpse,” Sonahmiin says grimly.

“Beware a _magic jar_!” Jespo shouts.

In response, Lucius begins to study the constructs, thinking that perhaps one of them might hold the mind of their enemy, but to his eyes they seem like nothing more than what they appear.

Prisantha is cornered by two of the creatures, and lashed furiously by their writhing tentacle-like arms, so she quickly extricates herself with a _mislead_ spell, leaving her illusionary double behind to take the beating meant for her.

Heydricus, however, is also fooled by the illusion, and cries out in terror as he sees what he believes is Prisantha battered into a bloody mess by the ice-golems.  He leaps at them attacking like a madman, and calls for Dabus to join him.  The two stalwart servants of Tritherion knock thick shards of ice from their enemies, and soon destroy them outright.

Prisantha, safely _invisible_, and several feet from her illusionary double notices Heydricus’ efforts on her behalf, and finds herself strangely touched.  Never let it be said that the Enchantress of Verbobonc makes the same mistake twice, because she does not share this sudden realization through her _telepathic bond_:  “I am in love with him.”  She keeps this to herself, marveling at the simplicity as well as the implication of the thought.  

She does, however, assure everyone that she is safe.  “_An illusion, no more—I have_ misled _them_,” she thinks through the _telepathic bond_.

Sonahmiin makes himself _etheric_, reasoning that the demi-plane must be connected to the ethereal, and soon notices a thin patch of ice that conceals a secret door.  Returning to the physical, he opens the door, and hurries through, followed by Lucius, Redga and Dabus.  Heydricus remains behind with the wizards to finish off the clumsy golems before chasing after his companions through the secret door.

But he needn’t have hurried.  There are no more dangers within the Hyperborean Obverse, just a three-level tunnel complex containing workrooms, strangely appointed chambers and libraries of rare books.  In one unusual chamber, several ice-carvings depict well-known personages of the Marklands.  None of them are regulars at court, but are all occasional guests of Furyondy’s King.  Many are minor nobility, the sort who have inherited small ancestral claims throughout the realm, but there are also nobles from Veluna and the environs of Verbobonc represented.

After a quick search of the place turns up neither Piscean nor any other dangers, the group returns to the large chamber to sort through the magical gear left behind by the destroyed golems.  The group finds all of the equipment stolen by their assassins amongst the ice-shards, save for Heydricus’ holy relics and his _portable hole_.  This latter is discovered beneath the hacked corpse of Piscean’s _clone_.  Relived, the Liberator discovers that his relics are within, along with a note:



_Dearest Heydricus,

If you are reading this, then I can only assume that you have accepted my offer.  Congratulations on your vision and daring.  I never doubted you for an instant, although you do play hard to get!  I am confident that you will find that we are perfectly matched.  In time, I am sure that you will wonder what you ever did without me, and I the same.

With deepest regards on the eve of our first triumph (may it not be the last!) I await you,

Piscean of the Four_



“What the f-ck is with this guy,” Lucius would like to know.  But the Liberator only shrugs.

“I think he’s in love with you, Heydricus,” Gwendolyn laughs.  “He acts like just like one of your fawning fans.  Could it be that he has done all this to win your recognition?”

“Oh yeah, like killing him would work,” Lucius says, rolling his eyes.  “Wizards.”

“F-ck what Piscean wants,” Heydricus mutters, clearly uncomfortable with the line of speculation.

Prisantha wipes the ice shavings from her _crystal ball of true seeing_, and surprisingly, determines to reunite herself with her most prized possession by _scrying_ Halrond.  The head of Tritherion’s secular organization is seen riding his horse into a lather across the scrub-plains of Tenh.

“I suppose this means my _demand_ was a success,” she muses.  “Although, I am a bit disappointed at his resources.”

“Really,” Jespo says, “a man of his stature riding a horse!  How mundane.”

“Halrond has always favored the direct over the supernatural,” Dabus says.  “It makes him a better politician, I think.”

“Let us concern ourselves with our enemies,” Sonahmiin says.  “_Scry_ the mage.”

Prisantha does so, and disturbingly, her _crystal ball_ reveals a battlefield scene.  In a tree-lined river valley, two groups of armored knights hack at one another from horseback.  Butrain’s banner can be seen, along with the insignia of several notable Southern Lords.  They are opposed by many of the Northern knights who were just yesterday calling for the Liberators’ arrest.

Piscean stands next to the boy-king Pelegrin, on a rise removed from the general melee.  He is cloaked by an illusion, however, and seems to mundane eyes to be Furyondy’s new master of arms—Esril’s replacement!

“Where is Esril, anyway?” Jespo wonders, but receives no reply.

As they watch the scene, Piscean is counseling the young king in a fatherly tone. “Choose well my liege,” he says.  “You must take care to fight someone worthy of your station.”  

As Prisantha breaks her _scrying_, the Liberators of Tenh discuss their strategy.

“Let us not repeat the debacle in front of the Lords,” Prisantha suggests.  “We may find ourselves fighting far too many foes if we enter that battle.  We should bring Piscean to us.”

“Well, that would be a refreshing change,” Jespo agrees.  

Sonahmiin motions the group for silence, and clasps his hands together.  He speaks a _wish_ in Elder Celestial, beseeching Tritherion to return the Liberators to the same state of mind in which they began the day—fully rested, and with a full compliment of spells.

“Well, thank you,” Prisantha says, curtseying to the angel.

“Don’t thank me, earn it,” Sonahmiin replies curtly.  “Gratitude is for the hollow halls of Mount Celestia.  When you speak to me, you speak to Tritherion, and only deeds interest Him.”  And in Prisantha’s head, he sternly adds, “_And stop sending_ dreams _to the Liberator_!”

Prisantha responds with a sassy wink and a grin.  She then _demands_ that Piscean, “Return to your demi-plane at once, and join the Liberator.  We are waiting for you, please hurry.”  Pris receives the reply “Just a moment, dear,” and says, “I think I got him, but I cannot be sure.  We should wait for him here.”

Lucius shakes his head.  “All this mumbo-jumbo,” he says.  “Did it work?  Didn’t it?  Here or there what does it really matter?  I’m going to stab him in the same spot; his f-cking spine.”

“I want to dispel one of his enchantments,” Gwendolyn says, excitedly.  “He is the most powerful wizard I have ever helped to kill.”

“As for myself,” Jespo says, “I resolve not to die.”

“Good thinking, baby!” Regda exclaims.

“You have been getting all Thrommel on us recently,” Heydricus concurs.  “I like this strategy; we set an ambush, and no one dies.”


----------



## (contact)

*A map of Piscean's lair*


----------



## DM2

Awesome update, as usual.

More great lines to savor until the next update as well.

DM2


----------



## Joshua Randall

When I saw two updates I got all excited. Then it turned out that one was a duplicate. Damn.

I'm jaded now; a mere single update no longer does it for me. I need a stronger dose to achieve a high.


----------



## Zaruthustran

Barastrondo said:
			
		

> Heydricus: Brad Pitt. Good physique, -eating-grin, can still be helpless in a romantic subplot.
> Prisantha: Rachel Weisz.
> Jespo: Steve Buscemi. Or Rowan Atkinson.
> Dabus: Ewan McGregor. He can do anything, including straight-faced sincerity in comedic situations.
> Gwendolyn: Parker Posey. Maybe Angie McCormack.
> Lucius: Guy Pearce or John Rhys-Meyers (Gormenghast, Velvet Goldmine).
> Regda: Vin Diesel.
> Thrommel: Keanu Reeves. Or if you'd rather have an actor than a statement, Affleck's not a bad choice.
> Belvor: Brian Blessed. Duh.
> Piscean: Kenneth Brannagh.




I like yours better than mine. Rowan Atkinson *IS* Jespo Crim. 

How about The Rock for Heydricus?

EDIT: (reads update, speech by H). Nope. The Rock couldn't pull that off. Brad Pitt all the way. 

And (contact): _nice_ map!

-z


----------



## Zaruthustran

lucius said:
			
		

> Lucius shakes his head. “All this mumbo-jumbo,” he says. “Did it work? Didn’t it? Here or there what does it really matter? I’m going to stab him in the same spot; his f-cking spine.”




Reminds me of that Eiger Sanction quote, given by the Austrian after an argument about climbing conditions: 

"Good veather, bad veather; now or later. Any time is gute for climbingk!"

-z


----------



## Victim

Rackhir said:
			
		

> I really don't think it would be that much of a problem. Frankly if I'm reading a story I would much rather see a description of the spell cast/action performed rather than just going "He cast a FedEXed, Biggie Sized, whipped-cream exchanged Chocolate Storm". I always find that it jerks me out of my involvement in the story when I hit something like that. It's about the only complaint that I have about Sep's story hour.
> 
> I understand why it's done when writing up story hours, it saves a lot of time and effort just giving the D&D description, rather than working up a descriptive paragraph, every time Dabus does a communion. But in a Novel/Novella etc... I'd really rather be reading the description rather than the gaming "shorthand" so to speak.




I prefer "proper" spell names to descriptions.  Sure, you need some idea of what goes with the name.  But having specific names for specific effects means that the effect is a specific concrete thing in the game world.  Not to mention that in Sep's campaign, wizardry is specialized, technical field - how could it NOT have jargon?  Having discrete spell effects go by precise names seems more appropriate than vague descriptions (or even not so vague descriptions).  

Consider: Metal box with 4 wheels that transports people -> Car -> mid size family sedan -> Honda Accord -> white Honda Accord with certain options and technical specs.

Car or sedan are usually good enough for normal usage.  People with some passing interest in the matter (maybe they're looking at buying a new car) might want the make of car.  Technical experts might want specific details about the engine or something.  In DnD terms, the progession might be  "Bob waves his hands, speaks gibberish, and causes a ball of flame to fly at the orcs"  "Close to melee?  Not with all the fire magic that Bob's blasting the area with."  Bob: "my fireball spell is great for killing orcs."  High level Bob: "Now that my Disjunction as assured removed your Immunity to Elements, I'll treat you all to an Empowered Conflagration."


----------



## Barastrondo

Victim said:
			
		

> I prefer "proper" spell names to descriptions.  Sure, you need some idea of what goes with the name.  But having specific names for specific effects means that the effect is a specific concrete thing in the game world.  Not to mention that in Sep's campaign, wizardry is specialized, technical field - how could it NOT have jargon?  Having discrete spell effects go by precise names seems more appropriate than vague descriptions (or even not so vague descriptions).




Of course, this also goes farther when you're dealing with different traditions. It's hard to imagine a druid, a cleric, a sorcerer and a wizard all agreeing that they all cast the same spell called _bear's endurance_, if the setting is colorful enough. If the druid is invoking the power of Father Wolf, the cleric is calling on a forge-god, the sorcerer draws her power from the earth-magic in her blood (darn dao grand-dad) and the wizard learned his spell from his necromancer mentor, would it really be the same spell in the setting, even if it had the same game mechanics? I'd assume it'd be four separate spells (or even "prayers," if your clerics aren't the sort to say that they "cast spells") — _wolf's endurance_, _blessing of vigor_, _earth's fortitude_ and _tireless perseverance_. If they even had names at all.

A little thing like point of origin might necessitate people to further differentiate between spells — even if two SUVs from different manufacturers are functionally the same vehicle (at least from a game mechanics point of view), we still point out that one's a Jeep and one's a Chevy. 

I don't mind proper spell names being tossed around in a story hour by any means, particularly when it takes place in such a classic couldn't-be-anything-but-D&D setting like Greyhawk. (Pris' complaint about continually saving Furyondian bacon? Priceless.) But I don't necessarily think that the characters in a D&D game necessarily see things in the same game-mechanics point of view that we clever gamers/readers do. It all depends on the setting.

Of course, this _is_ Greyhawk in full bloom we're observing here. If it weren't for 3e/3.5, Regda would be giving her level away every time she introduced herself as a Myrmidon.


----------



## Plane Sailing

(contact) said:
			
		

> And in Prisantha’s head, he sternly adds, “And stop sending dreams to the Liberator!”





Doh! I can't believe I didn't spot that one!

(but that isn't half as much as I can't believe them TAKING PISCEANS GAG OFF when he wasn't dimensionally anchored!)

The storyhour is still great (contact), still great.

Cheers


----------



## Rackhir

Victim said:
			
		

> I prefer "proper" spell names to descriptions.  Sure, you need some idea of what goes with the name.  But having specific names for specific effects means that the effect is a specific concrete thing in the game world.  Not to mention that in Sep's campaign, wizardry is specialized, technical field - how could it NOT have jargon?  Having discrete spell effects go by precise names seems more appropriate than vague descriptions (or even not so vague descriptions).




I find that just handing magic simple little names makes magic mundane and ordinary. Traditionally in great fantasy stories almost all magic is unique in some way. Giving all casters a generic "fire conjuration attack spell" called by the name fireball, turns it into a mass market generic item. That is practically a necessity in an RPG since everyone needs to know what the rules are and how things function, but it robs things of much of their flavor to genericise them to that extent.

Magic is a lot more interesting if it retains some mystery. At worse it should be like a highly customized car. Sure it started out as a Honda celica, but now it's got a turbo supercharged, blue printed headers engine out of a NSX. blah, blah, blah, tech jargon, blah, Glowing red seats... etc.


----------



## (contact)

Barastrondo said:
			
		

> Of course, this also goes farther when you're dealing with different traditions. It's hard to imagine a druid, a cleric, a sorcerer and a wizard all agreeing that they all cast the same spell called _bear's endurance_, if the setting is colorful enough. If the druid is invoking the power of Father Wolf, the cleric is calling on a forge-god, the sorcerer draws her power from the earth-magic in her blood (darn dao grand-dad) and the wizard learned his spell from his necromancer mentor, would it really be the same spell in the setting, even if it had the same game mechanics?




This is an example of where good at-the-table flavor can actually hurt the telling of a D&D story in this format.  I still maintain that part of the appeal of a story hour (as opposed to a novel) is the level of shared understanding and expectation that we all have as D&D players.

After all, Jespo might really (according to his own tradition) have summoned the "Arms of Tharizdun's Spawn," but you and I know what an _Evard's black tentacles_ spell does.

For an encounter where one or two spells are going off this "describe what it does, and let the reader figure out the spell," might make a lot of sense-- but in a spell-battle like the next update?  Whoo, lawd.

IME, a big spell-fight is a messy affair to narrate, and having the core-names as a shorthand (for both spells and their affects) is an amazingly useful tool.

Using proper D&D spell names in a D&D story essentially frees me of the obligation of explaining what a mass charm is supposed to do-- and why it may not have worked the way Pris meant it to (hilarity ensues).

Using the core spell-names and magic system also lets me play with the assumption, and add game-specific flavor to the mechanics (like meeting the celestial who answers your communes by casting a _planar ally_ in your diety's realm) without having to go into further exposition or break out an aside.

I have to tell you that writing that kind of exposition might make me want to chew on pencil leads until I went blind.



> If it weren't for 3e/3.5, Regda would be giving her level away every time she introduced herself as a Myrmidon.




That's "Lord," thank you very much!


----------



## (contact)

Rackhir said:
			
		

> I find that just handing magic simple little names makes magic mundane and ordinary.




It absolutely does, but that's ok with me.  From the meta-game viewpoint of tactical combat, spells are just a series of tools that can be used to kick more hiney.

Default D&D doesn't really support magic as "mysterious".  Codifying and clarifying magic to the point where both the players and the DM have the same understanding of how that particular element of tactical combat is going to interact with the campaign world makes it a known quality.

The best "wonder" I can generally generate is when I cream a player with a spell he's never seen before.  

That said, I don't use proper names for spells at the gaming table-- a lightning bolt is an "arc of electricity," and a "charm person" is a "sudden sensation that this pock-marked beggar is your _beeeest friend_."


----------



## Rackhir

(contact) said:
			
		

> It absolutely does, but that's ok with me.  From the meta-game viewpoint of tactical combat, spells are just a series of tools that can be used to kick more hiney.
> 
> Default D&D doesn't really support magic as "mysterious".  Codifying and clarifying magic to the point where both the players and the DM have the same understanding of how that particular element of tactical combat is going to interact with the campaign world makes it a known quality.
> 
> The best "wonder" I can generally generate is when I cream a player with a spell he's never seen before.
> 
> That said, I don't use proper names for spells at the gaming table-- a lightning bolt is an "arc of electricity," and a "charm person" is a "sudden sensation that this pock-marked beggar is your _beeeest friend_."




Yah the lack of mystery and wonder has always been something that has nagged at me in D&D, especially now that there are "Magic Item Creation" rules. It makes them feel even more like mass market items. But unfortunately that mundainity is pretty much a necessity if you are playing a game and the DM isn't going to handle EVERY last detail. 

Trying to get "Creative" and "mysterious" with respect to magic just doesn't work well in an enviroment where everything has to be quantified. Especially when dealing with the complexities of high level combat.

In any case going with descriptions rather than just a spell name is something I would only bother with if writting a story up for some sort of publication and it would be quite a bit of work to do something like that well.


----------



## Barastrondo

(contact) said:
			
		

> This is an example of where good at-the-table flavor can actually hurt the telling of a D&D story in this format.  I still maintain that part of the appeal of a story hour (as opposed to a novel) is the level of shared understanding and expectation that we all have as D&D players.




I agree with you, but I can't do it unconditionally. In a game where there's a strong focus on genre, the same classic D&Disms that provide a common ground of experience may undercut the trust in the setting being strong enough to stand on its own merits. I freely admit that you don't want tons of exposition to explain everything and wreck the story, but there are ways of subtly being all rebellious and refusing to use the common table-talk terms while avoiding both excessive exposition and muddy confusion. 

For example, I think you can write a good SH wherein you never ever refer to the characters by their character classes, and still avoid confusing your readers. Sure, some will want to play game archaeologist and try to figure out if the light-armored warrior is part rogue or not, but that's kind of a different meta-reading appeal. It doesn't have to hurt the story to avoid the language of the game. 

But — and this is important — that has to be the way you want to write, and you have to be prone to communicate neatly without using the shorthand. It has to match your style. 

For my part, I don't think I could ever really get into throwing around game terms loosely, but I think that's more of a matter of it interfering with my writing style. I know my wife refuses to ever refer to a divine spellcaster as "casting spells" when she's doing the fictional update/journal entry/whatever. "They invoke, pray, chant, intone, channel — but they don't 'cast spells'!" 

Everybody who writes has these little idiosyncracies. But just because my writing quirks (and hell, my gaming quirks) are different than yours doesn't keep me from enjoying the hell out of your writing style. 



> IME, a big spell-fight is a messy affair to narrate, and having the core-names as a shorthand (for both spells and their affects) is an amazingly useful tool.




Yep. It's very important if you get into the spell blow-by-blow much as if you were covering a fencing match. 



> I have to tell you that writing that kind of exposition might make me want to chew on pencil leads until I went blind.




So don't! It doesn't match your writing style, anyway; one of your capital strengths is that you can really abbreviate things with a few well-chosen turns of phrase. Remember the Stonefisters being cut apart before they could so much as say "I'm... so... angry!"? That was much more effective than trying to properly figure out a way to detail how the barbarian warriors go into their rage, describe the process, and then figure out a way to depict them interrupted halfway, and lethally, all with "proper dramatic description." Your economy is part of the soul of your wit  — if florid exposition is your Kryptonite, stay away! 

(Except when said exposition is just the thing for the pacing, such as the interlude to understand Zinvellon before the climax of TOEE2. But you don't need my advice to point that out, since you were doing it before I was putting "story" and "hour" in the same sentence.)



> That's "Lord," thank you very much!




Is that what she tells Jespo behind closed doors? "Call me Lord Regda!"


----------



## Victim

Rackhir said:
			
		

> I find that just handing magic simple little names makes magic mundane and ordinary. Traditionally in great fantasy stories almost all magic is unique in some way. Giving all casters a generic "fire conjuration attack spell" called by the name fireball, turns it into a mass market generic item. That is practically a necessity in an RPG since everyone needs to know what the rules are and how things function, but it robs things of much of their flavor to genericise them to that extent.
> 
> Magic is a lot more interesting if it retains some mystery. At worse it should be like a highly customized car. Sure it started out as a Honda celica, but now it's got a turbo supercharged, blue printed headers engine out of a NSX. blah, blah, blah, tech jargon, blah, Glowing red seats... etc.




Most fantasy stories don't have all the trappings of DnD magic either.  But maybe you should read the Dying Earth stories.  The original DnD magic system was heavily inspired by Vance's tales.  Alas, much of the coolness was left behind.

But I think that the different types of casters would recognize that Bear's Endurance is the same spell.  I'm sure wizards would be quite happy to prove that they are the same with counterspells.  And wizards will probably be the one's keeping track of all the spells anyway.  Druids probably won't be writing spell names after all.

Magic might have been mysterious at one point, but that was before wizards started picking it apart.


----------



## Zaruthustran

Barastrondo said:
			
		

> Remember the Stonefisters being cut apart before they could so much as say "I'm... so... angry!"? That was much more effective than trying to properly figure out a way to detail how the barbarian warriors go into their rage, describe the process, and then figure out a way to depict them interrupted halfway, and lethally, all with "proper dramatic description."




Exactly; and perfect example.  Reading a (contact) story hour is like hopping through a field strewn with skillfully painted easter eggs. The field and the hopping are nice enough, but the real treat is discovering all the hidden (and not so hidden) goodies.

Only hardcore gamer eyes can truly appreciate the story. I still advocate that there are plenty of hardcore and appreciative gamers out there that would love to read a story with such a perfect blend of character, narrative, plot, and crunchy goodness. Lose the spell names and clever references to D&Disms, and you lose that special (contact) something.

Sagiro and Piratecat are also skilled at this style. But I can't get into the more verbose story hours. They bog down in needless obfuscation. I'm a D&D player reading about a D&D game--I don't need a paragraph describing gestures and mumbo-jumbo when "Bob cast Fireball" would do. 

Likewise, I can only take Salvatore and other D&D novels in small doses. The guy wastes too much time on description, and what's more, the fights don't feel like D&D fights. 

Which of course they aren't. Which, I suppose, is why I can't get into the novels. A fantasy novel written about a game that is arguably designed to immerse readers in a fantasy novel setting is just too many degrees of seperation. It's like a Xerox copy of a fax of a printed sheet of a scan of a Xerox copy. 

Just give me the original. I play the game; I can figure out what's going on.

-z, who just gave himself analogy diabetes.


----------



## (contact)

Barastrondo said:
			
		

> I agree with you, but I can't do it unconditionally.




Yes you can, and I am prepared to use my super-powers to force you to do so.

[Hypnotic Stare]

You agree with me unconditionally.  When you awaken, you will not remember that I gave you this command, yet you will be compelled to obey nonetheless.

[/Hypnotic Stare]



			
				Barastrondo said:
			
		

> In a game where there's a strong focus on genre, the same classic D&Disms that provide a common ground of experience may undercut the trust in the setting being strong enough to stand on its own merits.




I agree with you unconditionally.  

Sadly, I have traditionally had a lot of trouble getting buy-in from my (otherwise wonderful) players for that sort of game.  They prefer, I think, the default D&D where the rules and expectations are more transparent, and they can plot and plan at a meta-game level and don't feel quite so beholden to my admittedly erratic well of "good ideas".



			
				Barastrondo said:
			
		

> Sure, some will want to play game archaeologist and try to figure out if the light-armored warrior is part rogue or not, but that's kind of a different meta-reading appeal. It doesn't have to hurt the story to avoid the language of the game. <snip> I know my wife refuses to ever refer to a divine spellcaster as "casting spells" when she's doing the fictional update/journal entry/whatever. "They invoke, pray, chant, intone, channel — but they don't 'cast spells'!"




Oh, but where is such a story hour?  I would love to read it, and I'm sure that others would love to read it-- but where oh where could we find such a story?



			
				Barastrondo said:
			
		

> Yep. It's very important if you get into the spell blow-by-blow much as if you were covering a fencing match.




Which it kind of is at the levels the Liberators are at.  Time stop --> Maze --> Plane shift to escape --> Quickened Fireball is more interesting to other tactical gamers than  "Piscean waves his hand and Gwendolyn dissapears, but she returns a moment later, an invocation of flame on her lips!"



			
				Barastrondo said:
			
		

> Remember the Stonefisters being cut apart before they could so much as say "I'm... so... angry!"? That was much more effective than trying to properly figure out a way to detail how the barbarian warriors go into their rage, describe the process, and then figure out a way to depict them interrupted halfway, and lethally, all with "proper dramatic description."




Right-- but that only worked because you already know they're barbarians because I've called them that, and as a D&D player you know that barbarians can only go into rages on their initiative, which they obviously just lost.

I'm not even sure if we're actually arguing or just making two different points-- I have a monster head cold right now that is making me three shades of stupid-- but at least for the Liberators, the D&Disms are part of what makes it fun.  I bet most of us here play D&D and *like* playing D&D; some of the funnier bits (for me, at least) are when we turn that D&D "up to eleven," and then have the PCs play the straight man against the somewhat silly conventions.


----------



## Barastrondo

(contact) said:
			
		

> Sadly, I have traditionally had a lot of trouble getting buy-in from my (otherwise wonderful) players for that sort of game.  They prefer, I think, the default D&D where the rules and expectations are more transparent, and they can plot and plan at a meta-game level and don't feel quite so beholden to my admittedly erratic well of "good ideas".




But that's cool, too. Hell, I found out recently that a couple of players who had moderately good buy-in with my D&D game and moderately good ideas for said setting have Total Complete Buy-in with the pulp genre, becoming twice the players I'm used to. 

So yeah, you can say "sadly", but you don't really mean it. If they hook into the default D&D with the sort of laser-like intensity that involves Prisantha's creative sculpting of _dream_ spells and Heydricus' just-perfect over-the-top speeches, you're doing a lot better than a whole lot of gaming groups. So you can be justly proud, as I know you are.



			
				(contact) said:
			
		

> Right-- but that only worked because you already know they're barbarians because I've called them that, and as a D&D player you know that barbarians can only go into rages on their initiative, which they obviously just lost.




Sure. That's what I'm saying; episodes like that are perfect for your style, and are what hook people like me. I like to think I'm clever enough to notice when an author's voice is exactly where it should be. 



			
				(contact) said:
			
		

> I'm not even sure if we're actually arguing or just making two different points-- I have a monster head cold right now that is making me three shades of stupid-- but at least for the Liberators, the D&Disms are part of what makes it fun.  I bet most of us here play D&D and *like* playing D&D; some of the funnier bits (for me, at least) are when we turn that D&D "up to eleven," and then have the PCs play the straight man against the somewhat silly conventions.




We aren't arguing. I'm saying that one writing style works better to capture the cool stuff from one style of game, and another style works better to capture the cool stuff from another style of game. You noted that at-the-table flavor can hurt a fictional recap of a D&D game; I agree. I just think that, depending on the game itself (and how well it hews to the expectations of the average D&D gamer), it doesn't have to. In fact, for those games that kick a bunch of the standard D&D expectations out the window, a writer is arguably better off showing the in-character result and not the metagame exposition. 

But this game isn't one of them, and "show, don't tell" is not a rule that would help your Story Hour voice more than it would hurt it. Y'know?


----------



## (contact)

Ah, claro.  

And congrats on the pulp game!



			
				Barastrondo said:
			
		

> So yeah, you can say "sadly", but you don't really mean it.




Well, I'm not sad about how great my players are, but I do wish my ideas were so much better than theirs that they would put out like they do in the LoT for one of my quirky setting/genre ideas.  

But of course, I also wish sometimes that faries were real and would do my job while I sleep, and that doughnuts were really, really good for you.


----------



## Plane Sailing

(contact) said:
			
		

> But of course, I also wish sometimes that faries were real and would do my job while I sleep, and that doughnuts were really, really good for you.




Doughnuts aren't?


----------



## (contact)

I'm sorry-- I mistyped.  I wrote "doughnuts" when I meant "soymilk".

Of course, doughnuts are good for you!  Soymilk, on the other hand, is not.


----------



## Rackhir

Boy this story hour is slippery. Set it down for a moment and next thing you know, some dammed hobbit has come around and walked off with it. 

Yessss, my precious, my stoooory hour (lovingly strokes the key board)....


----------



## Joshua Randall

Enough talk. More Liberator ass-kicking. *Now!*


----------



## the_mighty_agrippa

yeah, more ass kickin'.


----------



## coyote6

Hey, lookee what I _bumped_ into!

By my reckoning, in about 38.5 hours, it'll be a full month since the last update. 

I'm just sayin', is all.


----------



## Dougal DeKree

*1 month...*sigh**



			
				coyote6 said:
			
		

> Hey, lookee what I _bumped_ into!
> 
> By my reckoning, in about 38.5 hours, it'll be a full month since the last update.
> 
> I'm just sayin', is all.




Ah, this is bad! I mean i looked for (contact) every day for this whole month.
[Gnomish Story-mode]
And then, one day, while i was flying around some houses peering through windows - well, you won't believe it: (contact) sitting together with Sniktch and Sepulchrave! They were plotting, who of them has to keep us without update for how long until we let them take over world domination!
[/Gnomish Story-mode]

I summon thee, update, go kick ass attack!

Dougal, desperate storyhour-fan-gnome


----------



## Rackhir

Hey (contact) remember you're only as good as your most recent update.


----------



## (contact)

Ah, it has been awhile.  (Blows dust from the thread)  Now, where were we?



> Prisantha wipes the ice shavings from her _crystal ball of true seeing_, and surprisingly, determines to reunite herself with her most prized possession by scrying Halrond. The head of Tritherion’s secular organization is seen riding his horse into a lather across the scrub-plains of Tenh.
> 
> “I suppose this means my _demand _ was a success,” she muses. “Although, I am a bit disappointed at his resources.”
> 
> “Really,” Jespo says, “a man of his stature riding a horse! How mundane.”
> 
> “Halrond has always favored the direct over the supernatural,” Dabus says. “It makes him a better politician, I think.”
> 
> “Let us concern ourselves with our enemies,” Sonahmiin says. “Scry the mage.”
> 
> Prisantha does so, and disturbingly, her crystal ball reveals a battlefield scene. In a tree-lined river valley, two groups of armored knights hack at one another from horseback. Butrain’s banner can be seen, along with the insignia of several notable Southern Lords. They are opposed by many of the Northern knights who were just yesterday calling for the Liberators’ arrest.
> 
> Piscean stands next to the boy-king Pelegrin, on a rise removed from the general melee. He is cloaked by an illusion, however, and seems to mundane eyes to be Furyondy’s new master of arms—Esril’s replacement!
> 
> “Where is Esril, anyway?” Jespo wonders, but receives no reply.
> 
> As they watch the scene, Piscean is counseling the young king in a fatherly tone. “Choose well my liege,” he says. “You must take care to fight someone worthy of your station.”
> 
> As Prisantha breaks her scrying, the Liberators of Tenh discuss their strategy.
> 
> “Let us not repeat the debacle in front of the Lords,” Prisantha suggests. “We may find ourselves fighting far too many foes if we enter that battle. We should bring Piscean to us.”
> 
> “Well, that would be a refreshing change,” Jespo agrees.
> 
> Sonahmiin motions the group for silence, and clasps his hands together. He speaks a _wish _ in Elder Celestial, beseeching Tritherion to return the Liberators to the same state of mind in which they began the day—fully rested, and with a full compliment of spells.
> 
> “Well, thank you,” Prisantha says, curtseying to the angel.
> 
> “Don’t thank me, earn it,” Sonahmiin replies curtly. “Gratitude is for the hollow halls of Mount Celestia. When you speak to me, you speak to Tritherion, and only deeds interest Him.” And in Prisantha’s head, he sternly adds, “And stop sending dreams to the Liberator!”
> 
> Prisantha responds with a sassy wink and a grin. She then demands that Piscean, “Return to your demi-plane at once, and join the Liberator. We are waiting for you, please hurry.” Pris receives the reply “Just a moment, dear,” and says, “I think I got him, but I cannot be sure. We should wait for him here.”
> 
> Lucius shakes his head. “All this mumbo-jumbo,” he says. “Did it work? Didn’t it? Here or there what does it really matter? I’m going to stab him in the same spot; his f-cking spine.”
> 
> “I want to _dispel _ one of his enchantments,” Gwendolyn says, excitedly. “He is the most powerful wizard I have ever helped to kill.”
> 
> “As for myself,” Jespo says, “I resolve not to die.”
> 
> “Good thinking, baby!” Regda exclaims.
> 
> _“You _ have been getting all Thrommel on us recently,” Heydricus concurs. “I like this strategy; we set an ambush, and no one dies.”


----------



## (contact)

*Patchwall 5, CY 593
70—Bogeys!*

The Liberators take positions around the central chamber of Piscean’s tower, finding hiding places amongst the ice-stalagmites and snow drifts, and settle in for an anxious vigil.  They converse tersely through the _telepathic bond_ Prisantha keeps active, and discuss possible responses to whatever action Piscean might take.  As the wait drags on, their tension increases.

Several minutes pass, then the Liberators notice a shimmering _gate_ appear in the center of the chamber.  On its other side, the heroes can see the forests of Furyondy illuminated by the cool grey light of a summer storm, and notice that a light rain has begun.  But of their enemies, there is no sign.

As they anxiously study the _gate_, Lucius speaks up through the _bond_.  “_Heads up, we’ve got bogeys_,” he thinks loudly.

“_What’s a bogey? _” Prisantha asks.

Jespo replies, “_A larger boggart, I believe._”

“_No, I’ve got invisibles, here,_” Lucius snaps.  “_Three, no—more.  Maybe . . . I count seven._”

“_Where are they?_” Heydricus demands.

“_They’re coming through the gate!_” Lucius thinks.

Dabus counts silently to ten, then calls upon his god for an _invisibility purge_, leaving his hiding place to ensure that the effect radiates out from his holy symbol to encompass the _gate_.  He bravely stands before his assembled enemies and fixes them with a defiant gaze.

As Tritherion’s will brushes aside their enemies’ _invisibility_ like so many cobwebs, the Liberators see that Piscean has not arrived alone.  At the forefront of his group is a huge floating sphere, covered in decaying grey scales that rim a lone central eye, kept closed, and a mouth half-full of rotted teeth.  The grisly beholder has several writhing and desiccated eyestalks radiating out from its crown, and they whip around in all directions, scanning for foes.  

Directly behind the beholder, a pair of human fighters stalk forward, their rune-encrusted plate armor engraved with the ancient mark of the Great Kingdom.  Each of them whirls a wickedly barbed spiked chain.  Moving between the fighters is another knight bearing the holy symbols of Wee Jas, but this woman shows no flesh beneath her plate mail, and the hands that grip her massive adamantine maul are wrapped in burial-bandages; strips of the dusty cloth protrude through the gaps in her armor and she gives off a spice-and-decay stench.

Behind this vanguard, a filthy winged creature flutters through the _gate_, her human upper torso festooned with magical trinkets, her lower half that of a huge bird of prey.  A slim woman walks behind her wearing a cloak covered in a scale of small mirrors.  Around her neck are two other mirrors, worn as amulets.  Perched on her shoulder is the small ice-imp familiar to the Liberators from their last encounter with Piscean—the imp wears a tiny-sized suit of glowing chainmail and wears a ring as a bracelet.  The thing is armed with an almost comically small mace, and a double-bandoleer of spell-component pouches.

Last but not least, Piscean himself, Ivid the Third, slithers through the _gate_, grinning from ear to ear.  

Prisantha remains in hiding, but makes the _mass suggestion_ that her foes, “stand completely still.”  Unusually, her opponents seem for the most part to disregard her spell, although the mirrored-sorceress and Piscean both succumb.

But even as he stops moving forward, Piscean smiles at Dabus and says wistfully, “one last exchange then, before you go.  Out with the old . . .”

  Piscean raises his hands, as if to quiet a large crowd, and opens his mouth to enter a _time stop_.

“Well, sh-t.” Heydricus says, as all hell breaks loose.

Piscean shimmers for a moment, and his clothing and skin take on the texture of rough granite, even as his form becomes slightly distorted, as if viewed through a heat-mirage.  At the same time, both Jespo Crim and Gwendolyn disappear entirely.  Regda shouts in dismay, again too late to save her Jespie, and shoots at Piscean with her greatbow.  This attack provokes another series of abjurations, and the mage is _shielded_, and begins to radiate a _repulsion_ effect that stops Dabus’ determined advance.

The woman wearing the mirrored-scale cloak turns toward Dabus and snatches one of her mirrors from her robe, shattering it on the ground.  As the mirror shatters, the shards streak toward Dabus in a thin beam of razor sharp glass fragments that strike him squarely in the chest, imbedding themselves in his armor and drawing blood.

The ice-imp on her shoulder flutters its crystalline wings and takes to the air, waving its tiny arms frantically and invoking a _prismatic spray_ that catches Dabus with a stream of fire—cauterizing his many cuts but setting his clothing on fire and searing his skin.  Dabus staggers away from the conflagration and tries to steady himself against the intense pain.

Heydricus is the next Liberator to take action, and he charges squarely at the central eye of the beholder, feeling his armor sag on his frame as the beholder’s huge eye rasps open, and renders his gear mundane.  Nonetheless, Heydricus draws a puff of dust from a long and deep cut just above the creature’s toothy maw, and cries out exultantly.  If they can be cut, even the dead can be killed.

For his trouble, he is set upon by the mummified warrior and her two spiked-chain wielding associates.  They lay into Heydricus with bludgeon and whirling edge, and force him to back away from the beholder in a vain attempt to keep from being surrounded.

Lucius, meanwhile, remains hidden, and has noticed an otherwise unseen figure moving stealthily along the outside of the melee, looking for an opening.  Another woman, she is heavily cloaked, and her features are entirely hidden by an oversized hood.  Lucius smiles to himself, and coolly points his crossbow at her, waiting for his opening.

 “What is good for the gander is good for the goose,” Prisantha says to herself, and for the first time enters into her own _time stop_.  She is startled to find that her surroundings seem to have frozen as she hurries through several spells.

“_Spell turning_, check,” she says.  “And let’s see how you like it,” she mutters to no-one as she drops a _Mordenkainen’s disjunction_ on Piscean’s group.  She follows up with a _hold  monster_ on the imp, and _suggests_ that the beholder, “just close your eyes and float to the ceiling where you’ll be safe.”

As Prisantha returns to normal-time, she frowns and furrows her brow in consternation.  The beholder passes a dried and gurgling sound through its mouth that might be a laugh, and the thing casually disregards her good advice.   The gall of some abominations!  At least she is gratified to note that the imp is frozen, and she is especially pleased at her enemies’ discomfort as spell effects and magic items flare and go inert; her _disjunction_, at least was a success.

Sonhamiin has watched the opening exchange, and confident of victory, he prepares himself for his entry into the battle.  As he reaches out mentally to fix the image of Tritherion within his mind, the celestial becomes aware of another immortal presence in the room.  Speaking words of power, he attunes his sight to the hidden realms of immortal existence, and focuses on a slowly spreading cancer to the back of the room.  Moving toward the vile emanation, Sonhamiin detects a familiar tinge to the aura.  An abyssal tinge to be sure, and one that he has just recently (as celestials mark time) encountered.

“_You_.” Sonhamiin says, without any preamble.

The rumbling reply is debased and profound, laden with menace, and to the angel’s ears, reminiscent of a deep and abiding anguish.   “Surely you didn’t expect my lord Iuz to allow you pretty cowards to go slumming in the mortal realms without inviting _me_, did you?”   As these words are spoken, a dull and muddy orangish light flickers into existence, growing like a wildfire until it takes the form of a tall humanoid figure—twice the celestial’s size, composed entirely of an abyssal flame.  “Slumming is my _specialty_, you slave,” the demon slurs.  “We have unfinished business, and this time that fool Zinvellon does not hold the key to my binding!”

Sonhamiin stares for a moment at his demonic foe, his immortal senses taking in the fact that like himself, the balor is _present_—fully within the demi-plane.  This ancient beast has given the most lethal of challenges—an angel and a demon, face to face in one realm with their very existence in the balance.  But courage is as much a part of Sonhamiin as the urge for depravity is part of the balor, and with a shout, the angel flies towards his foe, determination radiating from his beautiful and perfect form.

As Prisantha curses her enemies’ strength of mind, Lucius has tracked the hidden woman, and as she maneuvers to the rear of the Liberators, he emerges from his own hiding place and buries a crossbow bolt into her chest, just inches from her heart.  She cries out, he curses his poor shot, and the filthy harpy begins to sing the rogue a mother’s song.  Before he can reload his crossbow, Lucius drops his weapon and regards the creature with an unalloyed fascination.  Regda also succumbs to the song, and the two adventurers begin to shuffle, entranced, toward the waiting claws of the vile bard.

The hidden woman, her ruse exposed, abandons all subtlety, and throws back her cloak, revealing a nest of writhing vipers that crown her scaled and serpentine head.  

Gwendolyn frantically tries to make sense of her surroundings.  She is in a strange realm, transported there entirely without her consent—a confusing place of angles and passageways that seem to obey no laws.  She suppresses a moment of panic, then recalls Prisantha’s description of the _maze_ spell.  Thinking quickly, she reaches the same conclusion as Jespo Crim, and at the same instant—she uses _plane shift_ to return to the fighting.

Unfortunately for Gwendolyn, there is an un-hooded medusa standing directly before her.  Before she can even congratulate herself on her successful escape, she is turned to stone—a dainty and fetching statue of a formerly very dangerous wizardess.

Jespo emerges from his _maze_ at the same moment, and while there are no medusa in front of him, he is treated to the sight of his fiancée stumbling against all good sense across a spell-strewn battlefield.  As he prepares to aid her, he watches Regda walk into the killing-field of the beholder’s eyestalks.  She is struck by a flashing ray, and her flesh withers as Jespo watches, knocking her to one knee, then pitching her face-first into the snow and ice of the Hyperborean Obverse.

Heydricus is faring no better—he has hurt the beholder, but the three plate-armored warriors have driven him back.  The mummy stands before him—shielding the beholder from Heydricus’ sword, and both of the spiked-chian wielding fighters have managed to find Heydricus’ flanks.  All three foes are armed with adamantine weapons—inferior to his own holy armament, in all conditions save one;  within an anti-magic zone, the advantage is theirs.  Heydricus is a master swordsman, his skills honed by a long career of “adventuring over his head,” but even so, he cannot keep up.  He whittles at them as best he can, his confidence in his companions (and their inevitable assistance) perhaps misplaced.

Dabus, however, has more loyalty than sense, and noting his Liberator’s situation, he ignores the two wizards attacking him, and chooses instead to arc a _mass heal_ through the battlefield.  Judging rightly that the rotting beholder is itself undead, Dabus includes the beast and his spell nearly shreds the thing with positive energy.  But nearly is not enough, and even as Prisantha turns her attention to her petrified cohort, the beholder turns the enchantress of Verbobonc to stone.  A matching pair of pretty statues, frozen for the ages with nearly identical expressions of arcane concentration upon their faces.

Dabus’ heroism has saved his leader, but left him at the mercy of his enemies; the mirror-festooned woman presents one of her amulets, as if it were a holy symbol, and Dabus some trifling undead.  As Tritherion’s cleric gazes into its reflective surface, he sees an image of himself—a cruelly distorted image of his own worst fears; a Dabus that has fallen from the path of righteousness, and become himself an oppressor.  The sight overwhelms Dabus, and the cleric is unable to avoid the thin beam arcing from Piscean’s fingertips.  As the ray strikes him, Dabus disappears—replaced by a thin cloud of cleric-shaped dust that slowly settles to the ground.  Piscean chuckles to himself, relishing the moment, and ticks off an entry on his mental to-do list.

Heydricus, surrounded on all sides by foes, does not notice this event.

At the opposite end of the huge chamber, Sonhamiin has fixed his mind upon the glory of Tritherion, and with a mental nudge, imposes that image upon the balor.  The creature howls in rage, as the holy thought cools and dampens its flaming skin.  The demon responds by charging toward Sonhamiin, screeching its fury and  lashing its whip about the angel’s wings, then slicing into him with a fiery greatsword.

Heydricus, invigorated by Dabus’ last act, is able to weather another round of attacks from his enemies, and he presses his cause against the plate-armored mummy before him.  He drives her back with sledgehammer blows, and after beating down her guard is able to split her helm with a single powerful stroke.  The mummy beneath the steel proves to be a dry and fragile thing—Heydricus’ overhand cut smashes her skull and nearly pulverizes the rest of her.  He coughs against the spray of spice and dust filling his nostrils and follows through with a shot at the beholder’s central eye.

Deciding that it has had quite enough of _that_, the beholder snaps its eye closed, and strikes Heydricus in succession with rays of _disintegration, inflict wounds_ and _vampiric touch_.  The combination is more than the Liberator can bear; sighing softly, he falls to the ground, lifeless.

The balor chuckles to himself, for he can see a desperate thought cross the mind of his foe.  “If you do this, it will be your death, _slave_, for we are too evenly matched for you to waste effort upon this rabble.”

Sonhamiin glares back at the demon, but makes no reply.

Prisantha’s mind still functions, she is surprised to note, even within the stony prison of her body.  She reflects for a moment that this condition might have a very un-sociable effect on one’s mood should one be left as a statue for any length of time.  Perhaps she was too quick to judge Liszt’s character, after all.  That musing is quickly followed by curiosity about the lack of chatter on her _telepathic bond_.  Or rather, the amount of chatter all coming from one source—Jespo Crim.  Dabus is slain, Heydricus is slain, Regda likewise and Gwendolyn turned to stone.  Lucius’ mind is enraptured by the harpy who is even now singing him into a deep, restful slumber.  The lone Liberator standing is the least likely combatant—the new Dean of Conjurations at the Willip Wizard’s Communtiy College.

And he is panicking.


----------



## Enkhidu

(contact) said:
			
		

> Oh, but where is such a story hour? I would love to read it, and I'm sure that others would love to read it-- but where oh where could we find such a story?



[Shameless cross thread sh pimp]
Try the one in my sig.
[/Shameless cross thread sh pimp]


----------



## Hammerhead

Go Jespo Go!!!!!!!


----------



## Joshua Randall

As my momma in Kin-tucky used to say, "Daaa-yum!"

I wonder if Sonhamiin will have to cast one of those cool new Book of Exalted Deeds spells like _Armageddon_ or _Phoenix Fire_? That would be sweet. However, I'm sure what (contact) has in mind is even sweeter.


----------



## Creeperman

Wow.  Ladies and gentlement, (contact) has finally gone 'round the bend.  First an off-screen TPK to whet our appetites for murder and mayhem, now the same again, in all its gory glory!  

I hope Prisantha has made some more _clones,_ because the Liberators look like they're going to need them...


----------



## Tellerve

eek, that's looking grim for crim...*sighs* sorry for that.

Anyways, I don't believe Pris has anymore clones actually...pretty sure it was said somewhere by contact that she didn't make more.  tsk tsk

Tellerve


----------



## the_mighty_agrippa

We're going to lose a celestial but gain a buncha mortal-delivered ass-kicking.

Go Jespo Go!!!

Actually, I could go for some LOT character tee shirts, if (contact) were ever inclined to go into the print biz.

Kalman


----------



## Rackhir

Hmmm. combat in the campaign does seem to be getting increasingly lethal. It does seem to no longer be a question of IF anyone dies, so much as HOW MANY. Of course at their level death isn't the problem it used to be, but still like FFVII, if you loose the whole group, it's still pretty much game over. I think after this current storyline the Liberators are going to have to either reconsider their "Hit List" strategy or vastly accelerated.


----------



## the_mighty_agrippa

Creeperman said:
			
		

> Wow.  Ladies and gentlement, (contact) has finally gone 'round the bend.  First an off-screen TPK to whet our appetites for murder and mayhem, now the same again, in all its gory glory!
> 
> I hope Prisantha has made some more _clones,_ because the Liberators look like they're going to need them...




I think (contact) made mention awhile back that Pris hadn't made any more clones.  Besides, I don't think clones can save you from being a garden decoration.  Ivid could keep the two wizards as statues forever.


----------



## KidCthulhu

Holy caca.  That's one badd group of opponents.  Harpy bard.  Medusa rogue.  Undead beholder.  And what's up with the chick with the mirrors.  I don't often ask for stats, but I'm intrigued.  And I need some bad guys to steal for my game.


----------



## Morte

*sharp intake of breath followed by low whistle*


----------



## Benben

KidCthulhu,

I wouldn't be surprised if she were a Mirror Mage from Monte Cook's first Book of Eldritch Might.

And (contact)  you are one scary DM.  I salute you!


----------



## (contact)

This fight was orignally slated to take place in the middle of the battle between the young regent and the Southern rebels rallying around the Baron Butrain.  The scene was to be a running spell-duel with the powerful enemies while all around mid-level knights were slaughtering each one another with sword and lance-- the tension would be to see if the PCs could act . . . in . . . time . . . to save the young regent from Piscean's machinations without killing a half-dozen of Butrain's closest allies!  Sounds like fun, right?

Of course, they could also (in between dealing with improved invisible undead beholders) determine the course of the battle, and seat the king of their choice on the throne.

Well, they ignored my set up, chose to abandon the young prince to his fate (reasoning no doubt that people that stupid have it comin'), and decided to Turn the Tables (TM) by setting an ambush of their own for a change.  All-righty.

So the bad guys I'd plotted to make up two or three waves in one long over-encounter wound up being a single fight.  And it didn't take long to get ugly.

Fortunately for the Liberators, I am a dumbass.

-----

*Credit Where Credit Is Due*

The core of this particular batch of baddies is the brain-child of Incognito, who sent me a band of assassins many, many months ago to use as part of this sub-plot.  Since then, I tweaked them a little (and underplayed them to be sure), but I sure can't take credit for them.  P-kitty was also kind enough to share the undead beholder I'm sure you all remember reading about way back in the day.  So . . .

Incognito built:  The harpy bard, the medusa assassin, and the mummy cleric.

Piratecat built:  The undead beholder.  (And Zeflen from Calbut, although the story hasn't caught up to him yet).

I built:  Ivid III, the mirror master (from Monte Cook's Book of Eldritch Might I) the balor (he was a custom job b/c the 3.0 version was just. too. puny.  for my purposes) and the two goons.

The ice-imp was taken from WotC's website.

-----

Maybe after the end of the fight is posted, I'll post the baddies in the rogue's gallery.  In the meantime, if you want stats for them now (coughkidcthulhucough) and you have my email already (coughkidcthulhucough) then just holla.


----------



## (contact)

*Patchwall 5, CY 593
71—“Watch the worm turn,” said the sparrow to the wren / "Wherever it starts, why there it was / And will be back again."*

Jespo is casting through his mind for some means of escape.  Gwendolyn and Prisantha have been petrified, Heydricus and Dabus killed, Lucius only a few seconds away from a long-overdue beheading, and Regda is as dead as he’s ever seen anyone.  

And that’s pretty dead.

To his back, his most powerful ally is caught within the clutches of a gloating Elder Evil.  Between himself and the _gate_ back to Furyondy, Jespo is faced with a pair of spiked-chain wielding plate-armored fighters, an undead beholder, the strange wizardess who snuffed Dabus’ mind, a harpy bard, a medusa assassin, and the _piece de evil resistance_, Ivid the Third, Jespo’s host in this freezing vanity-plane.

And he just spent his only _plane shift_ escaping a _maze_.

Jespo has had it bad before, but never (a small and sure voice from within assures him) has he had it _this_ bad.  Fräs is mewling something, but Jespo does not notice.  He hears the balor mockingly encourage the celestial to “do it,” but pays this no mind.  At the moment, Jespo is contemplating surrender.  Or rather, he is contemplating what specifically to say _after_ he surrenders, as he has already long since contemplated the act of surrender itself and found it surprisingly palatable.

Sonahmiin regards the leering balor, and wrestles for a moment with a twinge of doubt, then banishes the unseemly thought, ascribing his failing to the presence of a powerful demonic force.  Ignoring the balor’s contention that this act will prove the deciding factor in their finely-balanced immortal struggle—and lead to his existence being snuffed out of the multiverse—the angel detaches himself from the fiend and calls upon Tritherion to _ressurect_ his Liberator.  

Dabus is held beyond a return to life by the Oath of Tritherion, but Heydricus is not a cleric, and therefore not covered by that ancient pact.  In an instant, Tritherion’s Holy Liberator rises from the ground, his wounds closed, his steely gaze fixed firmly on the surprised beholder.  If the thing’s tongue had not long-since rotted away, it would certainly be lolling from its slack and decaying jaw.

Satisfied, Sonahmiin winces as the balor’s blazing whip tightens about his chest, and booms, “now _fight Evil_, Crim!” even as the Balor cuts cruelly into his timeless body.

Jespo seems not to hear the angel, but a sharp hiss from Fräs (accompanied by a sharp bite to his hindquarters) jogs Jespo from his cowardly reverie, and the pasty conjurer stumbles into action.  He uses a quickened spell to call a field of whipping _black tentacles_ directly to the side of Heydricus’ position, and _dominates_ the fighter to Heydricus’ left flank, instructing the poor fool to grab his companion and then go give the _tentacles_ a big hug.

At that moment, Prisantha uses a silent, still _dispel magic_ to free herself from her stony prison, and before the medusa can slit Lucius’ throat, _holds _ the creature fast, freezing it in mid coup.

The beholder passes a dusty snarl through its mouth, and turns its central eye on the medusa, breaking Prisantha’s enchantment.  As the enchantress curses, the strange sorceress presents her distorting mirror to Prisantha’s gaze.  But Pris’ mettle is stronger than it might seem, and she regards her worst possible self with a calm and level acceptance.  She locks eyes with the wizardess, and winks at her. 

Piscean curses to himself, and sends a _chain lightning_ playing across his foes (all save Heydricus of course), making sure to strike Regda’s body twice.  “There will be no more returning from the dead this day,” he assures himself.  If he is briefly reminded of the tragic Battle of Ten Camps, or its disastrous predecessor at the Redearth Mounds, he does not admit it.  After all, it was gross ineptitude on the part of his field-commanders that cost him the Shieldlands!  Historians disagree just to be disagreeable, don’t they?

As the two chain-swingers at Heydricus’ back begin to fight with one another, and struggle toward the tentacles, the Liberator seizes the opportunity to leap at the beholder.  Nearly ruined by Dabus’ earlier _mass heal_, the rotting thing cannot hold together against Heydricus’ flurry and it is quickly sliced into moldy and worm-ridden pieces.

Prisantha laughs to herself, and after returning Gwendolyn to flesh with a quickened _dispel magic_, she _holds_ the mirrored sorceress fast, taking a moment to check her hair in one of the woman’s many mirrors.  Perfect.  

The Viscountess Trill would be pleased.

Gwendolyn has had time within her stony prison to prepare her revenge, and as soon as she is freed, she lashes a horrid wilting that kills the mirror master and ice-imp outright, and staggers Piscean.

Jespo is frantically _summoning_ monsters to try and disrupt the soothing song of the harpy, and after a series of failures shouts, “oh just kick the damn rogue!”  His conjured hound archon does so, and Lucius comes awake mere feet from a rare sight:

Sonahmiin of Tritherion has set free his dancing vorpal sword, and even as the sword attacks, he is calling _holy smites_ one after another onto the demon.  Deafened by the holy sound (and growing used to the sensation, sadly), Lucius realizes that this beast is a servant of Iuz.  _Oh, hated Iuz_.  Lucius grins coldly and slips behind a snow mound, moving stealthily toward the demon’s back.

The harpy is backed into a corner by a trio of celestial lions, and one very angry hound archon.  Her song changes to a disturbing screech that drives the lions into a mad frenzy and they pounce upon the thing, tearing feathers from skin, and befouling their heavenly mouths with harpy flesh.

Piscean takes a deep breath, calming his mind and suppressing a wave of panic.  After all, wasn’t the first Twin Forks fight considered lost when . . . no, wait, he did loose that fight.  Nonetheless, he will win this one!  Heydricus is probably only biding his time before turning on that . . . that _wretched_ and _not at all attractive_ woman.  Heydricus is probably only playing to the greater drama, and intends to switch sides at the last moment!  Satisfied that his carefully constructed mental house of cards still has all the aces, Piscean determines to eliminate his problem in the most direct way—by killing it, of course.

He points his finger at Prisantha and  smirkingly speaks his most lethal curse: a _power word, kill_.  

But Prisantha has taken a page from Piscean’s own book—protect yourself with abjurations while in a _time stop_, for then your enemies cannot spell-craft them.  Thus, Piscean becomes aware of her _spell turning_ only a fraction of a moment before his own curse rebounds upon him and snuffs his life from his frame.

It is the last in an unnaturally long line of military defeats for Ivid the III, the Worst and Longest Lived Ruler of All Time.


----------



## the_mighty_agrippa

ROCK THE *#@! ON!

Pris' actions this combat alone are making me re-think all my arcane casters.

Kudos to everyone, (contact).


----------



## DM2

Fantastic.  Nice moment there in the battle where all looks lost....perfect for the story hour cliffhanger anyway!

Then the 2nd half, where the liberators shake it off.  Nice.

DM2


----------



## Joshua Randall

Rock on.

Question: how many times has Lucius *successfully* assassinated someone? It seems like he always either fails, or the fight ends before he gets to do so.


----------



## (contact)

Joshua Randall said:
			
		

> Rock on.
> 
> Question: how many times has Lucius *successfully* assassinated someone? It seems like he always either fails, or the fight ends before he gets to do so.




Never, as of yet.


----------



## Barastrondo

the_mighty_agrippa said:
			
		

> ROCK THE *#@! ON!




Indeed. 



			
				the_mighty_agrippa said:
			
		

> Pris' actions this combat alone are making me re-think all my arcane casters.




Well, although _dispel magic_ really _is_ one bad-ass spell, and I would heartily chastise any wizard, cleric, druid or bard who turned up their nose at it (and one of my players actually did just that in-character), it isn't quite as bad-ass most of the time as (contact) has allowed it to be. Going strictly by-the-book, gotta have that _flesh to stone_ or the equivalent as far as reversing petrification goes. 

Plus, you can't roll like my players do if you want it to work. (It's gotten so bad we're actually considering a feat that would allow characters to add +4 to their dispel rolls, probably titled "Can Actually Dispel".)

But... yeah. This last battle has been particularly cool with all its homages to the final battle of TOEE2. History repeating itself, only with a cold elemental savant with mad crushes on Our Hero in the lead role. Do I smell a Best Supporting Actor nomination for Piscean?


----------



## Rackhir

Boy that was a quick turn around. So (contact), did the celestial _dominate_ Jespo? Or perhaps Redga is rubbing off on him?

Though it's implied, you don't actually state that the Celestial killed that Balor. Was that just an oversight, or was it part of a cunning plan so clever that you could stick a tail on it and make it the Dean of Cunning at Oxford?


----------



## (contact)

As of the end of this update, the fight is not quite over, and the balor is not dead.


----------



## Rackhir

(contact) said:
			
		

> As of the end of this update, the fight is not quite over, and the balor is not dead.






			
				Joshua Randall said:
			
		

> Question: how many times has Lucius successfully assassinated someone? It seems like he always either fails, or the fight ends before he gets to do so.






			
				(contact) said:
			
		

> Never, as of yet.




Hmmm. Does this mean Lucius may yet have a first coming up?...


----------



## Kid Charlemagne

Yeah, when (contact) said he was a dumbass, and I read the update, I thought that he might be referring to letting Pris get away with the Dispel Magics...  although Break Enchantment will also work against Stone to Flesh, I believe, and has the added benefit of not needing a Fort save afterward...


----------



## Benben

Break Enchantment does have a nasty 1 minute casting time though.


----------



## DM2

Kid Charlemagne said:
			
		

> Yeah, when (contact) said he was a dumbass, and I read the update, I thought that he might be referring to letting Pris get away with the Dispel Magics...  although Break Enchantment will also work against Stone to Flesh, I believe, and has the added benefit of not needing a Fort save afterward...




I sort of assumed he referred to allowing her any actions at all while petrified, more than which spell she chose to cast once told she could still react.

DM2


----------



## (contact)

Kid Charlemagne said:
			
		

> Yeah, when (contact) said he was a dumbass, and I read the update, I thought that he might be referring to letting Pris get away with the Dispel Magics...


----------



## (contact)

DM2 said:
			
		

> I sort of assumed he referred to allowing her any actions at all while petrified, more than which spell she chose to cast once told she could still react.
> 
> DM2



 Now this particular instance is DM's fiat-- a case of my nasty imagination at work, rather than my usual poor reading of the rules.  I just think it is more profoundly disturbing and scary to be *aware* of being a statue.

Allowing Pris to _dispel_ an instantaneous spell effect was an oversight, and one I did not realize until it was long since too late to do anything about it.  _C'est la D_.


----------



## Zaruthustran

(contact) said:
			
		

> Now this particular instance is DM's fiat-- a case of my nasty imagination at work, rather than my usual poor reading of the rules.  I just think it is more profoundly disturbing and scary to be *aware* of being a statue.
> 
> Allowing Pris to _dispel_ an instantaneous spell effect was an oversight, and one I did not realize until it was long since too late to do anything about it.  _C'est la D_.




Aw, that's alright. Pocket dimensions do weird things to magic, especially with two greater immortals blasting away at each other and a beholder's crazy eye mucking things up. Maybe the beholder peeked a glimpse just as the flesh-to-stone effect hit, weakening the effect somehow. 

Yeah, that's the ticket.

Anyway, you can make amends by letting the bad guys get away with something improbable.

_Nice_ update, and welcome back.

-z


----------



## KidCthulhu

Mmmmm.  Ass-kicking.


----------



## coyote6

Barastrondo said:
			
		

> Plus, you can't roll like my players do if you want it to work. (It's gotten so bad we're actually considering a feat that would allow characters to add +4 to their dispel rolls, probably titled "Can Actually Dispel".)




My players don't seem to have that problem. Yesterday, they used several CL 6 and 7 dispels to successfully do away with a number of CL8 and 9 spells (and one CL11 spell, IIRC). Of course, this was balanced out later, by the four or five tries it took to get rid of one of a pair of _arcane marks_. 

(BTW -- thanks, (contact). I stole the "animal companions _polymorphed_ into huge dragons" thing, and it was great fun. Well, for me, anyways. The players seemed awfully anxious . . . )


----------



## the_mighty_agrippa

Barastrondo said:
			
		

> Plus, you can't roll like my players do if you want it to work. (It's gotten so bad we're actually considering a feat that would allow characters to add +4 to their dispel rolls, probably titled "Can Actually Dispel".)




I'm playing a Church Inquisitioner - +4 on all dispel checks.


----------



## ThoughtBubble

Have I mentioned that you're totally awesome?

Just in case I havn't. "You're totally awesome!"

And now, to recruit people for my new game with increased energy!


----------



## Plane Sailing

I guess its a good job you made the dispel magic vs petrifaction blooper, otherwise it looks like it would have been seriously over for the Liberators!


----------



## (contact)

*Patchwall 5, CY 593
72—Will Free.*

Sonahmiin won’t have it.  As he notices Lucius creeping up behind the Balor, the angel’s sense of honor prevents him from participating in what proves to be a treacherous attack.  Even as Sohnamiin’s dancing sword disengages from the fray and returns to his side, Lucius drives a pair of enchanted weapons into the surprised fiend, cackling with an unbridled joy as he feels the blades hit home.  The balor’s fire flares up, and the demon explodes, singing the skin of celestial and mortal alike as it dies.

Lucius emerges from behind an ice-column and looks up at the stern celestial through fire-blackened wisps of burned hair.

“That was poorly done, Lucius,” Sonahmiin says.

“Yeah,” the rogue concedes, “I’d meant to say something witty before I killed the f-cker.  You know, like Heydricus does.”

“That is not at all what I meant,” Sonahmiin replies.

Heydricus has run to Prisantha’s side, and the two of them are making their rounds of the battle, reconstructing events in a excited tones, as Pris uses her new knife to make sure that all their enemies are dispatched.  As the surviving Liberators gather themselves together, Jespo looks plaintively at Sonahmiin, and tugs on his robes.

“No.” the angel says.  “Absolutely not.”  He regards Jespo keenly for a long moment, then says, “fine.  I will raise your fiancée.  _Provided_ you agree to marry her before the eyes of Gods and man on consecrated ground.  I will not have these secular thoughts you entertain tainting your holy union.”

Jespo nods, Fräs purrs, and Regda stirs, as the angel asks for one last _miracle_.

“You have all done well for yourselves this day,” Sonahmiin says.  “The first time we met, I assured you that you had earned a reward in the afterlife for your deeds.  I can therefore offer you no greater promise.  But I can offer you a rare thing—the personal gratitude (and for some of you, affection) of a celestial-born.  Call upon my name in times of need and I shall endeavor to assist in any way I am permitted.”

Heydricus clasps the angel’s shoulder, and begins to speak.

“Dabus is well, yes.” Sonahmiin says.  “He is, as promised, at the right-hand of his Lord and Master.  None of our faith could ask for a greater honor.”

The Liberators stand facing Sonahmiin Inarthulu Alpha Tritherion, first among Tritherion’s host and elder champion of freedom.

“The rest of you will have a more difficult road to walk now that Dabus is gone,”  the angel says.  He regards Heydricus closely.  “I expect you to keep Dabus’ promises, Tritherionson.  There is a matter he swore to me, and your honor demands that you take it upon yourself.  Further, you must remain ever vigilant against your tendency to take the softer road.  It brings no honor to Tritherion.”

“And you two,” he says, turning to Gwendolyn and Prisantha.  “Your childish scheming does not become women of your stature.  Cease it at once.  Crim, I expect you to ask yourself the hard questions about your manly courage, specifically, ‘where has it fled and how can it be restored?’  Fräs shall assist you, so mind her closely.  Lucius Maturin—you will never prove worthy of your ambition if you cannot find compassion for your fellow man; and yes, you know who I mean.  As you play the game of death, you walk an overly fine line, and I assure you your soul is not of this moment buoyant enough to find Me in the afterlife.”

“Regda,” he says, as he opens a _gate_ to Tritherion’s shining realm.  “Good job.”  

And with that, Sonahmiin returns to his own reality.  Just as he goes, Heydricus fancies that he can see Dabus waiting in heaven for his eternal friend’s return.  Heydricus smiles, and puts his arm around Prisantha as the Liberators of Tenh take one last brief look into the most perfect place they have ever known.

-----

Along with a vast haul of magic items most recently bent to really evil purposes, the Liberators find four unusual objects amongst the belongings of their foes.  They are four gemstones of exceptional purity and quality—clearly too fine for ordinary spell components, and each radiates a slight deweomer when examined closely.

Prisantha pockets the gems, and suggests that the group return to the castle at Nevond Nevnend to rest, celebrate and investigate the mysterious stones in safety.  As usual, her suggestion is rapidly obeyed, and after she _plane shifts_ the group back to the prime, they are a hop-skip-and-a-_teleport_ away from home.

-----

Jespo and Regda retire to his drawing-room, where he breaks the bad news about the church wedding to her over brandy and ice-fruit.  Heydricus celebrates Dabus’ ascension by drinking first one, then several toasts in his honor with any of the castle’s inhabitants who will listen.  By the time he is nearly drunk, he is giving an extemporaneous speech to his entire staff.  

Lucius wanders off alone, perhaps to brood and think, or perhaps only to sharpen his weapons, and so it is that Gwendolyn and Pris find themselves alone in their shared laboratory.

“Do you think he can really see us at all times?” Gwendolyn asks skeptically.

“_Better to use the telepathic bond_,” Prisantha thinks.  “_Just in case_.”

“_A_ wish _would ward his holy eyeballs elsewhere_,” Gwen suggests.

“Yes, but doesn’t that seem a bit much?” Pris asks out loud.

“I don’t know,” Gwen says, wryly regarding her friend.  “Do you want your way, or don’t you?”

Prisantha frowns and regards the gemstones.  She determines that they are of sufficient size and quality to _trap the souls_ of powerful beings, but other than Thrommel and Belvor, she has no idea who they might contain.

“We’ll learn more tomorrow,” Gwen says.  “I’m tired of working.  Let’s take the night off!”

-----

As the Liberators are winding down their celebrations, a frantic messenger interrupts their half-drunken camaraderie.  

“Halrond has arrived!” the boy pants through gasps for breath.  Apparently, the high priest of Tritherion is _furious_ about being _demanded_ into an audience, and has refused to see anyone else but Dabus.

“Oops,” Lucius says.

“That’s not funny, Crim,” Heydricus says.

“What?  I didn’t . . .” Jespo begins to protest before Heydricus cuts him off.

“I will see to Halrond,” he says grimly, as if he has just promised his mother to finish all his schoolwork before going outside to play.

“He’s mad at _you_, you know,” Jespo whispers to Prisantha.  “We could just _wish_ him back.” 

Pris sways slightly in her chair and scoffs.  “We’ll send him another letter.”

In the end, Halrod returns to his saddle that night, refusing all aid an assistance from the Liberators.  Heydricus is told in no uncertain terms that there is no greater sin than taking a priest of Tritherion’s free will from him, and that should it happen again, the direst of consequences will result.

Heydricus takes this scolding with his usual aplomb, informing Halrond high-handedly that if he wants to throw his life away in a stupid and futile effort, Heydricus wouldn’t dispute his _free will_.  In fact, Heydricus all but kicks the horse’s rump as Halrond rides back to his ancestral manor.

“F-ck Halrond,” Heydricus says to himself.  The Liberators are drunk, Piscean is dead, and Prisantha has the King of Furyondy _and_ his heir in her front pocket.


----------



## Rackhir

Yeah! More Liberators! Let's go sacrifice a Paladin in celebration! Ooops, wrong campaign.

Was Dabus a PC or an NPC? I can't keep straight who's what anymore. 

What will they do for a cleric? Who was that druid that set the ambush? Will he be next on their hit list? Or Will our Heroes just simply loose themselves in a orgy of well... orgies and wedding celebrations?

Tune in next week! Same Liberators Channel! Same Liberators er.... Ah well whenever (contact) gets around to it.


----------



## Morte

Thanks (contact), I enjoyed that lot.

So, Dabus's player didn't fancy taking over Halrond then? 

Maybe they'll use the angel as a cleric, in light of his kind offer.

I'm glad to see that Fräs will be taking Jespo in hand.

[My knowledge of D&D is imperfect, please be gentle with this...] I thought undead were immune to enchantments and mages had good will saves. Was there some subtle reason for the libs to be casting enchantments, or did they just have no other spells?

That horrid wilting on the mages (fort save, ignores a lot of protections) was the business...

Was the magical haul much reduced by the disjunction?

And finally, is Ivid III really dead or will he find a way back? Bwahahahah.


----------



## DM2

Amazing update Contact.  This, in particular, had me practically rolling on the floor at work laughing:



> Crim, I expect you to ask yourself the hard questions about your manly courage, specifically, ‘where has it fled and how can it be restored?’


----------



## Sejs

> Was Dabus a PC or an NPC? I can't keep straight who's what anymore.



 If memory serves, Dabus is... er, was an NPC.


> What will they do for a cleric?



 My guess would be suffer. They will suffer for want of a cleric.  ^_^





> Maybe they'll use the angel as a cleric, in light of his kind offer.



 Heh, my gut tells me likely not - that would probably be a wee bit over the top.


> I'm glad to see that Fräs will be taking Jespo in hand.



 Agreed.  Wow the prospect of Crim with a backbone.  Now there's something that'll keep ya awake at night.


> [My knowledge of D&D is imperfect, please be gentle with this...] I thought undead were immune to enchantments and mages had good will saves. Was there some subtle reason for the libs to be casting enchantments, or did they just have no other spells?



 They are and they do.  Pris is a wizard who specialized in enchantments, however.  


> And finally, is Ivid III really dead or will he find a way back? Bwahahahah.



 He had a clone on standby before the Liberators went and fatally mussed up it's hair.  And I'm not sure you can clone the undead - even if so, a clone for a lich would seem like little more than a playtoy.  Doesn't really need it per se.  So unless he had other clones squirreled away somewhere, good chance he's done for.



Anyway, those're just my observations.  Wonderful as always, (contact).  Pleasure to read.

^_^


----------



## (contact)

Sejis pretty much covered it.  

Prisantha's enchantment DCs are generally god-awful enough that she'll catch wizards, clerics and sorcerers with even her _hold person_ and _suggestion_ spells, not to mention _feeblemind_ and _dominate person_.

Why she tried to _suggestion_ an undead beholder I'll never know, but it's likely that she didn't think it through in the heat of battle.  

Pris' player told me afterwards that this was the most difficult and nail-biting combat she'd been in.  It was truly epic--the twists and the turns, oh my.   I thought on several occasions the Liberators were finished and done for, but they kept.  Fighting.  Back.

Unfortunately, the write-up doesn't do it justice, but whatayagonnado?

Regarding PCs: There are really only 2 PCs-- Heydricus and Prisantha.  Heydricus had 2 cohorts: Dabus (R.I.P) and Lucius (who used to be a PC, then saw some use as an NPC villain and is now an NPC cohort).  Prisantha has Gwendolyn for her cohort.  Jespo is an NPC who used to be a PC, and has another NPC (Regda) as his cohort/fiancee.

Yes, Jespo had to spend a feat to get some lovin'.


----------



## Barastrondo

(contact) said:
			
		

> Prisantha's enchantment DCs are generally god-awful enough that she'll catch wizards, clerics and sorcerers with even her _hold person_ and _suggestion_ spells, not to mention _feeblemind_ and _dominate person_.




Not for nothing do they call her The Enchantress of Verbobonc.



			
				(contact) said:
			
		

> Yes, Jespo had to spend a feat to get some lovin'.




I knew a guy like that, but he spent his bonus feat on Skill Focus: Knowledge (Star Trek trivia) instead.


----------



## Joshua Randall

Dammit, Barastrondo, I told you not to tell anyone about that Star Trek trivia thing! Now how am I gonna get a date?


----------



## the_mighty_agrippa

(contact) said:
			
		

> Yes, Jespo had to spend a feat to get some lovin'.




This might be the best quote yet.


----------



## (contact)

Joshua Randall said:
			
		

> Dammit, Barastrondo, I told you not to tell anyone about that Star Trek trivia thing! Now how am I gonna get a date?




You'll get another feat in three levels.  Better get to kickin' in doors.


----------



## blargney the second

(contact) said:
			
		

> “That was poorly done, Lucius,” Sonahmiin says.
> 
> “Yeah,” the rogue concedes, “I’d meant to say something witty before I killed the f-cker.  You know, like Heydricus does.”




(contact), you magnificent bastard!  This made me laugh so loud that my girlfriend came to find out what I was laughing about!  I then had to do a simultaneous interpretation from D&D to English to French so she could understand...

-blarg II


----------



## Wish

Wonderful stuff (contact).  Glad to see you updating this thread again.

As for a new cleric, I'd guess that we're going to see a reappearance of that scholarly fellow whose name I can't recall.  The Pholtan.  He'll probably take the empty cohort slot with H.


----------



## (contact)

blargney the second said:
			
		

> I then had to do a simultaneous interpretation from D&D to English to French so she could understand...




Is it still funny in French?


----------



## Zaruthustran

(contact) said:
			
		

> “That was poorly done, Lucius,” Sonahmiin says.
> 
> “Yeah,” the rogue concedes, “I’d meant to say something witty before I killed the f-cker. You know, like Heydricus does.”




Yeah, Lucius rules. 

Dabus died well, though. What a hero!

I'm playing through the new computer game Temple of Elemental Evil. It's terrific, and worthy of several play-throughs just to see the different alignment options. After I get through my current play-through with a party based on Harry Potter characters, I'm going to go through it with Heydricus and crew. You know, as an homage of sorts.

-z

PS: Harry is a pal/sor, Hermione is an enchanter (barred necromancy and illusion), Ron is a bard, Hagrid is a bar/drd with a big animal companion.


----------



## blargney the second

(contact) said:
			
		

> Is it still funny in French?




Yes, but it appears you have to speak D&Dese in order to get it! 

"Tu vois, un balor, c'est comme le balrog du Seigneur des Anneaux.. non, non, le balrog c'est la grosse bestiole de feu avec le fouet pis l'épee flambants.."

-blarg ii


----------



## Barastrondo

Joshua Randall said:
			
		

> Dammit, Barastrondo, I told you not to tell anyone about that Star Trek trivia thing! Now how am I gonna get a date?




Put more Drakkarim in your Story Hour. Drakkarim are chick magnets. Girls can't resist the death masks.


----------



## Urbanmech

Ah nothing like some ass kicking Liberators style.  I have to admit I was worried that (contact) would kill off all of his PC's again, but they pulled through.  Good thing they had a Solar with them to help turn the tide.

(contact) seems to be getting back at his players for all those people from The List they whacked in quick efficent succession.  I wonder how the Liberators would have done if they had approached the encounter as (contact) planned?  How much did you have to improvise to put all the bad guys into one encounter, and was there any gleeful DM cackling as you realized what they would all be fighting at once?


----------



## (contact)

Urbanmech said:
			
		

> How much did you have to improvise to put all the bad guys into one encounter, and was there any gleeful DM cackling as you realized what they would all be fighting at once?




I didn't really have to improvise that much, I had the baddies already-- it was just a matter of introducing them all into the scene at once instead of trickling them in.  I kept a straight face, after all, a cackle would have only warned them . . . I have a Rat Bastard TPK Contingency Plan (TM), but the real fright for me was the session prior to this fight, when Prisantha decided not to make another set of clones!


----------



## Rackhir

Hey (contact) time to post again, we've gotten updates from Pkitty and even Sepulcherave. Aren't the Liberators due a bit of love? (or at least Pris and Heydricus)


----------



## wolff96

In addition to adding to the clamor for another one of your excellent updates, could I ask a favor?

Do you think you could update the Rogue's Gallery with the current stats of the Liberators? The ones linked in the "Liberation of Tenh" thread from your .sig file are kind of old... not to mention that one of the board updates apparently hosed the formatting.


----------



## Lazybones

Nice conclusion to that set-piece; I get back to this thread every few months, and while there were only two new updates here since my last visit, they were quite dramatic.  I'm with everyone who thought that the Libs were dog food, but the way they pulled it out was believable and reasonable without _too_ much deus ex machina (just the angel's rez spell, really).


----------



## (contact)

Lazybones said:
			
		

> I'm with everyone who thought that the Libs were dog food, but the way they pulled it out was believable and reasonable without _too_ much deus ex machina (just the angel's rez spell, really).




Sonhamiin was under PC control at that point (as part of the greater planar ally spell), so I can't take credit for the bail-out.  At that moment, I was pretty sure I was cruisin' for a TPK. 

Prior to the fight, I thought I'd nerfed the angel by A) setting up the two combats so that Sonhamiin could use his wish ability to restore the Liberators prior to the Piscean fight, and B) using the balor as "angel-bait."

But those tricky players . . .

p.s.: I'll get crackin' on that update, Rackhir.


----------



## (contact)

*Patchwall 6, CY 593
73—Four, three, two, One.*


The next day, Prisantha casts a _vision_ on the gemstones, and receives this result:  _Four are grateful, three are friends, two are trustworthy, and one is an ally_.

-----

“Have I mentioned I cannot _stand_ divinations,” Jespo says.  “What on earth is that supposed to mean?  That I have more friends than allies by a factor of three?  That I cannot trust my friends in any event?”

“Well, hell, to me it means that once we free them only two of the four are likely to try and kill us, and one of ‘em will fight with us,” Heydricus says.  “I like those odds.”

Prisantha presents the largest and most perfectly formed of the gemstones first, reasoning that it has a kingly appearance.  But when Heydricus crushes the gem beneath the butt of his spear, a bright golden mist emerges from the thing, snaking outwards in long, lazy spirals and slowly taking the shape of a serpentine dragon, covered in scintillating golden scales.  The creature has no arms or mouth, and its broad snake-like head is covered with a flowing silvery mane.  Its eyes are large and soulful; a human’s eyes.  The thing slowly turns upon itself, corkscrewing into the air and regarding the Liberators with an expression that feels like love.

“What are you?” Heydricus asks.

The thing shakes its head from side to side, and its mane whickers and whistles—a sound simultaneously reminiscent of  the wind through trees, and bubbling water.

“Can you understand me?”  Heydricus asks again.

For a second time, the thing shakes its head.

“I get it!” Prisantha says.  “That’s its language!”  She casts a _tongues_ spell, and says, “What is your name?”

The thing’s soft sounds form a reply in her mind, “I am in gratitude for freedom.”

“Where do you come from?” she asks.

“Forever,” the thing replies with a smile in its eyes, and as the last rustle fades from the air, it has turned upon itself and vanished.

“I wonder if that is what he was stealing his immortality from?” Heydricus says once the entity is gone.  He offered me, ‘true immortality, stolen from the gods themselves.’  Was that his secret?  Was that a god?”

But Heydricus’s questions are left unanswered.  The next gem destroyed frees Prince Thrommel, and the thick-headed fighter scowls at Heydricus, suspicious.  When informed that it was a shapeshifter who placed him within the gem, not Heydricus, Thrommel demands to know how can he be sure that _this_ Heydricus isn’t the shapeshifter?

“Because we’re the only ones who know you’ve died four times in as many months,” Prisantha says.

Thrommel blushes and grows quiet, nodding his agreement that yes, these are the true Liberators.

Belvor is freed next, and the king of Furyondy claims that he knew it was an impostor all along.  When Piscean’s treachery is explained, Belvor sputters then calls for his head.  When told that Heydricus left the head along with the rest of the corpse, Belvor pats him on the back.

“That’s my boy!” he laughs.  “Always a step ahead of the old man!”  Thrommel’s jealous and narrow gaze goes unnoticed.

The last entity freed is a thin and pale old man, long of beard and tooth.  He bears a striking resemblance to Piscean, and introduces himself as Malae, younger brother to Ivid III, and Imperial Duke of Ferrond.

The man is questioned, and in all respects seems ignorant of the current date.  He is told in broad terms about his brother’s failures, the intervening centuries, and how he has come to be free, here in the renovated capitol of the former Great Kingdom province of Tenhae.

“Would you like to go to Ferrond?” Prisantha asks pleasantly.  “Unless you have other plans?”

-----

Prisantha squints at her _crystal ball_ suspiciously.  She has just failed to _scry_ Lizst, in preparation for a _teleport_ back to Chendl, King and Prince in hand.  Gwendolyn has had no better luck with her _scrying_ pool (and occasional foot bath), and when Jespo produces a battered and heavily scratched mirror from the sleeves of his robe, Gwendolyn rolls her eyes.  But Jespo smiles a secret smile, and looks up at the group.

“I have him.  He is in the sitting room off of the kitchens—the one with that wretched painting of the Veseve.”

Lizt is found where Jespo said he would be, not far from the wretched painting in question, and he frowns slightly when the Liberators _teleport_ in, and more deeply when he sees Belvor.

“Milord, it is good to see you well,” Lizst says evenly.

“Lizt,” Belvor nods.  “Where is Butrain?”

“Court is in session.  He is on the throne, sir.”

“Trying it on for size, is he?  He’ll find it warmer on the posterior than it looks.  Order him off of it, and I shall prepare myself.”

Lizst bows slightly.  “I must regretfully decline, my lord.”

Belvor stalks forward.  “That’s _sire_ to you, wizard.”

With nine sets of eyes staring hard at him, Lizst is nonplussed.  “I am of the Four.  I serve the throne, not the man.  Milord.”

Belvor scowls.  “You’re fired.  We’ll see about Butrain.”

-----

As the Liberators of Tenh move toward the throne room, they pass small groups of knights, nobles and hangers-on, all of which grow silent as they realize who is amongst them.  Everywhere are the marks of fighting; wounded men trying to take their ease, terrified noblewomen dashing to and fro, and everywhere the smell of blood and iron.

Belvor is furious, Thrommel bewildered, Jespo fretting, Prisantha determined and Gwendolyn magically disguised.  “I am a wanted woman,” she reminds Prisantha.

Heydricus seems relaxed.  “We’ve seen worse,” he cheerily reminds Lucius.

“Yeah.  We can take them,” the rogue grimly agrees.  “We can take them all.”

-----

In a spectacle reminiscent of  Butrain’s days as a donkey, the heavy-set noble sits on the throne and addresses his court.  He still wears his battlefield armor, and is soot-blackened and haggard.  A long pageant of Northern nobility forms a line before him, one by one swearing oaths of fealty to their new king.  The walls of the chamber have had their former decorations and battle-trophies removed, and Belvor’s honor guard has been replaced with grim looking Southern knights, all heavily armed and armored.

Lizst glides over to Butrain’s side, and whispers into his ear, but no herald is needed—the Liberators of Tenh are nearly as well known in the court of Furyondy as Belvor himself, and Thrommel’s presence is likewise marked by a buzz of shocked whispers as the courtiers all watch the drama unfold.  Butrain signals to his men-at-arms, and a score of knights move toward the throne, hard-eyed to the man.

“Butrain, you scoundrel—what have you done?” Belvor booms in a kingly voice.  

“I have crowned myself, Belvor.  Did you not notice?”

“Furyondy . . .” Belvor begins.

“Required a king,” Butrain finishes.  “A _living_ king.  I serve my nation, and her people.”

Belvor reaches for his sword, but Heydricus restrains him.  “Easy, sire,” he says softly.  “This is not the place.  There is much harm that could be done here.”  Heydricus rises to his full height, head and shoulders above everyone else in the room, and raises his arms.

“Lords and ladies of Furyondy,” he begins.  “We have two kings but only one throne.  It is a tragedy that blood has been spilled, and one that need not be repeated.  We have returned with Belvor and his son—his heir.  Prince Thrommel stands at the ready, and is promised in wedlock to the Lady Willip.  What war has brought us, perhaps a wedding can mend.  Furyondy, I propose that it is time that this marriage be made.  Willip and Chendl!  North and South!  Let the younger and wiser heads rule!”

There is a moment of silence, then a lone voice from the rear of the hall says, “hear, hear!”  Prisantha takes note, and begins to silently _charm_ the influential Lords and Ladies of both the Southern and Northern factions.

“Hear, hear,” she says.  “A marriage, and peace for Furyondy! Willip and Chendl!”

Within moments, her cry has been taken up, and the assembled crowd begins to shout their admiration for the plan.  Butrain slumps deeper into the throne, and he begins to stroke his beard thoughtfully.

“Younger and wiser heads?” Prisantha whispers to Heydricus.

“I was improvising,” he snaps back.

As Butrain calculates, Lucius studies him coolly.  A careful judge of men, the semi-repentant assassin tenses as he notices the new King reach a conclusion.

“It is true that I promised my daughter’s hand to young Thrommel in marriage,” Butrain says, as he stands.  “I still believe, as I did then, that it is the right thing for our nation, and for our cause.  To the wedding, I say yes.  If, in fact, our groom is still willing.”

Thrommel’s mouth has dropped open.  Promised in marriage?  But no one asked him!  The headstrong fighter looks set to panic—Prisantha realizes that while she has never seen Thrommel shrink from battle, the thought of marriage has completely unmanned him.  Thrommel stands silent for a long moment.

“Say yes,” Heydricus whispers urgently.

“Don’t be a fool,” Jespo hisses. 

 “Say yes,” Prisantha _suggests_.

“Yes,” Thrommel says, a surprised look on his face.

The crowd cheers his statement, and a bewildered smile crosses his face as he realizes they are cheering _him_.

“Then we will have a wedding!” Belvor says.  “Lord Seneschal, see to it—they are to be married this eve.”  Butrain regards the crowd of assembled nobility.  “But I will not abdicate,” he says, and the room grows silent.


----------



## Zaruthustran

(contact) said:
			
		

> Belvor is furious, Thrommel bewildered, Jespo fretting, Prisantha determined and Gwendolyn magically disguised. “I am a wanted woman,” she reminds Prisantha.




Sweet. This is the kind of writing that keeps me coming back.

-z


----------



## Wish

Ooh, is the next update the one where Lucius finally gets to assassinate somebody?  It sounds to me like the ex-donkey is setting himself up for a fall.


----------



## DM2

> “Yeah. We can take them,” the rogue grimly agrees. “We can take them all.”




Yet another reason I love Lucius.

DM2


----------



## (contact)

wolff96 said:
			
		

> Do you think you could update the Rogue's Gallery with the current stats of the Liberators?




Done and done.  The stats are current with the real-world game, or one big combat encounter past the confrontation with Butrain.  No spoilers!


----------



## (contact)

*Patchwall 6, CY 593
74—No parties without the party.*


The throne room of Furyondy has grown tense.  On one side, the Liberators of Tenh stand with an enraged Belvor and his bewildered son.  On the other, a full score of powerful Southern Knights stand at the ready.

Lucius leans toward the party wizards.  “I got the King,” he mutters.  “You do the room.”

Heyrdicus moves to Butrain’s side.  Leaning close to the older man, the Liberator speaks softly into his ear.  “Don’t humiliate him,” he whispers.  “You have your throne now, and he has his pride.”

Xanthan Butrain stares hard at Heydricus for a moment, weighing the loyalty of this adventurer he does not truly know against the service to both his reputation and life that Heydricus has rendered.  Finally, he nods, and whispers, “Wise words.”

All eyes are on Butrain as he turns to face Belvor.  The new and former kings of Furyondy lock eyes for a brief moment, then Butrain begins to speak.  “In the great library of Chendl, there is a book,” he says, smiling as his non-sequitur dispels the tension in the room.  His knights laugh or shift uncomfortably, and the lordlings and courtiers reapply the expressions of rapt attention that accompany even the most banal of a new king’s ramblings.  “It records the names and notable deeds of Furyondian kings, dating back to our secession from the Great Kingdom.”  Butrain is smiling now.  “Few have ever seen this book, but I have read it.  One thing I noticed was that the manner in which the king’s name was recorded seemed to be directly related to the greatness of his deeds.  Poor or inept kings instructed their loremasters to inscribe their meager deeds with gold, or magical ink.”  The crowd laughs at this.  “The great kings, of course, needed no such embellishment.”

“We have before us,” Butrain says, extending an arm toward Belvor, “the only former king that I believe need not inscribe his name at all.”  Butrain pauses while his compliment sinks in.  There is a smattering of applause from the crowd at this.  Belvor has relaxed his guard; the silver-haired paladin squints suspiciously at the praise, but remains silent.  

Butrian continues.  “For I cannot imagine that at any time in our future the name of King Belvor might not ring within the hearts of Furyondians true.  For his courage, for his integrity, and for answering the clarion call of war, he will be honored so long as the crescent rises over the three crowns on our arms.”  Butrain moves to stand before Belvor.  “Once I took knee to you as a man to his liege, now I bow as a lesser to his better man.”  As he says so, Butrain bows deeply.  He rises, and whispers, “You’re free now, Belvor.  You always pined for the adventuring life, now go adventure.”

 “Thrommel will be king someday,” Heydricus says into Belvor’s other ear.   “Your sonyou’re your grandchildren will rule—now come to Tenh, we can use your sword.”

Belvor says nothing, but nods stiffly.  After a moment, the new king smiles a thin and satisfied smile and turns to the crowd, raising his hands.  “Why are you still here?” he shouts.  “Don’t we all have a wedding to prepare for?”  

As the crowd filters out of the room, Butrain spares one last glance for Belvor and says, “Tenh is a good place for you, Belvor.  Fight our enemies, and win.”  To Heydricus, he says, “I find myself again in your debt, Tritherionson.  You have cleared my name, protected my honor, broken a foul witches’ curse, and now advised me true.  And I am in a position to repay favors, thanks to you.”

Heydricus says, “There is one thing—I believe we are still wanted for our attack against Piscean?”

The king scoffs.  “A small thing.  I, for one, never believed you guilty.”  He leans close.  “But it will serve my purpose.  I am looking for a fight with the ecclesiastic courts.”  Butrain smiles.  “Enjoy the wedding, then leave Chendl for a time.  I will deal with these charges, and advise you when it is done.”  With that, Butrain motions to his guards, and leaves the room.

The archmage Lizst sidles up to the Liberators of Tenh.  “Deftly played,” he says.  “My compliments.  Thrommel is to have his kingship after all.”

“May the gods protect us,” Jespo says.

Fräs hisses.

“You have done well by the boy,” Lizst says.  Four times slain, four times returned, and still the heir to the throne.”

“Four times slain?” Belvor says.

“We kept it from you, milord, as a courtesy.  But the Four knew.”  

“Well, you can’t keep a moth from the flame,” Heydricus says defensively.

“And who is your new companion, if I may be so bold as to ask?”  Lizst motions toward Malae, who has wandered absentmindedly into the adjoining courtyard.  “Is this a new attendant, or just another hanger-on?”

“He was kept by Piscean in a soul gem,” Prisantha explains.  “He is Ivid’s brother—Malae, the former Imperial Duke of Ferrond.”

Lizst smiles.  “Interesting.  I am something of a historian myself, you know.  Ivid III had no brothers.  I would keep a close eye on that one, were I you, Pris.”

-----

Thrommel’s wedding is brief and desultory—a clumsy event, more at the direction of Furyondy’s new king than its high clericy.  Thrommel delivers his vows with a dazed expression, and is unusually quiet throughout the ceremony.  Butrain’s daughter, no beauty by any stretch of the imagination, manages to look at least dignified in her hastily-prepared dress.  Above her veil, however, she has her father’s eyes; cool, pragmatic and calculating.  

After the vows are exchanged, Butrain leads a procession to the main ballroom, where a band of musicians and a feast has been prepared.  Speeches are given, great quantities of wine, ale and a curious dwarven fungal liquor currently in vogue in the Furyondian capitol are consumed.  As the last of the food is cleared away, the tables are removed to make a space for a dance, and the musicians unfetter their bowstrings.   The glittering finery of the Furyondian court is somewhat jarringly juxtaposed against the rough-edged Southern knights that form the core of Butrain’s retinue, and despite the message within the match, neither the groom’s side of the aisle nor the bride’s seems interested in mingling with the other.

After the long line of congratulatory drunkards has passed Thrommel by, Heydricus finds the prince, and expresses his congratulations, along with this advice:  “Your strength is as a military leader.  Engender the loyalty of the fighting men of Furyondy and you shall have your throne.  Get the fighters on your side, Thrommel, lest you have no allies at all in court.”

“Well,” Thrommel says, somewhat drunk.  “I shall still have you.”

“A prince needs more than adventurers if he is to live to see his throne.  However, I have asked Prisantha to craft a _bracelet of friends_ for you.  If you are in danger, use it.”

Jespo has been drinking steadily since the feast, playing drinking games with Regda.  The broad-shouldered fighter is still clear-headed, and Regda is engaged in a dagger-throwing contest with several approving Southern knights, but Jespo has grown exceedingly drunk, and is staggering from group to group, expounding on the virtues of conjuration magic, and reminding his audiences that he fought in the Temple, too.

Fräs seems to have inherited some of Jespo’s drunkenness by proxy, and is perched on Regda’s shoulder, hissing “_miss_” each time one of her opponents throws, and purring at Regda’s marksmanship

Jespo makes his way to Prisantha’s side, and bumbles through the crowd of admiring young noblemen attending her every word.  “Well, who would have thought it—our Thrommel is married,” Jespo slurs.  “I feel like a proud parent.”

“Well, he almost ran away from the whole affair, the fool,” Prisantha says.  “If he’d his way, there would have been an ugly fight.”

“Still, he consented of his own free will,” Jespo adds.  “Credit where credit is due.”

“Mostly free will,” Prisantha says.

Jespo smiles.  “It’s moments like these that make me proud to be a wizard,” Jespo says.  He puts his arm on Prisantha’s shoulder, and leans in close.  “Do you remember that time that I’d grown cross with you and called you a ‘hedge wizard?’”  

Prisantha wrinkles her nose, and attempts to detach herself.  “No, I’d forgotten,” she lies.

“Well, I was wrong,” Jespo says.  “Wrong, wrong, wrong.  Why, next to you, I am the hedge wizard!”

“There are no hedge wizards in our group, Jespo.” Prisantha says.

“No, no.  I am a poor wizard.  I always have been.  You know, when I was first accepted into my apprenticeship, my mother . . .”

“Jespo, look!” Prisantha says.  “Lord Mertin the elder is here—I think you should introduce yourself,” she _suggests_.

Jespo squints in the indicated direction and stumbles off.  Neither nature nor admirers can abide a vacuum, and within moments several young men have taken Jespo’s place, asking questions and attempting to out-do each other with their rapier-hilt wit.

Heydricus counts six admirers around Prisantha.  Both of the two women vying for his attention notice that the Liberator has grown distracted, and keeps gazing at something over their shoulder.  Heydricus makes a subtle gesture, and then Lucius is standing next to him.  His sudden appearance and flat, level gaze unnerves the two women, and they quickly make excuses to leave.

“Look at that,” Heydricus says.  “It’s pathetic the way they crowd around her.”

“Is it?”  Lucius asks.

“The things some men will do,” Heydricus says spitefully.  “Abasing themselves like a pack of feral dogs.”

Lucius regards him evenly.  “Even before I died, I was never much of a romantic,” he says, “but since . . .” he trails off.  “Well, it changes you.” 

Heydricus does not respond.  He is staring at Prisantha and her admirers, a flush slowly spreading across his face.  Lucius notes this and strides across the room.  When he reaches the knot of lordlings standing in a semi-circle around the Enchantress of Verbobonc, he claps his hands loudly, startling the men.

“There’s a horserace outside,” he tells them, widening his eyes.  “And it’s to the death.  You should all go look.”

The young noblemen glance at one another, and finding a certain camaraderie in their shared terror of this violent-looking adventurer, they scramble.

Prisantha is staring furiously at Lucius.  The assassin shrugs.  “Me and Heydricus was sick of them as-holes.”  He walks away.

Prisantha marches over to Heydricus, perhaps intending to give him a piece of her mind, but when confronted by his most endearing smile, her will weakens, and she accepts his arm.  He leads her over to the dim and sparsely populated end of the ballroom, stepping over the new king’s hunting dogs as he goes.

“The musicians are very good, don’t you think?” Prisantha says.

“Oh hell, yeah.  They’re great,” Heydricus says.

“I love this song,” she adds.

“Yeah,” he says.  “I mean, hell yeah.  It’s great.”

“Have you danced this evening?”

Heydricus nods.  “Oh, yeah.  Once or twice.”

Prisantha waits for a few moments, but there is no invitation forthcoming.  “This all happened so suddenly, I didn’t get a chance to wear a proper gown.  I had to borrow this one.”

Heydricus pipes up.  “You look great.”

“It doesn’t look to small on top?”

Heydricus examines the area in question.  “No . . . no, it’s fine.  Um, maybe we should talk about tomorrow.  I was thinking that we could go after Zeflen in Calibut.  Calibut is crucial, it . . .” 

Prisantha is shaking her head no.

“You don’t agree?”

“Why don’t we just take a day off?”

“A day off, huh?” he says, laughing at himself.  “Sure.  We could have a few drinks, and relax.”

“I’ve already had a few,” she says, batting her eyes.


----------



## Rackhir

Cool! More liberator's goodness. Though this is sounding suspiciously like the end of a campaign. 

Are you planning to keep going with the Liberators until they can challenge the Old One it's self? That would make for a truly worthy end for the campaign.


----------



## the_mighty_agrippa

*OH MY.*

Lucius da matchmaker.


----------



## Zaruthustran

This is great. Hell yeah.

-z


----------



## (contact)

Rackhir said:
			
		

> Cool! More liberator's goodness. Though this is sounding suspiciously like the end of a campaign.
> 
> Are you planning to keep going with the Liberators until they can challenge the Old One it's self? That would make for a truly worthy end for the campaign.



 Well, I had the fight with Piscean in mind as the campaign conclusion, but my players shot the idea down.    The Liberators will adventure through Epic levels.


----------



## DM2

(contact) said:
			
		

> Well, I had the fight with Piscean in mind as the campaign conclusion, but my players shot the idea down.    The Liberators will adventure through Epic levels.




Wow, and here I was thinking you were going to end up like Wulf....story hour concluded, joining PirateCat's campaign, where all legendary story hour writers go to die, right ?

DM2


----------



## Schmoe

Between a new baby, a full time job, and grad school, I don't have nearly enough time to visit these boards as I would like.  Despite all that, though, this story keeps me coming back.  Keep it up, (contact)!


----------



## wolff96

I love the new update. Maybe Prisantha is finally getting through Heydricus' thick skull. Why else would he be annoyed?

By the way, "rapier-hilt wit" made me laugh out loud.

And thanks for the updated stats in the Rogue's Gallery.


----------



## Dougal DeKree

*...digging...*

Looking for the Liberators i had to dig deep inside of this Forum.

I dug too greedy and too deep. I encountered it.

the BUMProg!

Dougal, fleeing gnomish illusionist


----------



## (contact)

*Patchwall 6, CY 593
75—No after-parties without the party.*

_Merry Midwives of Mercy Downs_  is always a crowd favorite—a bouncing tune, with repetitious starts and stops that provide ample opportunity to swoop in on the dancing partner of the fellow one-over.  There are several sets of commonly known lyrics that range from the scathingly political to the bawdy and nearly profane.  Of course, there is no one singing along with the musicians at Thrommel’s wedding, save for the occasional drunken Duke or inebriated Earl.  

“We don't get to do much dancing,” Prisantha says.  “In our line of work, I mean.”

“Yeah,” Heydricus agrees, smiling at her.  The two Liberators stand by themselves, unnoticed and unattended for the moment, an island of dazzling good looks in a sea of sweaty, unwashed Furyondian peers.  Offhandedly, he adds, “I usually only get to dance when I'm fundraising.”

One enterprising young bard steps forward to lead the crowd in song, smiling broadly at his lady-fair and bowing grandly for the bride and groom.  (Well, technically he isn’t a bard, but his cousin is!   Okay, there’s really no cousin, but he _did_ spend a rank in Perform. . . . Allright, the truth is he spent his rank in Knowledge (ale houses)—but they do like to get drunk and sing in alehouses.)  Thrommel, perhaps wanting to be polite, or perhaps merely tone-deaf, claps along heartily, and eventually drags his former wet-nurse onto the dance floor.  The elderly Duchess has grown old and feeble during Thrommel’s long absence, and has become infamous for her foul disposition, sharp tongue, and reputed ability to _curse_ with a glance.  Nonetheless, she does her best for her future King, and the crowd roars at the sight.

Prisantha frowns at Heydricus.  “Well, I'm sure there's more than _dancing_ going on.”

“Oh.  Yeah,” he scrambles, returning his mind to the conversation.   “There's . . . lots of . . . _selling_.”

Prisantha wrinkles her nose.  “Perhaps I should do some fundraising of my own,” she suggests.

“What!”

“For my school.”  She arches her eyebrows.  “I'm going to have to start an academy of my own, you know.  I've spoken with many influential people about it already.”

“Who—Lord Eaton?” Heydricus snaps, casting a dark glance toward the dashing young baronet, who has been cornered by a drunken Jespo Crim, and is mincing his way out of a series of widely-swung conspiratorial shoulder-clutching attempts.

“Oh yes.  He’s offered ten thousand pieces of gold already.”

Heyrdicus scoffs.  “Don’t besmirch yourself pandering at such a profane altar.  Eaton’s a simpleton.  Why, look at the way he slouches—he can’t even hold up his huge head.  And those thin legs, tsk.  Chicken legs.”

Prisantha feigns a worldly shrug, and adds, “I’ll take his money.”

“He wants to give you more than money,” Heydricus mutters darkly.

“Like what?” she gasps.

“I wouldn’t know,” he sniffs.  Silently, but with the better part of his mind, Heydricus is willing Jespo on.  “_Hug him, Crim_” he thinks.  “_Then tell him about your childhood_.”

“Well, he did mention taking a lunch at his estate,” she muses.

The grappling arts are not Jespo’s forte, and Eaton escapes without so much as a wrinkle on his cloak.   Crim turns immediately to Eaton’s companions and continues on as if he hadn’t been interrupted.  

Heydricus sighs.  “It has been a long week.  Perhaps we should go outside for some fresh air.”  The two young companions stroll together into the densely-kept royal garden.  Heydricus pauses to smell a flower, and motions Prisantha to do the same.  The air is warm, the hedges high and night-birds call to the bright, nearly full moon illuminating the garden path.  Faint laughter and music can still be heard from the ballroom.

“So, Thrommel’s married,” Prisantha muses as she sniffs at the lavender bud.

“Yes,” Heydricus says.  “And she seems well suited for him, though he will have a narrow road to blunder down should he hope to see his throne.”

“Don’t share this, but I did think for a minute about marrying Thrommel myself,” Pris whispers.

“What?”  

“Well, not because I like the stupid man,” Pris quickly clarifies.

Heydricus puts his hands on his hips.  “You know, I’m getting sick of all this Thrommel-bashing.  I love the guy!”

Prisantha dismisses the notion with a wave.  “Thrommel is lacking in many areas.  There’s more to life than power, I decided, and after all, I’ve seen all of us naked.”

“You have?” Heydricus asks.   “Well . . . that’s a small thing.  Adventuring companions are like a family—and families keep no secrets from one another, nor should they be overly concerned with modesty or shame.”

“Does that make us siblings, then?” Prisantha asks coyly.

“Well, in songs, blooded companions are often referred to as siblings,” he replies.  “Brothers-in-war, that sort of thing.”

“So, if one of us were to get involved with another member of the group, it would be incestuous?”

“Who knows,”  Heydricus says, dismissing the issue.  “Dabus was the expert on matters of propriety.”  After a moment, he adds, “I know he’s happy, but I miss him.”

“He did love you well,” she agrees.

“He’s in a better service now,” Heydricus says, putting some cheer back into his voice.  “And hell, what a way to go, right?”

Pris smiles, and clasps Heydricus’ hand.  The burly sorcerer gazes down into her eyes, and says, “the moon is lovely this evening, wouldn’t you agree?”

As it happens, she would, although the only moon she sees is the one reflected in his eyes from her own.  Prisantha turns her head upwards and closes her eyes . . .

“The a-shole wants to give a toast,” Lucius says.  Without warning, he has appeared behind them on the path.

“Which a-shole?” Heydricus asks.

“Thrommel,” the assassin replies.

Heydricus removes his hand from Prisantha’s and frowns.  “What did I just say about Thrommel bashing?”

Lucius scowls.  “How the f-ck should I know?”  He spares a glance for Prisantha.  “I don’t _scry_ and spy.”  Lucius turns around and leaves the glade.  With a sigh, Prisantha follows him.

Thrommel’s great wedding speech is a stiffly given, unrehearsed event.  But with Belvor at his left, and his new bride at his right, the once and future prince manages to say the right things, compliment those who need it, thank those who deserve it, and subtly leave no doubt in the minds of Furyondy’s more savvy politicians that he means to someday sit the throne.

After the seemingly endless string of speeches in response to Thrommel’s, the musicians are given the signal, and the music starts up again.

Prisantha and Heydricus, however, are nowhere to be seen.

-----

Regda carries Jespo to his room, leaving the unconscious conjurer to both his dreams and his impending hangover with a chaste kiss on the forehead.  Fräs purrs drunkenly from Jespo’s pouch, too inebriated to move.  Regda recalls suddenly that she has not completed her calisthenics for the day, what with the fancy party and all, and knocks off a couple hundred pushups before leaving for the comfort of her own bed.  There she contemplates weddings and tries to recall the vulnerable anatomy of dragons before drifting off into a deep and untroubled sleep.

Lucius, keenly aware of how high he has risen since his impoverished boyhood in the Shieldlands, spends the evening dicing and conversing with the men-at-arms and bodyguards of the great Furyondian Lords—he becomes instantly popular, purposefully loosing large amounts of coin.  Heydricus may approach politics with a devil-may-care bravado, but Lucius knows how quickly politeness can turn to violence.  When it comes, he intends to be ready.  

The next morning, Belvor packs his personal belongings, and readies his adventuring gear, blowing dust from his armor and reacquainting himself with his lucky whetstone.  He finds the Liberators gathered in the sunny gardens outside the chapel to Rao.  Jespo is groaning, Fräs hisses from time to time, and Regda is pouring tea.  Heydricus and Prisantha sit close to one another, and laugh at some shared joke.

Gwendolyn takes her tea with a lump of sugar and a smug expression.

“To Tenh, then,” Belvor says heartily.  “I have decided to accept your generous offer, and I humbly present myself to your stalwart band.  What adventures are afoot?”  The former king looks well, and seems genuinely pleased.

“Well, who’s got the kill list?” Heydricus asks.

“Dabus,” Gwendolyn says with a smirk.  “But I recall the gist of it.”

“I’ve got the list,” Lucius says from the doorway, tapping his forehead.  “Druid f-ckers, Calibut and Zeflen, the Lord of Stoink, the Boneheart.  But not necessarily in that order.”

“I don’t think we’ve decided to kill the Lord of Stoink,” Prisantha says.

“Whatever,” Lucius replies.

“Calibut should be first, if I may be so bold,” Belvor ventures.  “With Calibut in hand, you control the whole of Northern Tenh, and the mines there are rich.”

“I agree,” Heydricus says.  “Are there any objections?”

There are none, and after a hearty breakfast of gruel, eggs, swine and more gruel, the Liberators teleport back to Nevond Nevnend, and Prisantha_visions_ Zeflen.


_A Beast there is that lives only within the hearts of those that fear it; old to the Hells before the Baatezu displaced its kind.  This Beast lost its form along with its realm, and does not exist within any plane of physicality.  It is strong only where others are weak, for domination is its essence.  It is, and is not.  The Old One culls secrets from the thing, but must keep it always far from the heart of His dominion, lest he loose his own rule in the face of its inexorable hunger. _


“Well, that is disturbing,” Jespo says.  

“Did it say, ‘inexorable?’” Gwendolyn muses. 

“Yes,” Prisantha says.  “It means ‘endless.’”

“No it doesn’t,” Lucius says.  “It means ‘strong,’ as in ‘powerful.’”

“It means relentless,” Jespo says.  “Now, you say this thing fouled your _scrying_ last time you attempted it?”

“It nearly ruined my _crystal ball_,” Prisantha replies.  “And I felt its presence in my mind.  It meant to _dominate_ me, I think.”

“That is ironic,” Jepso observes.

“_Mind blank_ will serve to blunt that avenue of attack,” Gwendolyn says.  “Nothing can penetrate that spell, I am sure of it.”

“Now look here,” Lucius says.  “If _scrying_ isn’t the answer, then let me have a look.  _Teleport_ me near to Calibut, and I’ll tell you for sure what is or isn’t there—_mind blank_ me, and we have a no-risk proposition.  Give me a _teleport_ scroll for the return journey, and I’ll be back before nightfall.”

“I like it,” Heydricus says.   “But this is a scouting mission only—don’t engage anything there.  Find out the lay of the land, and what enemies might lie in wait.  The rest of us will prepare for an assault while you are gone.”

Lucius is away within the hour, and returns that evening with a strange report:  Calibut is a bee-hive of activity.  Unravaged by war, the city is well-kept and orderly; its denizens work in a silent and perfect unison, building the foundations of a massive structure in the mountains just above the town.  The construction is on an inhuman scale—so great that there is little hope of the thing reaching completion within any human’s lifetime.  The workers quietly go about their tasks, breaking only to sleep and eat.  Despite their mindless automation, they seem well-fed and healthy, and children are in evidence, raised together in large groups, and tended to carefully.  When workers eat, they step away from their task, and are immediately replaced by ready hands.  Each worker sleeps where they labor, and rarely if ever leave their posts.  The sick and injured are tended thoroughly, although mundanely—no divine magic is in evidence.

Lucius notes the complete lack of any guardians or watchers—the town proper is apparently undefended, although he spots a pair of draconic silhouettes near the peak of the construction.

Upon his report, the Liberator’s wizards determine to use a scrying pool to locate Zeflen—if the beast can in fact travel somehow through the scrying connection, then they will fight it where they _scry_.  And if not, a _teleport_ spell will take the battle to Calibut.


----------



## coyote6

Sounds like some kind of hive mind. Nice _vision_, too.


----------



## the_mighty_agrippa

(contact) said:
			
		

> Prisantha dismisses the notion with a wave.  “Thrommel is lacking in many areas.  There’s more to life than power, I decided, and after all, I’ve seen all of us naked.”
> 
> “You have?” Heydricus asks.   “Well . . . that’s a small thing."




You owe me a $4 latte.  Cripes.

That was beautiful.


----------



## Olgar Shiverstone

> “I’ve got the list,” Lucius says from the doorway, tapping his forehead. “Druid f-ckers, Calibut and Zeflen, the Lord of Stoink, the Boneheart. But not necessarily in that order.”
> 
> “I don’t think we’ve decided to kill the Lord of Stoink,” Prisantha says.
> 
> “Whatever,” Lucius replies.




Classic!


----------



## Joshua Randall

So... what "private joke" were Heydricus and Prisantha chuckling over? Have they *done the deed*?!

Also, (contact), any chance of a statblock for Belvor?


----------



## wolff96

Joshua Randall said:
			
		

> So... what "private joke" were Heydricus and Prisantha chuckling over?




I would guess they are still chaste -- regarding each other, in Heydricus' case -- and were laughing about something else.

"Thrommel’s great wedding speech is a stiffly given, unrehearsed event. But with Belvor at his left, and his new bride at his right, the once and future prince manages to say the right things, compliment those who need it, thank those who deserve it, and subtly leave no doubt in the minds of Furyondy’s more savvy politicians that he means to someday sit the throne."

I seriously doubt that Thrommel is capable of such a speech, especially the subtle parts. Especially damning is the fact that (contact) mentions the absence of Pris and Heydricus immediately after that paragraph.

I'd say that they took Lucius' warning, had Pris corral the real prince, and had a disguised Heydricus give the speech.

But it's just a guess. I'd say that if they *do* ever fall into bed together, it will get more than a passing mention in this story hour. I seriously doubt it will ever happen until the campaign ends, though... I think the players are having too much fun with the unspoken sexual tension. Or at least, that's the way the Story Hour is written.


----------



## Joshua Randall

Good points, *wolff96*. It also occurs to me that Pris could have _dominated_ Thrommel and made him say what seemed best (probably with Heydricus's advice). Sort of like in the movie The Wedding Planner when J-Lo's character is feeding a speech to the best man through a hidden earpiece.

Not that I've seen that movie more than once or anything.


----------



## the_mighty_agrippa

I dunno.  Thrommel has shown remakrable capacity as a leader, just not in combat.  He can whip up the masses, as evidenced by his recruitment efforts for Heydricus.


----------



## (contact)

In good news, Prisantha's player had her baby this morning about 2 a.m.  In a one hour (!) labor, nonetheless.  Heydricus' player caught the baby, as the birth was so quick, the midwife had yet to arrive!  Congrats to both of them and to the newest Little Liberator, Emily Rose.


----------



## KidCthulhu

Please give my congratulations to both of them.  That's great news.  And a lovely name.  Hope mom and baby are doing well.


----------



## the_mighty_agrippa

Wow!  Please congratulate her for me.


----------



## (contact)

KidCthulhu said:
			
		

> Please give my congratulations to both of them.  That's great news.  And a lovely name.  Hope mom and baby are doing well.




The birth itself was one of the easiest I've ever heard of, and within 3 days of the due date.  Emily was 8 lbs something, abt. 21 inches.  Everyone is well.

(However, shortly after Emily was born, I read an email from Lonnie saying that you're *not* going to be here this month!  Since we got the bad news both mother and child have grown despondent, and aren't eating.  Please, won't you reconsider? _For the kids?_)


----------



## (contact)

Joshua Randall said:
			
		

> Also, (contact), any chance of a statblock for Belvor?



 Belvor is in the Rogues Gallery thread.


----------



## Joshua Randall

Hearty congratulations to Prisantha's player and Heydricus' player and those players' baby. It's good to know that the geek gene will be spread to a future generation.


----------



## Zaruthustran

contact said:
			
		

> “Well, who’s got the kill list?” Heydricus asks.
> 
> “Dabus,” Gwendolyn says with a smirk. “But I recall the gist of it.”
> 
> “I’ve got the list,” Lucius says from the doorway, tapping his forehead. “Druid f-ckers, Calibut and Zeflen, the Lord of Stoink, the Boneheart. But not necessarily in that order.”
> 
> “I don’t think we’ve decided to kill the Lord of Stoink,” Prisantha says.
> 
> “Whatever,” Lucius replies.




I, like Olgar, found this to Another (contact) Laugh Out Loud Moment (ACLOLM). 

Okay that's not a real acronym. But it should be.

-z

Congrats to Prisantha's player!


----------



## Plane Sailing

(contact) said:
			
		

> Congrats to both of them and to the newest Little Liberator, Emily Rose.




Brilliant news, many congratulations to both of them! We're hoping that our newest arrival will come quickly... but not _that/ quickly!

Cheers_


----------



## (contact)

Plane Sailing said:
			
		

> We're hoping that our newest arrival will come quickly... but not _that_ quickly!




I'm not sure your wife agrees wtih that . . .


----------



## Old One

*Congrats...*

I can't believe this is the first time I have posted in this thread...

(contact),

Still reading faithfully...congrats to the new parents.  1 hour is fast...Mrs. Old One was in labor for 30 hours...bleah !  Pass on heartfelt ENWorld well-wishes to them.

~ Old One


----------



## Barastrondo

Joshua Randall said:
			
		

> It's good to know that the geek gene will be spread to a future generation.




You know, everyone keeps saying that, and yet how many of us wound up doing the same things our parents like to do for fun? I keep picturing these rebellious teenagers in the somewhat distant future, all "My parents _totally_ don't understand me. Like, they called my boyfriend 'chaotic stupid.' I'm like, what does that even mean? I mean, what the hell is the Force, and why should I care if it's with me or not? God! They're such dorks!"

But as long as they don't fill the family albums with pictures of Emily Rose in baby Starfleet uniforms and baby Eowyn costumes, I'm sure she'll turn out fine.


----------



## Joshua Randall

It actually should be fairly interesting to see what happens to the future generations who will have been born not only when D&D has always existed, but whose parents were also born when D&D had always existed. If that makes any sense. At what point will playing D&D cease being something geeky and start being something relatively normal, like playing Risk or Monopoly?

I figure I'll just hide my _Player's Handbook_ under my mattress (along with my issues of _Playboy: Girls of the Sword Coast_) and let my pre-teen sons figure out the rest.


----------



## (contact)

Barastrondo said:
			
		

> But as long as they don't fill the family albums with pictures of Emily Rose in baby Starfleet uniforms and baby Eowyn costumes, I'm sure she'll turn out fine.




Yeah.  Totally.  Um.  Yeah.


----------



## Zaruthustran

Barastrondo said:
			
		

> You know, everyone keeps saying that, and yet how many of us wound up doing the same things our parents like to do for fun?




This is the fear of two of my gamer friends here in Seattle, soon to be parents. They're worried that their kid, Rowan, will not be a gamer.

So they plan on raising him very conservatively, bringing him to Republican rallies, encouraging him to subscribe to the Wallstreet Journal, and so on. Until, at age 18 when the kid is all rebellious and into cool music, counterculture, and so on they'll suddenly go "Ha!" and reveal their extensive gaming collection, hippie past, and SCA garb wardrobe. 

They're disturbingly eager to spring this surprise.

-z


----------



## Barastrondo

Joshua Randall said:
			
		

> At what point will playing D&D cease being something geeky and start being something relatively normal, like playing Risk or Monopoly?




My personal prediction is right about the time that there are no more hot sexy drow girls in bikinis with implied or overt domination fetishes in the art or text of any of the major companies' books.

So any day now. 



			
				Zaruthustran said:
			
		

> This is the fear of two of my gamer friends here in Seattle, soon to be parents. They're worried that their kid, Rowan, will not be a gamer.
> 
> So they plan on raising him very conservatively, bringing him to Republican rallies, encouraging him to subscribe to the Wallstreet Journal, and so on. Until, at age 18 when the kid is all rebellious and into cool music, counterculture, and so on they'll suddenly go "Ha!" and reveal their extensive gaming collection, hippie past, and SCA garb wardrobe.
> 
> They're disturbingly eager to spring this surprise.




And it would probably have worked, too, except they named him "Rowan." For total "we expect you to turn out normal" camouflage, they should have went with "Kevin" or "Chris."


----------



## KidCthulhu

Barastrondo said:
			
		

> And it would probably have worked, too, except they named him "Rowan." For total "we expect you to turn out normal" camouflage, they should have went with "Kevin" or "Chris."




Yeah.  Everyone knows only freaks have those names.


----------



## (contact)

(cries)


----------



## coyote6

Congratulations.

As for "Chris" and "Kevin" -- I know some perfectly normal Chris's and- well, wait, not _perfectly_ normal. At least kind of relatively normal, if you look at it from the . . . 

On second thought, nevermind. 

At least it wasn't "Bob", eh?


----------



## Plane Sailing

(contact) said:
			
		

> I'm not sure your wife agrees wtih that . . .




Well, it's more along the lines of it will take me about 90 minutes to get back from work and then a 20 minute drive to hospital, so we're both kinda hoping that about 2 hours is a sorta ideal time period


----------



## Joshua Randall

Hey, in that picture of Emily, you can distinctly make out a crescent moon emblem on her head covering. And as everyone knows, crescent moons are symbols of magic, and magic is part of D&D. 

You b-stards! Corrupting her while she's too young to fight back!  *shakes his fist impotently*


----------



## Barastrondo

coyote6 said:
			
		

> As for "Chris" and "Kevin" -- I know some perfectly normal Chris's and- well, wait, not perfectly normal. At least kind of relatively normal, if you look at it from the . . .




See how it works? And if you name your kid Galadriel Fairwind Amidala, she winds up a suit-wearing, buttoned-down Kenny G fan who hangs out in fern bars and answers to "Cathy." I have no proof yet, but I'm giving it a generation...

And to nudge this discussion back around to something vaguely Liberators-related (though not without offering my own congratulations and best wishes to the proud real-life parents first), I betcha if Heydricus and Prisantha ever have kids, it'll be more of the same. 

"Hey there, son, wanna go outside and knock around the ol' quintain? Maybe get some crossbow practice in? I got you a new lance!"

"Geez, dad. I told you, I have to get the thread count on this burlap just right or I'm never going to get apprenticed to the Dyers and Weavers Guild!"

Or if Jespo and Regda have kids...

...

...You know, I'm just going to stop there.


----------



## Liolel

Finally decided to read this story hour and I have to say its wonderful. Your done a masterwork job contact. I'll keep looking for updates on this storyhour as I do on a few others.


----------



## dpdx

Barastrondo said:
			
		

> Or if Jespo and Regda have kids...
> ...You know, I'm just going to stop there.



Dude.

Jespo and Regda would have _heroic_ children, cause that's how it works. Nothing special alone, they combine to glorify the gene pool with offspring. Jesda apprentices for, and soon surpasses the Enchantress of Verbobonc, and Regpo the Mighty, Herald of Tritherion, brings law, justice and order to, er, the Bandit Kingdoms. Because they worked hard for it. Or something.

But that would take time. What we need is for Fräs to get going on some celestial baby kitties.


----------



## Plane Sailing

(contact) said:
			
		

> Yeah.  Totally.  Um.  Yeah.




Is it my imagination, or have the ears been photoshopped to make them pointy and elf-like?


----------



## Old One

Plane Sailing said:
			
		

> Is it my imagination, or have the ears been photoshopped to make them pointy and elf-like?




PS - 

Also note the arcane symbols on the beanie...there is something fishy about that child !

~ Old One


----------



## SpaceBaby Industries

Old One said:
			
		

> PS -
> 
> Also note the arcane symbols on the beanie...there is something fishy about that child !
> 
> ~ Old One




However, as one would expect of a "Fresh Baby", (as my five year old calls newborns) very cute nonetheless.  Congratulations to the parents.  Good work on the touch up to whoever is responsible. 



			
				Barastrondo said:
			
		

> And it would probably have worked, too, except they named him "Rowan." For total "we expect you to turn out normal" camouflage, they should have went with "Kevin" or "Chris."




Really?  Good thing my wife didn't know about that when we named our daughter Rowan.  That's BEFORE Brooke Shields by the way.  I'm such a "cool" fellow, I set the trends prior to them being trends.  Which has the unfortunate effect of not really being "cool" by all appearances.

Fortunately, my computer can handle playing Star Wars:Knights of the Old Republic (more or less), so on top of being married and having small children, this "cool" thing really isn't much of a problem in my daily existence.


----------



## Joshua Randall

Barastrondo said:
			
		

> if you name your kid Galadriel Fairwind Amidala



There is a well-regarded children's book (Newbery Honor winner) called The Great Gilly Hopkins. The main character's *real* name is... Galadriel! But that's tangential to the story, which is actually quite moving.

Funny real-life story. My aunt (mom's sister) married a man from Ukraine and when they had their first son, there was a debate over what to name him. My aunt wanted to name him Alex. Her husband wanted to name him Boadun (sp?), after a mythical hero from Ukrainian culture. She said, "You can name him Boadun, but I'm going to call him Alex."

Alex it was....


----------



## (contact)

"Fresh baby!"


----------



## Zaruthustran

*If it was a girl she'd have been "Willow"*



			
				Barastrondo said:
			
		

> And it would probably have worked, too, except they named him "Rowan."




Well with a last name of "Wood", it was either "Rowan" or "Ash". Seeing as how the poor kid would have a major inferiority complex if he was named after pulp film's best one-handed hero, they went with Rowan.

-z


----------



## Joshua Randall

How - *HOW* - could anyone have passed up the opportunity to name him Charles Wood?*

*On a related note, Caspar Goodwood is the greatest. literary name. evar. (He's from Portrait of a Lady.)

But just to drag this back around to vaguely on-topic... isn't it kind of weird that the Liberators were adventuring with Thrommel while Belvor sat on the throne, and now they are adventuring with Belvor while Thrommel, umm, doesn't really sit on the throne, but y'know... anyway. Some kind of father/son reveral situation going on here. (contact), was this intentional?


----------



## Barastrondo

Zaruthustran said:
			
		

> Well with a last name of "Wood", it was either "Rowan" or "Ash". Seeing as how the poor kid would have a major inferiority complex if he was named after pulp film's best one-handed hero, they went with Rowan.




Whoa — good call. Maybe I just grew up around the wrong kind of kids, but I have a feeling a kid with the name "Ash Wood" would have had a hard, hard time on the playground.


----------



## (contact)

Barastrondo said:
			
		

> Whoa — good call. Maybe I just grew up around the wrong kind of kids, but I have a feeling a kid with the name "Ash Wood" would have had a hard, hard time on the playground.




And with that, we come full-circle back to the d-ck jokes.  Congratulations to all of you.

Joshua-- it wasn't intentional, but it is a pretty neat symmetry.


----------



## Rackhir

Hey I go away for awhile and what happens the story sinks to the third page and gamers have actually managed to reproduce! How does that happen by the way? I understand that women have something to do with it, but does this labor bit mean that you have to join a union or something?


----------



## (contact)

Rackhir said:
			
		

> Hey I go away for awhile and what happens the story sinks to the third page and gamers have actually managed to reproduce! How does that happen by the way?




d20, roll high-- just like everything else.


----------



## (contact)

*Patchwall 7, CY 593
76—Mind the Master*


Prisantha invokes the divination, and her _scrying_ reveals what appears to be a cave deep beneath the earth; massive sharpened stalagmites and stalactites cover nearly every surface within the place, giving the inescapable impression of a damp and toothy maw.  A black fog boils over the ground, but there is no enemy visible.

“You are sure you cast for Zeflen?” Jespo asks.   Prisantha does not answer, but Gwendolyn pinches him and scowls.

“So the beast would hide itself,” Belvor scoffs.  “No matter—he cannot hide from Heironeous.”

Prisantha gazes at her _crystal ball of true seeing_ longingly, but recalling the time spent lovingly crafting it, she decides against using it.  Whatever will be will be, she decides, and no use throwing fat after gristle.

The wizards have prepared powerful abjurations for each member of the party.  Gwendolyn assures the group that whatever mind-affecting abilities Zeflen might have, they won’t penetrate a _mind blank_!  Unfortunately, neither will anything else, including the party’s customary _telepathic bond_.  Nonetheless, they complete their preparations, and _teleport_ into the unknown.

The cave is as damp as it looked, and despite the high ceiling, a suffocating sensation permeates the air.  The temperature is wrong—far too cold to be underground, yet where else could this place be?  Belvor concentrates for a moment, and summons his mount.  Indomitable arrives, a gloriously radiant stallion, cream fading to chestnut at his points.  Belvor leaps into the saddle, and strikes a heroic pose, drawing his sword from his scabbard, and holding it high, that the Liberators might have a look around.  

Belvor’s sword radiates a clean, white light that illuminates the mineral-encrusted protrusions and casts long shadows into the misty spaces sensed, but not seen.  The charcoal-colored fog whirls around the feet of the party moving despite the stillness of the air.

“Teeth,” Regda says.  Her voice seems far too loud for such an enclosed space.

“What is that my dear?” Jespo whispers.

“They look like teeth.”  Regda is pointing at the stalactites.  

Belvor frowns and nods to himself.  There is a great evil here he is sure, but he cannot discern whether the evil is coming from an entity, or the location itself.  He begins to concentrate and prepare himself to manifest Heironeous’ grace within the mortal sphere—a brief and radiant burst of positive energy intended to draw forth the hidden enemy, or send it fleeing in terror.  But before he can complete his prayer, Belvor stiffens slightly and slumps forward in his saddle, completely limp.  His blade falls to the ground, its radiance illuminating a bubble of mist before slowly fading away.

“Belvor!” Heydricus rushes to his side.  The king does not respond to either touch or word.  Lucius removes a _levitating_ light-stone from his pouch and flings it into the air above the party before drawing his own weapon.  He squints into the mist, but no enemy can be seen.

Indomitable prances nervously for a brief moment, and then stops moving altogether.  The horse is breathing, and its eyes roll about in its head as it regards the Liberators, but it makes no other movements, large or small.  Even as Indomitable freezes, the dark mist begins to coverge upon the heroes in cascading waves.

Gwendolyn reaches into her waist-pouches and removes the material components for a _greater dispelling_.  As she begins to chant and intone the words to her spell, she too falls silently to the ground, and is lost from sight.

The Liberators begin to panic, their careful plans forgotten in the face of two disabled companions with no foe to show for it.  Jespo _flies_ halfway to the ceiling, and pulls the hem of his robes up to his knees, just in case.  Lucius takes advantage of the shadows cast by his _levitating_ stone to hide and keep a wary eye on his surroundings.  Regda charges nearly out to the limit of the light, swiveling her head from left to right, searching fruitlessly for enemies.  

Heydricus, for his part, casts _see invisible_, and as he does so his eyes widen in shock.  The dark mist surrounding the Liberators extends fully into the etheric plane.  Or rather, the mist is itself the physical extension of an etheric creature; to Heydricus’ magically enhanced vision, the thing is seen to be a huge mass of man-sized gelatinous spheres connected to one another by strands of a ropy vine-like tissue, each globular orb crowned with a number of long, heavily-veined black tentacles.  The mass of the thing emits puffs of etheric smoke from thousands of small blow-holes—smoke that extends into the physical.  Smoke that even now surrounds the Liberators of Tenh, and has struck two of them down.

“It’s the mist!” Heydricus yells, as he draws his sword with both hands.  “The mist is Zeflen!”

Prisantha is the first to act on this information.  She has seen two of her friends fall, seemingly without cause, and she intends to end this fight immediately.  She nods to Heydricus and casts _dominate monster_ at the fog surrounding her friends.  In an instant, she is transported into a mental realm of such indifferent and crushing callousness that her heart literally skips a beat.  She becomes _aware_ of Zeflen, _aware_ of the thousands of souls even now laboring toward its grand design in the city far above her head.  She becomes _aware_ of the miles of underground caverns that honeycomb the mountain-face, and of a pair of powerful guardians that are even now moving toward her, called by this thing born before time.  

In her haste and fright, Prisantha had not considered the possibility that her _mind blank_ spell would supercede and negate the mental connection established by _dominate monster_.  Fortunately for her, it does, and her will is not made instantly subject to the overwhelming weight of Zeflen’s full mental presence.  After a flash that seems like an eternity, Prisantha’s consciousness snaps back into her body.  She is weakened, but still herself.

Heydricus is cutting and slicing at the mist around his feet, severing etheric tentacles and creating physical whirlpools of dark smoke in the wake of his blade.  Lucius and Regda have taken the Liberator’s lead and are likewise attacking the fog.

“I think I hit it!” Regda yells triumphantly.

“I know I did,” Heydricus shouts.

“Good job, honey,” Prisantha says.

Jespo stops himself mid-spell, then dismisses the affectionate sobriquet as the sort of thing that only adventurers who survive their fights care about.  He aims a _disintegrate_ ray at the mist before him, but the ray fails to connect with anything substantial, and discharges itself into the cavern floor, opening a man-sized crater where it strikes.

“Beware our flanks!” Prisantha shouts. “There is a dragon to the left and human to the right!”

“Dragon!” Regda shouts.  She has never seen a dragon, although she has often wished to.   

Regda is to have her wish, as a serpentine neck emerges just within the pool of light, to the Liberators’ left.  The head is framed with a horned crest that sweeps away from a sharp and pointed snout like a bony fan.  The scales about its mouth are foam-green, but fade to a bright, golden-brown along the rest of the face and the neck.  The creature’s eyes are flat and lackluster orbs, entirely (to those in the know) un-dragon-like in their dullness.  The burst of lightning that escapes from its mouth is extremely draconic, however, and both Regda and Heydricus are singed by the strike.

Illuminated by the lightning burst, a massive warrior skulks forward on the Liberators’ right.  Almost too large to be called a human, he is strapped into a piecemeal suit of plate armor, pale skin contrasting with jet-black metal, both surfaces glistening in the dampness of the cave.  The fighter clutches a wickedly serrated two-handed sword, and is crowned with a bat-winged helm as black as his armor, but his most striking feature are his eyes—twin orbs that glow with an inhuman red light.

Heydricus recognizes his foe immediately.  This is Uthud the Harvester, called the “Duke of War” by his unfortunate subjects, a former scion of the Horned Society, used by the wicked Hierarchs there as an agent of last resort.  The terrible warrior was so powerful, so feared, and his numerous successes so _final_, that he only accepted payments in one form—that a _wish_ might be cast on his behalf.

Uthud disappeared during the Greyhawk Wars, and while there were some who claimed that he was slain by the Boneshadow when they made their massacre of the devil-worshipping Hierarchs, such claims were mocked at by those who knew better; the Boneheart would not have survived the Greyhawk Wars had Uthud been present.  While the most commonly held belief was that he fled the plane altogether, Heydricus realizes that this war-duke has been held here by Zeflen, a prisoner to the will of an ancient thing.

Heydricus _should_ be frightened, and the prospect does cross the Liberator’s mind, but he simply cannot bring himself to dismiss the child-like glee that steals over him when he thinks that within moments, gods willing, he will cross swords with one of the most legendary fighters ever to walk the Flanaess.  

Heydricus, Lucius and Regda all converge on Uthud, and the four combatants circle warily.  Lucius slips forward, and after taking a cut to the shoulder on his way in, manages to draw second blood, exposing the weakness in Uthud’s choice of armor, if not his legendary fighting skills.  Uthud likewise wounds Regda as she approaches, but evades her strikes altogether.

Prisantha, meanwhile, has paid little attention to her new foes, her mind entirely focused on Zeflen.  In the span of a single breath, she has inventoried her entire spell-list, considered every possible course of action, and predicted the most likely outcome for each of them, based on what she learned about her foe through her brief contact with its mind.  She concludes that there is only one option—and once that conclusion is reached, she acts.  She levels her most powerful abjuration at the beast—the spell that is perhaps the most powerful abjuration in existence; _Mordenkainen’s disjunction_.  With that, she literally picks apart all magical and supernatural effects woven around or tied to the creature.  In an instant, she has severed its connection with tens of  thousands of minds and transformed Zeflen from the hub of a vast mental network to a singular thing—an individual entity for whom self-integrity is the worst kind of torment.  

Zeflen pulls away from the Liberators, expressing its agony clearly on the etheric plane, as the tentacles withdraw into their ooze-sacs and the whole of the thing begins to roll and slither away from the foul humans who have done it so much harm.  In the physical plane, the mist begins to seep into the darkness, retreating from the battle.

While Jespo does not recognize Prisantha’s spell, he does notice Zeflen’s reaction to it, and he places an _acid fog_ directly into the path of the retreating creature.  He reasons, perhaps correctly, that the fog will know its own and burn Zeflen to death.  Whatever the case, he cannot be sure, for Zeflen’s response is to re-establish its mental dominance of Indomitable and draw the horse along with its unmoving rider into the conjured fog!  Cursing, Jespo is forced do undo his spell almost as soon as he cast it.

As a result of Prisantha’s _disjunction_, the dragon is freed from its bondage and stops itself mid-breath, allowing the lighting building up within its maw to dissipate and ground harmlessly.  The creature shakes its head several times, and flutters its wings—a gesture that produces a powerful breeze that stirs the combatant’s clothing, but does not move the various mists playing about the room at  all.

Uthud feigns confusion (or more accurately exaggerates his confusion), and uses his new-found freedom to pursue the same agenda it shared with Zeflen only a moment ago.  Uthud leaps at Lucius, working well within the smaller man’s reach, reversing his grip on his blade, and using the edge of his great-sword like a lever against the rogues’ back and neck.  Heydricus has never seen this unconventional maneuver before, but cannot argue with its effectiveness.  By the time the war-duke has regained his grip on his weapon’s pommel, and used it to knock Regda off her feet, Lucius has already fallen to his knees, gasping and trying without success to remain conscious.

Regda may not be the sharpest edge in the armory, but even so, she does not need any outside observer to point out how badly out-classed she is, nor to remind her that with two blows the vile swordsman has nearly killed her.  She regains her feet, placing her guard before her and backs away carefully, allowing Heydricus to take her place within Uthud’s deadly reach.  Heydricus does so gleefully, and without any preamble, opens the war-duke’s breastplate with a series of crushing blows.

“How do you like that, warbitch?” he sneers.  “Got any _wishes_ to save your ass?”

Uthud regards him coldly and counterattacks, beating Heydricus back onto his heels, opening gashes that seem to bleed well beyond their severity.  “As a matter of fact, I do.”  Uthud’s voice is cold and distant.  “I will let you know if we are joined by an opponent worthy of one, _worm_.”   

The insult reminds Heydricus of the dragon at his back, and he spares a quick glance, enough to ascertain that somehow, the creature is no longer hostile.  “That’s my Pris,” he says to himself as a grin spreads across his face.

Prisantha does not hear the compliment—she is involved with a _horrid wilting_ spell that pulls some of the mist that is Zeflen from the air, while Jespo _disintegrates_ another section.  In response, Zeflen sends Indomitable charging toward Prisantha, kicking wildly.  At this, Belvor falls limply from the saddle, but the horse has trouble gaining speed amongst the stalagmites, and Pris is able avoid the charge altogether.

Redga fires an arrow into Uthud’s exposed midsection, bounces one off his armor, and sends one wide.  The war-duke ignores the missiles and concentrates on Heydricus.  He cuts the hardy sorcerer again, wounding him gravely.  Heydricus retaliates with a flurry of his own, and just as he is growing confident that the fight has tipped in his favor, Uthud’s head and half of his right shoulder disappear into the maw of the bronze dragon.

Heydricus stares at the dragon for a moment and remarks, “Shoulda used that wish,” as he charges into the retreating mist.  Immortal does not mean eternal, after all.


----------



## wolff96

Great fight and so much FUN!

I love the descriptions you use in this story hour, (contact). Especially the brief glimpse of the creature's mind that Prisantha received.

Curious about two things, though:

1) How did Pris figure out the Disjunction? Spellcraft? Knowledge: Arcana? Lucky player guess?

2) How did the Liberators originally get on the wrong side of Zeflen? I can't recall what first added his name to "The List".


----------



## KidCthulhu

(contact) said:
			
		

> “Good job, honey,” Prisantha says.




Color me the same shade of mystified as Jespo.  You'd hinted at somethin' going on, but hey, we've gotten to "honey" already!?


----------



## (contact)

wolff96 said:
			
		

> 1) How did Pris figure out the Disjunction? Spellcraft? Knowledge: Arcana? Lucky player guess?
> 
> 2) How did the Liberators originally get on the wrong side of Zeflen? I can't recall what first added his name to "The List".




1) Smart player guess / "this is my most buh-DASS spell."  

2) Calibut is the former capitol of Tenh.  Zeflen is in the books as the Iuzian administering the place-- I wanted him to be a little more interesting than the parade of morally degenerate Iuzian spellcasters the Liberators had been pounding on recently.

Que Piratecat.  Remember the intelligent advanced black ooze his PCs fought last year?  That's Zeflen.  I added touches here and there, slapped on a template or two, then gave it an _dominate monster_ ability with no HD cap, and a 3-mile range.


----------



## KidCthulhu

(contact) said:
			
		

> I added touches here and there, slapped on a template or two, then gave it an _dominate monster_ ability with no HD cap, and a 3-mile range.




Oh, is _that_ all?  I'm surprised it gave them so much trouble.


----------



## Enkhidu

I can't believe you killed Warduke.

Warduke, man!




So when does Strongheart make an appearance?


----------



## (contact)

Strongheart was tortured to death by Zinvellon off-screen when the party was still 4th level.  Sorry.

As a note, my players had never seen the Warduke action figure, and missed the toy reference entirely, but they were really excited about his backstory.  It made him fun to fight (paid in wishes-- _cool_), and when he killed Lucius then nearly killed Regda _in one round_, they caught a healthy dose of teh feer.

For the curious, I added Zeflen to the Rogue's Gallery: The Plauge of Will.


----------



## Joshua Randall

Noooooooo! I rend my Strongheart action figure in sorrow.

Next you'll tell me that Elkhorn retired and took up bean-farming....


----------



## Zaruthustran

(contact) said:
			
		

> As a note, my players had never seen the Warduke action figure, and missed the toy reference entirely, but they were really excited about his backstory.  It made him fun to fight (paid in wishes-- _cool_), and when he killed Lucius then nearly killed Regda _in one round_, they caught a healthy dose of teh feer.




Killed Lucius? No!

-z


----------



## Barastrondo

(contact) said:
			
		

> As a note, my players had never seen the Warduke action figure, and missed the toy reference entirely, but they were really excited about his backstory.




Toy reference? Or references? Suddenly, that bronze dragon is looking awful suspicious, too.



			
				(contact) said:
			
		

> It made him fun to fight (paid in wishes-- _cool_), and when he killed Lucius then nearly killed Regda _in one round_, they caught a healthy dose of teh feer.




Watch out, Lucius! The Liberators don't like to bring back cohorts from the dead too often. Better keep those deadpan witticisms coming, or they'll trade you in just like they traded in Elijah and Thrommel.


----------



## (contact)

"Well, it's not that there's anything wrong with him, it's just . . ."

"Yes?"

"My new cohort is . . . well, a _paladin_, and this one is _evil_."

"So you're worried about problems between them."

"Exactly."

"Other than that?"

"Well, other than that, he's been fine."

"An assassin, is he?"

"Oh, yes.  A fine assassin."

"Assasinated a lot of people, then, did he?"

"Well.  Actually, he hasn't ever . . ."

(Squinting) "And what level is this 'assassin'?"

"Oh, he's seventeenth."

"Are you sure?"

"Oh, yes, I am sure."

"And how do you know?"

"Well . . . he told me that he . . ."

"I see.  Look, I don't have a lot in stock right now, but if you like I can trade him in for a Lawful Good conjurer, mediocre stats, with a bit of a persecution complex."

"Oh, no thank you, we already have one of those."


----------



## dpdx

I think the 'honey' reference indicates that Pris and Heydricus are finally interested in each other for reasons other than pre-combat augmentation magic, battle formation, and Flanaessian politics. 

So whose name is on the "After Thrommel gets married" plot point pool square? They won.


----------



## Whitey

*3 2 1 (contact)*

Tumbled to page four? four? This just won't do.

Congratulations on a great read, (contact).  It was your ToEE + 20  that brought me to these boards, taught me to love D&D again, and gave me a real sense of validation when I DM'd cartloads of PCs into oblivion.    

In my mind, you've got hard core heroes here - they overcome fearsome obstacles to do good deeds. They're not perfect, but it's not about being perfect or invincible.  They make good with what they've got, and manage to go beyond what would be just good enough.  That's heroic in my estimation. 


With the Liberators, I want to see a party thrive, not just endure the next challenge or make TEH NUMBARS BIG.  They've got what it takes, and so do you, (contact).

Double congrats to Emily Rose.  d20, roll high, kid.


----------



## Rackhir

Hey!!! (contact) it's been a whole year since the last update! And the Story Hour was about to fall onto the 4th page again. Don't tell me the players are STILL busy with that baby thing? How much time could that take out of their lives (Tongue Firmly in Cheek)?


----------



## Plane Sailing

Still love the story!

I was guessing that Pris's "honey" was just part of her normal feelings towards Heydricus. 

"that's my Pris" on the other hand... is Heydricus showing affection to his comerade in arms now


----------



## Barastrondo

Or maybe the original Prisantha quit the show after the last season to pursue a movie career, and the current Pris is deciding to approach the role from a "gum-smacking Southern diner waitress with too much eyeshadow but a heart of gold" perspective.

I heard Dabus left on account of creative differences, and the writers keep abusing Thrommel because his actor is vocally politically conservative, which vexes the largely liberal writers' clique. 

Ah, what tales that casting couch could tell...


----------



## (contact)

Whitey said:
			
		

> Congratulations on a great read, (contact).  It was your ToEE + 20  that brought me to these boards, taught me to love D&D again, and gave me a real sense of validation when I DM'd cartloads of PCs into oblivion.




Thank you, that's quite a compliment!


----------



## Wish

_Killed Lucius? No!_

Lots of people die around the Liberators.  The ones they like tend to get better.

So I go away for 6 weeks and I come back to find just one update, and this thread down on page 3.  Holidays, baby and all that I understand - like I said, I was gone for 6 weeks - but your loyal fans are still out here, (contact) and we haven't forgotten you or the Liberators.  Looking forward to the next update.

The baby picture is classic though.  Very cute.


----------



## (contact)

Thanks Wish-- between the holidays and the baby, we're on a little gaming hiatus.  Hopefully we'll get some dice-time in soon.


----------



## afreed

(contact) said:
			
		

> Thanks Wish-- between the holidays and the baby, we're on a little gaming hiatus.  Hopefully we'll get some dice-time in soon.



Just curious--does this mean that the story hour is up-to-date with current events in the game?
I'm really interested to see where things go from here; it feels like we've just started a whole new story for the Liberators. With Heydricus and Pris (apparently) finally together, Dabus dead and Belvor in the party, I want to see what the new dynamics are like. (Perhaps oddly, given its ancestry in ToEE2, I've always been more interested in the characters of Liberators than the plots. But I like the plots, too!)
Anyway, I'm happy to be patient if it means seeing more of the finest story hour on the boards.


----------



## (contact)

Be afreed . . . be very, very afreed . . .

I really appreciate when those of you with more of a lurker tendancy show up to say something nice about the Liberators-- thanks for the kind words!



			
				afreed said:
			
		

> Just curious--does this mean that the story hour is up-to-date with current events in the game?




Yes-- the aftermath of the Zeflen fight isn't quite enough to make up its own update.  So we are *mostly* up to date-- I could probably milk what I haven't posted yet for say, 800 words or so, maybe I'll write it up as an interlude.



			
				afreed said:
			
		

> (Perhaps oddly, given its ancestry in ToEE2, I've always been more interested in the characters of Liberators than the plots. But I like the plots, too!)




Yeah, me too.  (Poor DMing, I know, but there it is.  "Plot, shmot . . . that's just the spike in the head we hang our characterization cloaks on.")


----------



## (contact)

*Interlude—“His glory, by whose might all things are mov'd, / Pierces the universe, and in one part / Sheds more resplendence, elsewhere less.”* 
-- Dante Alighieri, _Paradise_

When you are called before a pair of High Magistrates to answer the charge of Heresy, it is because you are guilty.  

Trials and Courts of Inquisition might be used to determine guilt or innocence for lesser charges, but a Heresy charge is the most serious of crimes—one that imperils the criminal’s life and afterlife simultaneously.  As such, the accusation is confirmed or denied through communion and prayer, usually long before the heretic is aware of the Church’s suspicions.  Pholtus does not make mistakes.

In the case of Tau, a former student of Comparative Heretical Faiths, this trial will be his last chance to redeem his immortal soul in the eyes of Pholtus and His church.  He will be asked to confess before his betters, and should he choose wisely, he will freely repent his heresy and right his soul with the Blinding Light before he dies.  This would, of course, spare Tau’s family tremendous shame—everyone involved agrees that it is a remarkably charitable thing for Pholtus to do, and among the new Prelate’s Magistrates many comments are made about the Compassion inherent in the One True Law.   

Pholtus’ Plan for the Pale is many-faceted and subtle, worthy of the greatest of gods.  Mortals cannot be expected to understand; thus the Fallible must always adhere to the Letter of the Law.  May all some day become Blind.


----------



## (contact)

*Patchwall 14, CY 593
77—Quiet studies in disjoined minds.*


 “Well f-ck,” Heydricus says.  “The king is dead.”  His tone is accusatory, although there are no convenient scapegoats for the charge to find any traction against.  He is leaning against a large stalagmite, his hands on his thighs, looking at the former King of Furyondy, slumped half-off his celestial warhorse.  Jespo Crim is making a careful circle around the paladin, examining him closely.  The warhorse whickers softly.

Heydricus sighs.  “It must run in the family.”

“No, no,” Jespo corrects him.  “I’ve become something of an expert on dead royalty, Heydricus.  This king is alive—he’s just . . . well, he’s gone _limp_.”  Jespo is prodding the plate-armored paladin with the haft of a _greater magic weapon_ wand.  “I think he can hear us.”

As the last of the fog fades and drifts away, Gwendolyn is revealed, lying where she fell.  Like Belvor, she breathes, but does not move.

“And Lucius is still alive too,” Regda offers brightly, hoping to lighten the mood.  “But he’s not limp, he’s just all cut up.”  She is covered head to toe in blood, looking like a six-foot toddler left unsupervised in an ink factory.

“And I am alive,” the dragon says in a rumbling voice, its diction drawn slowly across its leathery tongue.  The creature twines around one stalagmite and disappears briefly behind another before coming to a stop a few feet from Heydricus.  

As a group, the Liberators regard the bronze-scaled beast, who is favoring Heydricus with both golden eyes.  It scoots closer to the tall warrior, forcing Prisantha and Jespo aside.  “We fight well together,” it says.

“That we do,” Heydricus admits, beaming.  

“You spared me,” the dragon hints.  “Isn’t that interesting?”

“You were least of our foes,” Prisantha says.  “We prioritize.”

The dragon’s head does not move, but its eye-lids narrow, and its pupils condense to twin scratches within the flecked golden orb of its eyes.  After a moment, it squares itself to Heydricus, putting its tail-end toward Prisantha.

“My name is Rrrradiant,” it says.  “Introduce yourself.”

“Hello, Radiant,” Heydricus begins.

“Rrrradiant,” it interrupts.

“Radiant?” he says.

“Rrrradiant,” it insists.

“I am Heydricus Tritherionson, and . . .”

Before he can finish the introductions, the dragon has whirled on Prisantha and is giving her its best threatening stare.  Prisantha stares back, unimpressed.  She winks once.  After a moment, the dragon has relented.  It twines itself toward Prisantha, wrapping its serpentine neck around her body, whispering all the while.

“You humans bear the mark of the Rattleskin Dragon,” it hisses.  “How is this possible?”

“If you mean the creature who spoke with its mane, we freed it from imprisonment.”  Pris arches her eyebrows.

The dragon rolls its eyes back in its head as it ponders, then coils another full turn around the enchantress.  “Then I am doubly in your debt.  I have a gift for you.”  The dragon places its head next to hers, and as it keeps an eye on Heydricus, whispers something into Prisantha’s ear in Draconic.

-----

With the bronze dragon leading the way, the Liberators are able to navigate a full mile of twisting underground passages and emerge on the surface of Calibut, a morass of well-tended contradictions and terrors.  Like the other cities of Tenh, Calibut was sacked by the men of the Stone Fist as they swarmed through the Northern mountains.  Unlike the other cities of Tenh, the sacking was not repeated at regular intervals for the next decade.  Its male population was not slaughtered, its families not dispersed, its children not sent away to bleak Dorraka for a short life of subjugation.  Calibut did not see its grand buildings and monuments destroyed, nor did it become a breeding ground for magically-created plagues and abyssal diseases.

Instead, Calibut slid gently into a long, restless sleep.  For ten years, the people of the city ate enough, rested the proper amount (and not a minute more), and tended to one another with all the efficiency and care of automatons.  There was plenty of food, and mundane healing when necessary.  Conditions were impeccably sanitary.  There was no division, no strife—no profiteering at the expense of the less fortunate, no examples of the strong preying on the weak.  There were no smiles, no laughter, no humor (grim or otherwise).  There were no gentle touches, no comforting scents.  No families, no arguments, no tears, no fear and no love.

There was Zeflen.  

But now the Ancient is gone, and as Prisantha’s _disjunction_ ripped his presence from the minds of Calibut’s people, the vast majority of them went mad.  Some have gone only slightly mad—afflicted with the sort of preoccupied half-terror that might provoke concerned gossip from friends and family in some other place.  The weak-minded have it far worse, unable to convince themselves that they don’t remember anything; unable to forget the cavernous vistas of breathtaking callousness.

“Well you’ve got to admire his organizational skills,” Lucius says to no one in particular.  

-----

By the end of the first week, Gwendolyn and Belvor are able to move around somewhat, the warmth slowly returning to their limbs over the course of several days.  The Liberators have taken control of the situation and have deputized the most coherent able-bodied adults they can find.  All things considered, they have a fairly easy job; the infrastructure of the city is well-preserved, and while Spartan to an extreme, is perfectly suited for the city’s needs.  There is no trace of the rampant disease and malnutrition common in other Tenha communities.  The population of Calibut actually grew during the occupation—children are everywhere parentless and alone.  

Jespo Crim immediately begins _mass teleporting_ groups of Nevond Nevnend guardsmen to aid in the efforts, and Heydricus orders several hundred of his infantry to make for Calibut on a forced march.

Two days before her appointment in Wintershiven, Prisantha prepares a _vision_ spell, and asks, “Does Zeflen plan to return to Calibut this year?”  

She receives this reply:  _Zeflen is capable of neither mercy nor compassion; neither shame nor anger.  Desire is as foreign to Zeflen as love_. 

She takes that as a “no.”

------

“Like I give a f-ck about the Pholtans right now.” 

Heydricus is fuming.  Prisantha has called together a strategy council the day before their appointment in Wintershiven.  Jespo, Pris and Heydricus are meeting over tea and rations—there are as yet no bakeries serving delicacies in Calibut.

“I’ve got a _feebleminded_ populace who can’t even lace their own boots, nonetheless feed themselves,” Heydricus complains.  “I’m getting daily reports about gang-fighting in my capital, there are massive supply problems that only get worse the further South you go, and the King of Furyondy is so far up my ass with ‘helpful suggestions’ that it hurts when I close my mouth.”

“Well,” Jespo says.

“I just thought that we might want to try a little strategy this time,” Prisantha says.  “Nothing elaborate, just, you know, deciding what to do?”

“What do you mean, what to do?” Heydricus asks.  “We’re going to go to Wintershiven and get Tau out of there.”

“We should expect trouble,” Jespo opines loftily.  “There are factions among the Pale that believe we were responsible for the assassination of the former High Prelate.”  

“I’m sure I’ll care one of these days,” Heydricus says.

“We could give them the Lord of Stoink,” Prisantha suggests.  “C’min and Elenthal have thoroughly reconnoitered Stoink—I am sure we could grab the Lord, and make a peace offering out of him.”

“The only thing I want to give the Pholtans is trouble and grief,” Heydricus says.  “We have a treaty with Nyrond, which is tantamount to having a war with the Pale.”

“What about one of the Lord’s friends?” she asks.

“People like the Lord of Stoink don’t have friends.”

“That’s a fair observation,” Jespo says.  

Fräs purrs.  

“Exactly so,” Jespo says.

“Well, I’d like to know what we are getting into,” Prisantha says, removing her _crystal ball of true seeing_.

“It sounds like a trap to me,” Jespo says.

“I’m sure it’s a trap,” Heydricus grins.  “Why do you think I’m accepting the summons?”

Prisantha is frowning.  “My _scrying_ is blocked!  

“The nerve of some people,” Jespo sniffs, then adds, “I’m sure _scrying_ on a prisoner is a criminal offense in Wintershiven.”

Heydricus nods.  “You know, we should keep a tally of our crimes.  Can you start one, Jespo?”

“Suddenly you’re concerned about legalities?” Prisantha asks.

“I’m not concerned,” Heydricus says, smiling.  “I’m _interested_.”

Jespo is making notes on a piece of parchment.  “Say Heydricus, weren’t you part of the raid on Pholtus’ temple?”  

“Oh yeah, I’d forgotten!” Heydricus says.

“Ah, to rescue me,” Prisantha muses.

Heydricus sighs.  “There’s no way they’re letting me out of there without a fight.  In fact, I’m counting on it; we go in, we kick ass, and we escape with Tau.  I’m not letting any friend of mine be judged by that bastard Pholtus.  We’ll know what we’re up against when we get there.”

“Then we’ll kill it,” Jespo observes.  “Or die trying.  Or both.”

“I’m not taking Belvor,” Heydricus says.  

“Ah,” Jespo says. 

Prisantha sighs.  “I needed to be able to say that I tried,” she mutters to herself.  “Fine, I’ll _teleport_ us in this evening.”


----------



## Morte

Thanks, (c). Looking forward to more when it comes.


----------



## Zaruthustran

<homer voice>
Mmmm... (contact) dialogue.
</homer voice>

-z


----------



## (contact)

*Patchwall 14, CY 593
78—“We’ll always have Wintershiven . . .”*

It is much easier to get into the capitol of the Pale than it is to get out, judging by the amount of supplicants forming a quarter-mile queue leading to the city’s gates.  

Every so often, a team of horses pulling a cart, or peasant leading a donkey ambles unobstructed out of the city and breezes past the Liberators, provoking a new complaint from Jespo each time.  From their spot in line, the gates of Wintershiven are nothing more than grey smudges on the horizon; the city itself is a hill-shaped bubble of low stone buildings radiating outward from a huge pale structure in the city’s center.  Despite the overcast day, gaps in the clouds allow streams of light to illuminate the central building.

Heydricus and Lucius discuss tactics in low tones, while Jespo and Prisantha debate scholarly matters.  Regda is speaking with other people in line, her easy grin and disarming innocence proving to outweigh her abundance of arms and armor.  Gwendolyn has not made the journey, for fear that her presence with the Liberators might make its way back to the wrong ears in Furyondy—surely magical disguises will hold no water in a Wintershiven court.  Belvor, C’min and Elenthal were likewise left behind to attend to the resurrection of Calibut. 

“See the people four carts up?” Regda asks Heydricus.  “They have produce for the market.  They said that they haven’t ever seen the lines this bad, and they’re worried their fruit is going to spoil.  Can you order the guards up there to hurry up?”

“I’m not the Lord of Wintershiven, Regda,” Heydricus says. 

“Oh.”  Crestfallen, the broad-shouldered fighter walks back to her new friends.

“They are going to _geas_ us,” Prisantha says.  “I was able to determine that much.  From what I understand, a heresy trial is a formality in the Pale; it is something of a rare event for us to have been called at all.  After all, if we admit to participating in Tau’s fall from faith, we are also guilty.”

“Making a religious choice isn’t a crime,” Heydricus insists.

“It is in the Pale,” Jespo observes.  

Regda returns to the group, a melon tucked under her arm.  “I didn’t want their fruit to go bad, so I bought it.”

“All of it?” Jespo asks.

“And the cart,” Regda says.  “And the donkey.  Would you like some melon?”

“That one’s not ripe, dear, put it back,” Jespo says.

The Liberators take Regda’s new cart and lead it slowly toward the gate, distributing fruit to everyone involved, and making friends as they go.  Prisantha uses her persistent _charm person_ ability liberally, and after a few minutes, the cart has become the epicenter of a gathering—a pair of song-smiths lead the crowd in traditional Flan sing-alongs, and it isn’t long before a full-fledged party breaks out.

Now, if there is anything more suspicious to bureaucrats than an individual who is unconcerned with details, it is an un-requested, un-approved expression of _joie de vivre_.  That this expression should happen on the very brink of such a solemn event as passing through customs is, of course, twice as troubling.  A brace of guardsmen is quickly dispatched to get to the root of whatever heretofore un-encountered social phenomenon has overtaken their intake point, and after a smile and a wink from Prisantha, they are ferrying the Liberators to the Head of the Line.

-----

“Do you have any arcane magic to declare?”  The guardsman does not look up from his form.  He jerks his thumb toward a long list of proscribed objects tacked onto the wall behind him.  The first entry reads (sic), “No arcain magiks allowed insyde the citie for any purpus.”  

Jespo shuffles nervously. “I have a _few_ things,” he admits.  

Fräs hisses.  

“Compared to some,” he clarifies.  

Fräs hisses.  

“I am the Lord of Tenh,” Heydricus says.  “I will not surrender my magic items to my lesser.”

The guardsman regards Heydricus warily.  The Liberator’s imperious tone strikes a chord within the man—a chord that hints at the grander harmonies of Obedience, Submission and Conformity that form the basis of his relationship to the divine.  Of course, this adventurer is claiming to be Lord of the Pale’s Northern Provinces—land that is administered (_remotely, ahem_) by Duke Eyeh.  He must therefore be mad.  

Nonetheless, he _does_ look powerful, and it is only very rarely a poor idea to delegate decisions upwards along the chain-of-command.

“I shall summon a Validitor from the High Magistrate’s office,” he concludes.

“That will be fine,” Heydricus says.

-----

“. . . you will be assigned an assistant for the duration of your stay.”  The functionary is suitably high-ranking, just barely courteous, and properly brusque.  In fact, it seems like a gesture of respect here in the Pale if your assistant really snaps to it; judging by his efficacy, this particular assistant seems to regard the Liberators with a respect bordering on terror.  They are rushed through the streets of the Pale capital so quickly the buildings seem to blur together, and within minutes have been ferried into the Halls of Light; a building large enough to swallow most Tenha communities whole (and still have room for Hommlet as a _digestif_).  

The Liberators are shown to an austere series of rooms, and are introduced to their ‘assistant,’ a burly guardsman wearing the livery of the Church.  The man answers questions directly and says, “sir” often.  He admits under questioning that his primary duty is to keep the Liberators from breaking any laws during their visit.  

Heydricus learns that he and Prisantha were summoned not by an act of the Church, but at the request of Tau’s barrister.  The guard points out that while this nearly unheard of, it is not the only unusual element to the case—barristers are rarely willing to represent Heresy plaintiffs, as all accused heretics are guilty by virtue of being accused, and defending a guilty heretic is itself a treasonous act.  The guard suggests that there are more expeditious methods of suicide, but (he hints portentously) who can know the minds of gnomes?

Heydricus asks to be taken to this barrister, and after the guard hems and haws about what a Bad Idea it is to leave the Halls of Light the night before a trial, he is forced to admit that there is no law against such a thing.  The guardsman sullenly leads the party to a nearby inn, filled near to bursting with half-drunken clerks comparing the week’s papercuts with a warrior’s air.

After a proper meal (the earlier fruit not withstanding, the Liberators have not eaten all day), Heydricus and Prisantha are taken to the second floor, where they rap on the last door on the left.  A small, wiry figure answers, his face forming the very caricature of paranoia as his eyes dart from side to side.

“Yes?  I mean, no.  Whatever it is, no.  Who are you?”

“We’re friends of Tau,” Heydricus says, smiling.

The gnome pauses in mid-denial, then brightens.  “Come in, come in!  Not you, sir, this is privileged conversation.”  The gnome brushes the guardsman back into the hallway before slamming the door on his face. The gnome’s small room is a riot of half-opened books, half-empty food platters and half-finished drinks.  “I’m ever so glad you came.  Frankly, since I hadn’t heard back, I’d assumed you’d not make it.”

“What?” Heydricus scoffs.  “We don’t abandon friends.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” the gnome says.  “In fact, my strategy depends on it.  Cocrane’s the name.  You must be Heydricus and Prisantha.”

Prisantha inclines her head in acknowledgement.  “How did you come to be here, Cocrane?  Our assistant suggested that barristers don’t often represent heretics in Wintershiven.”

“Oh, to my knowledge, none ever have,” Cocraine says.  “But these sorts of things are my specialty.”

“What sorts of things?” she asks.

“Un-winnable cases,” he beams, waggling his bushy eyebrows.  “I take political criminals and snatch them from the teeth of the state.  Whichever state it happens to be,” he adds as an afterthought.  “It’s a sort of magic I suppose, creating the improbable out of the impossible.”

“And what is your strategy for this case?” Heydricus asks.

“Well, let me answer your question with a question,” the gnome counters.  “What would you have done for Tau if I had not been here?”

Heydricus laughs.  “We’d have kicked in the door, killed anyone who got in our way, and _teleported_ him the hell out of here.”

Cocrane crosses his arms with a self-satisfied air.

Prisantha gapes.  “_We’re_ going to free Tau through force of arms—that is your strategy?”

“And a good one, too, if I do say so myself,” he says.  “I will be the first barrister to ever successfully defend a heresy trial in the Pale, I suspect.”

Heydricus beams at the gnome.  “I like the way you think.  What do you know about the legal systems of reconstructed states?”

-----

“Are you aware that while you stand before this court, you stand before the Light and Truth of Pholtus?”

The magistrates aren’t going to continue until Heydricus says yes.  Unfortunately for the preceedings, Heydricus is stuck on the “Truth of Pholtus” part.  The Liberators stand in the center of a large, cavernous hall, directly before a circular riser covered with an ancient and carefully preserved cloth-of-gold tarp that faintly crackles with magical emanations.  Upon this cloth-of-gold sit a pair of enormous golden lions, both of whom shine in the light streaming into the chamber from the skylight directly above them, and cast off a heavenly nimbus.  Astride each lion is a High Magistrate; Sir Amara Pentos, a knight famed for his martial prowess, known as “the Scourge of Unrest,” and Sir Mathor the Elder, called “the Stern” for his penchant of ordering executions when in doubt.  Both magistrates are resplendent in their silvered plate armor, and glow like white-hot points of light within the golden warmth of their steed’s radiance.  

Behind the magistrates, the hall is bisected by the largest tapestry that any of the Liberators have ever seen.  Images of Pholtus and his Nation are rendered in a larger-than-life scale, the whole of the work bespeaking years of toil; a monument to devotion.

In the shadow between the two lions, Tau kneels humbly, the angles of his normally thin and frail form exaggerated by months of imprisonment.  As the material witnesses, Heydricus and Prisantha have been called forward.  They stand near enough to count the links in Tau’s manacles, while Lucius, Jespo, Regda and Cocrane remain beside the palatial double-doors that give entrance into this sacred fane.

“I will ask again, that the Letter of the Law be satisfied.”  Sir Amara is growing angry.  Lesser men break beneath his displeasure, but this heretic seems more sturdy than most. Pholtus willing, this fool will draw that sword he keeps fingering.  “Are you aware that while you stand before this court, you stand before the Light and Truth of Pholtus?”

Heydricus twitches.  “Yeah, I get it,” he mutters.

“Are you aware that you may speak no lies within the presence of this court, punishable by _geas_?”

“Sure.”

“Do you accept the judgment of this court as final and binding?  Do you submit to the Will of Pholtus?”

“You know, while you as-holes sat here congratulating one another and scheduling meetings, the rest of the world was at war.”

“You may answer my question with ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”

“So explain to me why I should submit to the will of diety as cowardly and conniving as Pholtus?”

Sir Amara sits perfectly still.  For the first time since the Liberators entered the room, Tau looks up.

“_He’s not even a Flan god_,” Heydricus continues.  “Yet your claim to Tenh is along racial lines?  Do you think we are f-cking stupid?  Only a moron like Eyeh could possibly cozy up to a bunch of prickly sell-outs like you.”

Sir Mathor the Elder leans across his lion’s mane.  His eyes are twin points of inky black threat.  “You would do well to hold your tongue, heretic.  Your trial will come soon enough.”

Heydricus has had enough.  At Prisantha’s direction, a system of signals had been worked out, so that the Liberators could coordinate their assault, and achieve the initiative.  They were subtle and inclusive, simple enough to be readily learned, yet complex enough to convey tactical information.  Heydricus has forgotten them.

“F-ck your trial, and f-ck Pholtus,” Heydricus growls as he draws his sword.  “I’ll give you what we gave your sanctuary on Mount Celestia!” 

Recognizing his cue, Lucius shoots Sir Mathor in the throat with an _arrow of human slaying_ (coated with purple worm poison, just in case).


----------



## KidCthulhu

> In fact, my strategy depends on it. Cocrane’s the name.




Was that _really_ necessary?


----------



## Hammerhead

Cocrane was also the gnome barrister in the Risen Goddess as well, when Taran, Thelbar, Indy, and Kyreel stood trial in Ratik. It's just campaign continuity.


----------



## Kid Charlemagne

(contact) said:
			
		

> At Prisantha’s direction, a system of signals had been worked out, so that the Liberators could coordinate their assault, and achieve the initiative. They were subtle and inclusive, simple enough to be readily learned, yet complex enough to convey tactical information. Heydricus has forgotten them.




The Liberators in a nutshell....


----------



## Piratecat

(contact) said:
			
		

> Recognizing his cue, Lucius shoots Sir Mathor in the throat with an _arrow of human slaying_ (coated with purple worm poison, just in case).




Holy firking snit. 

I only wish I had been there to see this.


----------



## (contact)

Hammerhead said:
			
		

> Cocrane was also the gnome barrister in the Risen Goddess as well, when Taran, Thelbar, Indy, and Kyreel stood trial in Ratik. It's just campaign continuity.




^ what he said.  

Plus, Cocrane is not my NPC.  He is right and fully the creation of Heydricus' player, developed on the fly to answer this question:  What kind of barrister could Indy find in Ratik willing to represent the Ratik Three _non gratis_?



			
				Piratecat said:
			
		

> Holy firking snit.




I guess that when their saves are as good as his were, you'd better see how many you can force him to make in a single round.  I'm sure Sagrio could tell us what the statistical chances are of an enemy rolling a 1 in one try, or in three.  

Assassination > human slaying > posion.  As it turned out, he missed one of those saves.


----------



## dpdx

I'd add that Heydricus' swearing-in rant is Taran-like in its bluster, almost like both roles were being played by the same actor.


----------



## Capellan

(contact) said:
			
		

> I'm sure Sagrio could tell us what the statistical chances are of an enemy rolling a 1 in one try, or in three.




5% and 14.25%, respectively.  In round figures, anyway.

And I played Rolemaster without a calculator, too.  What's your point?


----------



## (contact)

Capellan said:
			
		

> 5% and 14.25%, respectively.  In round figures, anyway.
> 
> And I played Rolemaster without a calculator, too.  What's your point?




Eh-hexcellent.  Thank you Capellan, you are a gentleman and a scholar.

DPDX-- Heydricus' player plays Thelbar.  Jespo Crim's player plays Taran.    But Heydricus *hates* the Pholtans with an ire deeper than the one he has for Iuz.  The Empire of Iuz is an evil tyrranical, oppressing nation-- but the Pholtans are Flan sellouts, who stood by while Tenh was crushed and did nothing (to their political advantage).


----------



## KidCthulhu

I can respect that.  Evil conquerors at least have a plan and some ambition.  You've got to give them points for the dream.  Just sitting by and letting the conqueror do his thing is not only evil, it's lazy.


----------



## (contact)

And in the case of the Pale, they became the only nation of their three-nation group (Pale, Nyrond and Tenh) who did not suffer and/or expend resources during the Greyhawk Wars.  Tenh of course, was sacked (and sacked, and sacked, and . . .) while Nyrond spent its efforts fighting the Iuzian/Stonefist hordes.

Meanwhile, the Pale does nothing, and at the end of the war is able to flex its unsapped military strength to begin its own territorial expansion.  Very cynical, morally quesitonable, and just about the Worst Possible Choice from Heydricus' point of view.

(Of course, if you are *from* the Pale, you consider Nyrond and Tenh part of your nation anyway.)


----------



## Joshua Randall

(contact) said:
			
		

> Assassination > human slaying > posion. As it turned out, he missed one of those saves.



Holy crap! Does this mean that Lucius is finally going to succeed in assassinating someone?

= = =

BTW - a quick'n'dirty method for figuring out the answer to questions such as, "What are the chances of rolling a 1 (in d20) on 3 consecutive saves?" You can figure this out by calculating the chances of *not* rolling a 1 on any of those saves, and then subtracting from 100%. So:

chance of not rolling a 1 on d20 = 19/20 = 0.95 = 95%
in three saves = 19/20 * 19/20 * 19/20 = 0.857 = 85.7%
subtract... 100% - 85.7% = 14.3% (as Capellan already said)

14.3% is about a 1-in-7 chance. So, definitely not something you'd want to gamble your life upon!


----------



## Morte

(contact) said:
			
		

> Heydricus has had enough.  At Prisantha’s direction, a system of signals had been worked out, so that the Liberators could coordinate their assault, and achieve the initiative.  They were subtle and inclusive, simple enough to be readily learned, yet complex enough to convey tactical information.  Heydricus has forgotten them.
> 
> [..]
> 
> Recognizing his cue, Lucius shoots Sir Mathor in the throat with an _arrow of human slaying_ (coated with purple worm poison, just in case).




I think this may actually be worth its weight in rubies. To say I'm eager for more...


----------



## the_mighty_agrippa

Rawk on.


----------



## (contact)

*Interlude: Politics and Religion / Choices and Decisions*

“Strong heretical religious feeling; fascinated by poison.”  That’s all it says in the margins next to the single mention of Lucius’ name.  In the minds of the Pale’s spies, he has been reduced to his faith and his profession.  

For the last seven hours, Lucius has been the sole possessor of the entirety of the Pale’s intelligence on Heydricus and the Liberators of Tenh.  At Heydricus’ direction, he broke into the Hall of Records and spent the evening working through the documents department removing every trace of Tenh, the Liberators and (for good measure) Prince Thrommel.  Judging by the volume of material, there are likely a half-dozen Pale scholars qualified to write a biography of either Heydricus or Prisantha.  Jespo Crim and Prince Thrommel share a healthy file, but when it came to finding his own name, Lucius found this:

_Strong heretical religious feeling; fascinated by poison._

This insulting lack of concern foremost in his mind, Lucius weighs his options carefully.  Black Lotus Extract is certainly the most deadly of the mortal poisons—it attacks ligaments and connective tissue first destroying them almost instantly, which (in a standing victim) provokes a wobbly collapse that has always made Lucius laugh.  Now, there’s no arguing with its effectiveness, but by the Cudgel, there is a time and place for humor, and this isn’t it.  Dragon bile would be effective, as would lich dust, but surprisingly, Lucius hasn’t had a good opportunity to collect either.  It seems the Liberators only fight liches and dragons whenever he’s not around.  Burnt Ether fumes are marvelously subtle, but too slow to act—chances are he won’t have but thirty or forty seconds to watch whichever sad son-of-a-bitch gets it suffer.  

On the other hand, what if the Liberators loose the fight?  In that case, the poison had better have a _nasty_ after-taste.  Something that’ll kick in just as the adrenaline bloom fades away into shock.

Which brings him back to Ol’ Trusty.  Purple worm poison—pain up front, and more pain on the back-end.  It probably won’t kill your average paladin, but it will make him _wish_ he was dead, which (when you think about it) is as good as it’s likely to get, since Heydricus is certainly going to _kill the sh-t out of them_.


----------



## Old One

*Yummy...*

Love that Lucius...!

~ Old One


----------



## Zarathustra

*Awesome updates*

This is great.  The confrontation with the Theocracy of Pholtus is something I had been looking forward to for the Liberators.  Fighting Iuzians is great too, but variety is the spice of life.  And having these stuffy, arrogant Pholtans shown a new light by the Liberators is just, well, enlightening.


----------



## Barastrondo

(contact) said:
			
		

> “Strong heretical religious feeling; fascinated by poison.”  That’s all it says in the margins next to the single mention of Lucius’ name.  [/i].




Well, probably not for long.

Heck, give it a few centuries and Lucius will be a household name among the Pholtan households. You know, like Judas. Or Herod. Or Jezebel.


----------



## Zaruthustran

Barastrondo said:
			
		

> Well, probably not for long.
> 
> Heck, give it a few centuries and Lucius will be a household name among the Pholtan households. You know, like Judas. Or Herod. Or Jezebel.





Hee hee! Good one.

Though, Lucius stole the only (meager) records that existed. Judas, Herod, and Jezebel are household names because they're in the Bible--Lucius just stole the Pholtan's Bible (the written record of his existance). And H is going to kill the sh*t out of any potential witnesses to what's about to happen.

So in a few centuries it'll probably be remembered as:

"And lo, the Tall Dark Enemy attempted to violate the sanctity of the Temple of Wintershiven. Verily, Saint Mathor and Saint Amara sacrificed themselves to prevent this occurrance. Lord Pholtus smote the Dark Enemy in his anger and banished him for all eternity, even causing all mention of his name to vanish from the Halls of Recording."

-z


----------



## thatdarncat

Hey, come to the storyhour author's chat tonight (7PM) and ask (contact) how the fight turned out  Click the link at the top, or go here: http://www.enworld.org/forums/showthread.php?p=1379118#post1379118


----------



## (contact)

*Patchwall 14, CY 593
79—The spirit of the letter.*


The arrow whistles into and through a pillar of sunlight beaming in from the sky-light; the missile pulls a funnel of dust motes behind it, leaving a pixie-dust trail marking the intersection between the will of Lucius Maturin and the Will of the Pale.  This boundary-bridging object, imbued with meaning, strikes Sir Mathor in the crease between his gorget and his breastplate.  There is a screeching sound as it ruins the hand-tooled engravings, putting a line through the phrase “exalted be His name.”  The quarrel embeds itself in the muscle alongside Sir Mathor’s neck, a painful wound, but not immediately deadly.  Sir Mathor jerks once as the _arrow of slaying_ discharges its magic into his frame, but Pholtus is with him, and he does not succumb to its charge.  His eyes flash with the anticipation of glory as he rips his sword from his jeweled scabbard.  A moment later, his saturnine scowl slowly turns to a rictus grimace as the purple worm poison constricts his airways and begins to freeze the muscles around the wound.

Jepso Crim _displaces_ Redga, and she uses an ioun stone to invoke a _greater magic weapon_ into her brilliant energy morning star before moving forward.  Heydricus invokes Tritherion’s favor before moving to stand beside Redga in front of the two knights.

Sir Amara’s mount, Triumphant, rears backward on its hind-legs and roars—a sound so loud and pure that Lucius is shaken and taken aback, fumbling with his cache of poisoned arrows.  Sir Amara raises his lance heavenward, and places it within the nimbus of light streaming down from the ceiling, sanctifying it with a _holy weapon_ invocation.  The light plays across the lance, and continues to dance up and down its length as Amara levels it at Heydricus.  Mathor’s mount joins the fury with a roar of its own, and Mathor touches its brow, placing a _bull’s strength_ on the beast.

As soon as she sees the two judges finish their preparatory spells, Prisantha sweeps them with _Mordenkainen’s disjunction_, tearing spell from target, and rendering their efforts worthless.  She finishes with a quickened _stoneskin_ and a wink.  

Lucius fires a second poisoned arrow into Mathor, provoking a rare curse from the pious man.  At that moment, Jespo Crim _dominates_ Amara, seizing his mind with a self-satisfied cackle.  At Jespo’s direction, Amara dismisses his celestial mount, and as the golden lion fades back into Pholtus’ realm, the paladin abandons the fight, fleeing behind the large tapestry for the unseen parts of the hall.

Mathor spurs his mount toward Heydricus, but he is met halfway through his charge by Regda, who nearly dismounts him with a single powerful blow from her brilliant energy weapon.  The morningstar she took from Piscean’s henchmen is semi-real—as light as a feather and only truly “there” for organic matter, say, paladin skin for example.  Mathor twists in the saddle, grunting as each of her sledgehammer blows strikes skin through his plate armor.  Mathor’s mount seizes Redga in its paws, and attempts to take her to the ground, but she keeps her feet beneath her.  Mathor drops his lance and removes a mace from his belt, breathing in short gasps.

As Regda and the lion wrestle for position, there is a sudden flare of light in the chamber, and at three equidistant points, small motes of light grow and coalesce into the form of tall otherworldly winged humans, clutching two-handed swords in a reverse grip and levitating fifteen feet from the floor—each of them an identical asexual being, perfectly beautiful save for the fact that their faces are featureless ovals of smooth, unblemished skin.

“The Three Judgments!” Cochrane screams.  “We’re doomed!”

“Prisantha of Verbobonc,” one angel says.  “_We Judge you Guilty_.”  

Prisantha sighs once and collapses to the floor, dead.

Tau cries out—the first noise he has made since entering the room—and rushes toward Prisantha’s side.  He takes her head in his arms, and mumbles softly to himself.

Heydricus charges the angel who spoke, and leaps high into the air, running his sword twice across the being’s torso before landing lightly on his feet.  Beams of bright white light leak from the wounds on the celestial’s chest, and mark the arc of the Liberator’s sword with a slowly fading trail.

Lucius pulls his bow and fires three shots at Mathor in a quick sequence.  One of them sings harmlessly off his visor, but other two punch through the chainmail protecting his weapon arm.  Mathor slumps in his saddle, and his lion releases Regda and prepares to flee.  But before it can fully disengage itself, Regda destroys Mathor’s head with one clean stroke.  The helmet, of course, is completely unmarred, save for the thick coating of its former owner staining its interior.  

The lion fades away, leaving the headless corpse no support, and it crashes to the ground with a clattering ring, a life-size puppet dressed in the Pale’s most expensive armor.

Lucius giggles despite himself, but fortunately for his dignity, no one notices.

Jespo Crim points his finger at one of the Three Judgements, and _mazes_ the angel with a smirk.  The creature disappears into extra-dimensional space and Jespo favors Heydricus with a “see, this isn’t so bad as one might think” look.

The two remaining angels turn to Jespo.  “Jespo Crim, _We Judge you Guilty_.”  Jespo sucks a faint last breath, and collapses.

“Jespie, no!” Redga screams.

“Lucius Maturin,_We Judge you Guilty_.”   Lucius’ laughter stops suddenly and he pitches face-first into the buffed marble floor.

“Goddamnit, stop killing my friends!”  Heydricus strikes the angel one more time, a tremendous blow that crumples the creature, and brings it to the ground.  Before the last of its feathers flutters to a rest beside its lifeless form, Heydricus has charged the intervening distance to confront the last remaining angel. He is met by an enraged Redga, who has left the corpse of Sir Mathor behind with tears in her eyes.

Finding himself suddenly free from his _domination_, Sir Amara calls Triumphant back to his side, and shamefully returns to the fray to find that the unthinkable has happened.  Mathor is dead, but worst of all, one of the Judgments lies in a bloodless heap near the door, and a second is missing.  That heretic Tritherionite and his filthy mercenary whore are even now attacking the third.  Amara levels his lance, and charges Heydricus, striking the Liberator with a glancing blow.  Motivated by spite, or perhaps just impotent fury, Amara’s Lion cuffs Cocraine as it passes with one huge paw.  The gnome cries out and flies literally parallel with the ground, spinning like a top before coming to rest in a pile next to the dead angel.  Cocrane shudders and manages to mutter, “if it please the court, I’m hurt . . .” before passing out.

Regda batters at the angel furiously, her weapon pounding home again and again.  The angel’s wings flex reflectively before it joins its companion on the floor in a lifeless heap.

Tau looks up from his reverie at Prisantha’s side, his eyes wide.  “She’s still breathing!” he says.  “Heydricus!  She’s still alive!”

“Heal her, goddamnit!” Heydricus yells, but he knows Pholtus will not heed his former priest.  “There’s a potion on Lu . . . on the body of the Marklander—feed it to her!” 

Sir Amara swings Triumphant around for another pass, but this time, both Heydricus and Redga are prepared to receive his charge.  Triumphant pounces upon Heydricus, who levers his sword in both hands against the animal’s bulk, while Redga slips around Amara’s side, and lashes the lion’s flank.  Triumphant’s guts do not function very will in their new arrangement, and it sags limply against Heydricus.  Regda windmills her final stroke away from the dead beast and onto the meat of  Amara’s leg.  The Pholtan knight cries out and releases his lance, sliding backward off his mount even as the creature fades away.  He stumbles until he can get his weight over his remaining good leg, and readies his mace for a charge.

Heydricus glares at this Pholtan who, moments earlier, had threatened to murder him (in the form of a Wintershiven trial).  “See where your high-and-mighty airs got you?” Heydricus snarls.  “I cut my teeth fighting the Old One—you cut yours sitting in judgment over impoverished priests.”

Amara does not flinch.  “I serve the Flan people, _halfbreed_.”

“You keep thinking that as you die.  I’ll live knowing the truth.  Regda, kill this a-shole.”

Regda kills the sh-t out of him.

Prisantha stands up, regarding her hands suspiciously.  “I’m alive?” she asks.  “Or are we all dead together?  I swear that angel killed me.”

“Gods of my fathers, the pain!” Cochrane moans.

“We are alive,” Heydricus says, moving toward the gnome with a healing potion.

“Well, I _wish_ Jespo were restored to life,” Prisantha says.

Jespo sits up, checks his familiar pouch, and after a glance around the room (and crushing hug from Regda), somewhat self-consciously _limited wishes_ that Lucius were also raised from the dead. 

“Crim, when is that angel coming back?” Heydricus demands.

“Which one?”

“The one you _mazed_ away.”

“Well.  That is a complicated question.”

“F-cking summarize!”  

Jespo’s mouth opens and closes.  “Any time now.  No longer than ten minutes,” he says.

“Fair enough.” Heydricus positions himself and Redga next to the spot the angel was last in.

Prisantha walks across the room, and pulls Tau to his feet.  The former Pholtan is still kneeling where she fell.  “Tau, how do we get out of here?”

Heydricus laughs.  “We walk out the front door!”

Pris wrinkles her nose.  “Please don’t be such a zealot, Heydricus.”

“Heydricus Tritherionson, _I Judge you G_ . . . “ the angel begins, even as Heydricus and Redga lash it into suddenly smaller _really Lawful_ pieces.  

Tau leaps forward and throws his arms around Heydricus.  “I never dreamed you would come for me.  Thank you.”  He raises his head from the Liberators’ barrel chest.  “Thank all of you.”

“Well.” Jespo says.  

“But I have a favor to beg of you,” Tau continues, his eyes pleading.  “There is someone very special to me who is also held here—he is to be executed, I am sure.  Could we . . . could you?”

“Hell yes we’ll free your friend!” Heydricus says.  “Can Wintershiven get any worse than _this_?”


----------



## Rackhir

Ah, now this is classic Liberators! It's good to see them at the top of their game.


----------



## shilsen

(contact) said:
			
		

> Prisantha sweeps them with _Mordenkainen’s disjunction_, tearing spell from target, and rendering their efforts worthless.  She finishes with a quickened _stoneskin_ and a wink...
> 
> Regda destroys Mathor’s head with one clean stroke.  The helmet, of course, is completely unmarred, save for the thick coating of its former owner staining its interior...
> 
> The lion fades away, leaving the headless corpse no support, and it crashes to the ground with a clattering ring, a life-size puppet dressed in the Pale’s most expensive armor.
> 
> Lucius giggles despite himself, but fortunately for his dignity, no one notices...
> 
> The two remaining angels turn to Jespo.  “Jespo Crim, _We Judge you Guilty_.”  Jespo sucks a faint last breath, and collapses.
> 
> “Jespie, no!” Redga screams...
> 
> “Goddamnit, stop killing my friends!”...
> 
> Cocrane shudders and manages to mutter, “if it please the court, I’m hurt . . .” before passing out...
> 
> Triumphant’s guts do not function very will in their new arrangement, and it sags limply against Heydricus...
> 
> "Regda, kill this a-shole.”
> 
> Regda kills the sh-t out of him...
> 
> Prisantha stands up, regarding her hands suspiciously.  “I’m alive?” she asks.  “Or are we all dead together?  I swear that angel killed me.”...
> 
> “Well.  That is a complicated question.”
> 
> “F-cking summarize!”...
> 
> “Heydricus Tritherionson, _I Judge you G_ . . . “ the angel begins, even as Heydricus and Redga lash it into suddenly smaller _really Lawful_ pieces...




Poetry


----------



## Elder-Basilisk

You know, it doesn't seem like anything in the room lasted more than a round against Heydricus and Redga, are they going to face their equals or do they outclass everything the Theocracy has to offer?

Also, I see that Mordenkeinen's Disjunction has been brought out to play; how long before it gets used on the Liberators?


----------



## Zaruthustran

Awesome. Thanks for the post!

But... what happened to Pris? How did she come to be not dead?

-z


----------



## dpdx

Also: is it just me, or has Jespo gotten a lot more useful in battle? 

From the beginning, I counted a _displacement_ on Regda, but then a _domination_ of one of the Judges, and then _maze_ on a celestial before he went out on that _finger of death at will_ thingie.

Did Jespo just level before this update, or did someone supervise his spell selection/have a talk with him?

Can't wait to find out what happens to Tau. Does Heydricus take him in on behalf of Tritherion (from a spell-granting standpoint), or does he become the baddest ex-cleric in three nations?


----------



## coyote6

Any guesses as to who Tau's buddy is?


----------



## (contact)

dpdx said:
			
		

> Did Jespo just level before this update, or did someone supervise his spell selection/have a talk with him?




  Yes Pris did.  Poor Jespo just keeps dying every time he reaches 16th level!  Adventure at 16th, die, raise back to 16th, die, repeat.


----------



## wolff96

Is it just me, or does it seem like Tau found a new god? We know he was studying a forgotten deity and it sounds to me like he just brought Pris back from the dead.



> Tau cries out—the first noise he has made since entering the room—and rushes toward Prisantha’s side. He takes her head in his arms, and mumbles softly to himself.




Just after the main part of the fight, we get:



> Tau looks up from his reverie at Prisantha’s side, his eyes wide. “She’s still breathing!” he says. “Heydricus! She’s still alive!”




Either Pris was faking her death (which I doubt) or Tau prayed for and received some type of Ressurection spell. 

At a guess, I'd say Tau was on trial for actually finding a new god. 

But then again, I could be way out in left field on this one. Any comments, (contact)?

And by the way... you have the most quotable story hour ever!


----------



## Zaruthustran

wolff96 said:
			
		

> At a guess, I'd say Tau was on trial for actually finding a new god.




Brilliant! I'd taken the mumbling to be of the somewhat typical crying-because-the-20-something-Charisma-babe-got-killed sort, not the hey-I'm-a-secret-spellcaster sort.

As for the identity of Tau's prison boyfriend, I have no idea.

-z


----------



## Capellan

wolff96 said:
			
		

> Is it just me, or does it seem like Tau found a new god?




It's not just you.


----------



## (contact)

You know, it's funny *how many* of the ideas from that thread got put in to use over the last year.  Not necessarily all of the good ideas from that thread got into the game, but pretty much all of the good ideas in the game came from that thread.  

Re-reading it just now, I realized-- I haven't DMed a lick in the last year and a quarter!  Nice job plotting my game, and thanks!


----------



## Barastrondo

Zaruthustran said:
			
		

> As for the identity of Tau's prison boyfriend, I have no idea.




I just love that sentence on so many levels.





> As soon as she sees the two judges finish their preparatory spells, Prisantha sweeps them with Mordenkainen’s disjunction, tearing spell from target, and rendering their efforts worthless.




[tearful Gwendolyn]"I always knew that some day you'd be _disjoining_, and I'd only be _greater dispelling_!" [/tearful Gwendolyn]


----------



## Joshua Randall

Kinda a hijack, but - has anyone ever considered house-ruling Disjunction into some kind of Superior Dispelling? Like a more powerful version of Greater Dispelling. Maybe something like a bonus to your caster level check? So, still a very good spell, but not the nuclear bomb that it is now.


----------



## Plane Sailing

If the lions were "called" paladin mounts, I wonder why the disjunction didn't send them off home too?

I'd have thought that a disjunction in that kind of environment might have been a risky sort of thing to do... what if there had been an artifact in the room? Oooooo 

The "judgement of death"... was that spells who'se saves were failed, or was it more like the old favourite "circle of death" with no saving throw?

Cheers!


----------



## (contact)

Plane Sailing said:
			
		

> If the lions were "called" paladin mounts, I wonder why the disjunction didn't send them off home too?




Well, that was either DM error or the grace of Pholtus, I'm not sure which.  And since Pholtus is pouting right now, I can't say for sure.



> I'd have thought that a disjunction in that kind of environment might have been a risky sort of thing to do... what if there had been an artifact in the room? Oooooo




That's our Pris.  The stage the two pholtan knights were standing on was an artifact.    She got lucky.



> The "judgement of death"... was that spells who'se saves were failed, or was it more like the old favourite "circle of death" with no saving throw?




That was a thematized _finger of death_ 3/day.  I had the targeted PCs make their saves up front, and those who missed were "Judged."


----------



## wolff96

Thanks for the link, Capellan, looks like I'm not the only one.  

Of course, I can't wait to see what kind of RBDM-ing comes next... doesn't everybody know better than to taunt a DM with a line like "Can Wintershiven get any worse than this?” by now??


----------



## Benben

What sort of Angels were the judges?  Planetars or Solars?


----------



## (contact)

They were Planetars.  And I mis-typed above-- the "Judgement of Pholtus" was _implosion_, not _finger of death_.


----------



## Benben

Thanks (contact) I was all confused.  It was a very nice thematic change.


----------



## dpdx

(contact) said:
			
		

> They were Planetars.  And I mis-typed above-- the "Judgement of Pholtus" was _implosion_, not _finger of death_.



Sorry, I'll take the blame for (contact)'s mislabeling of the spell, since I guessed at it being FoD.

Looking forward to the next update.


----------



## weiknarf

bump


----------



## (contact)

weiknarf said:
			
		

> bump




Hello, Weiknarf.  Your name sounds like a character from Final Fantasy Tactics to me.  "Weiknarf Belouve the Red Lion Knight" or something like that.  

There is a Belouve in this story as well, although he has apparently contracted stage-fright.  You know, no matter how much you love them, some NPCs just aren't cut out for more than ten lines per run.


----------



## (contact)

*Patchwall 14, CY 593
80—Two brass pair.*

With hostilities in full bloom, subterfuge has (once again) lost the day, and while the Liberators tend to their wounds, Prisantha contacts Gwendolyn via _sending_.  Within moments the young wizardess _teleports_ to Prisantha’s side, her hair unbraided and freshly brushed for bed.

Heydricus is staring up towards the back of the room.  “Jespo!  Are you good at math?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, I pride myself . . .”

“Can we fit that tapestry into our _portable hole_?”  Heydricus is gesturing toward the massive wall-to-wall construction featuring the deeds of the saints and . . . well, the other saints of the Pale.

“Ah.  No, but if we . . .”

Heydricus has moved on.  “Has anyone healed the gnome?  Tau!  Cochrane is your responsibility until we get out of here.  Do you know where your friend is held? Can you describe it to Pris?”

As it turns out, the answer is, “only sort of,” but when you are as skilled at _teleporting_ as Pris has become, “sort of” becomes synonymous with “hell yes.”

“You’ve really gotten good at this,” Heydricus whispers to Pris as they appear ten paces from a functionary behind a lectern.  The clerk is slumping against a pair of double doors set into an otherwise unoccupied hallway deep below ground.  Prisantha blushes, and pretends not to have heard Heydricus’ compliment.

“Hello,” Gwendolyn says, using her most charming voice.  “We’re here to extract a prisoner.”

“Halt!” the man yells, coming fully awake at the sight of seven full sized adventurers and a half-sized barrister loitering without a pass in his hallway.

“No, you halt!” Heydricus yells back, marching toward the man.  “Stand at attention, there!”

The man pauses a moment, then stands up straight just in time to meet the downward arc of Heyrdicus’ sword-hilt.  “Cocrane—tie him up,” Heydricus barks, stepping over the clerks’ unconscious form to stand in front of the double doors.

Lucius moves next to Heydricus and hands him a dagger with a meaningful look.  Heydricus shakes his head no.

“Oh, for the love of the gods,” Gwendolyn mutters, as she shoves the gnome away from the guard.  She kneels by his side and gently sprinkles water on his face until his eyes flutter open.  Then she _dominates_ him.

“Tell us about the prison,” she asks sweetly.  “How do we get in?”

“You enter the doors behind me and ask the Indomitable to open the gate.”

Gwendolyn stands up and gives Heydricus the stiffest “I told you so” bow he’s ever received in a long life spent in the service of rulers who happen to be both very stiff and very smug.  He shivers, and throws open the doors.

The double doors which seemed so large now seem small when compared to the truly massive double doors at the opposite end of the twenty-foot square room.  To Heydricus’ right, standing within its own alcove is a larger-than-life brass statue of a fearsome Pale warrior.

“We saw a lot of these twenty-by-twenty rooms in the Temple,” Jespo lectures to no one in particular.  “I’ve actually begun a study of the arcane symbolism inherent in the numbers two, zero and four hundred.”

“Open the doors,” Heydricus says to the statue hopefully, then adds, “please.”

“Heydricus Tritherionson,” the statue replies.  “In the name of Pholtus,”

Then Lucius shoots it.  

The arrow ricochets off the statue’s throat and twirls wildly before striking the back of the alcove.  Heydricus _flies_ upwards, directly at the thing.  “Tritherion says hello!” he yells as he strikes the statue smartly about the torso.

“So it has come to this,” the statue says in a new voice unlike its earlier tone—deeper somehow, more present.  “I have a message for you,” it intones gravely.  “And you are not going to like it.”  The creature lurches forward and in a blur of movement deals Heydricus such a blow that the burly sorcerer is beaten backward and knocked from the air, coming to a stop with his heels on the ground where he began his charge.

Gwendolyn _dominates_ the monster, but despite its exchange of words with Heydricus, her spell fails to grasp any mind.  “I think it is a construct,” she yells.

Jespo Crim hitches his robes with his right hand, and points his left at the statue.  A beam of thin green energy streaks from his finger and with a flash, _disintegrates_ the Indomitable.

“Was,” he clarifies coolly.  “Was a construct.”

Heydricus has thrown open the huge double doors, and finds himself facing three more of the brass statues standing across a wide hallway running perpendicular with the doorway.  The hallway is cut directly down the middle by a channel filled with running water.  As Heydricus watches, the three statues stride purposefully toward the door.

“Why don’t we just do this the easy way and you let my friends go?”  Heydricus asks.  “Wouldn’t you rather this become a social visit?”

Lucius, unseen by even his allies, slips through the door and into the hallway beyond.

“We do not entertain either sin nor those that serve its purposes in the Halls of Rectitude!”  the voice is thin and piercing, an older man’s voice—saturated with self-assurance. Following the sound, Heydricus turns to his left, where several yards away, the hallway terminates at a ledge set some fifteen feet above the floor.  The faux-stream trickles into an opening in the wall, and on the ledge above it a white-haired man wearing full plate armor stands gazing down regally at the adventurers bottlenecked behind Heydricus in the doorway.  He begins to mutter.  “_PholtusgrantmeYourdivinepowerPholtusimbuemylimbswithYourMightPholtusinYourLawwillwefindallstrengthPholtusblindoureyes . . . _”

The two Indomitables at either end of the triangle flash briefly with a white-hot light, as bolts of crackling electricity arc from their bodies and play about the doorway and into the room beyond, singing each of the Liberators in turn.  Lucius evades both _chain lightings_, but the others are not so lucky.  The third Indomitable stands still and apparently does nothing at all.

Or so it would seem until Gwendolyn attempts to maneuver past the doorway and finds herself restrained by an invisible barrier separating Heydricus, Lucuis and Regda from their companions.  She instinctively _dispels_ the thing, but to no effect.  

“That is a _wall of force_!” Prisantha discerns, “_disintegrate_ it!”

Jespo removes the _mirror of life-trapping_ from his pouch and, after closing his eyes, presents it toward the cleric.  But Pholtan’s light must be in the man’s eyes, and he does not appear to notice his reflection.  Regda charges past Heydricus, attacking the lead Indomitable with her brilliant energy morningstar.  The creature, while not technically “alive,” is neither technically “not alive;” Regda’s weapon connects harmlessly with its bronze skin, producing a crystal clear bell-like peal—a perfect D.  She entertains a wild vision of playing “Goblin in the Well” on these creatures with her morningstar, and she giggles to herself, her war-face be damned.  She then throws the useless weapon aside, and draws a gleaming razor-sharp two-handed sword from a sheathe across her back.

Prisantha uses a _quickened greater invisibility_ and a _greater teleport_ to place herself directly behind the chanting cleric, even as Lucius moves unseen along the wall searching for a good angle on the priest.  Heydricus, exposed and suddenly the lone focus for two brass giants and an angry cleric, also makes himself _invisible_, and slips back through the door, hugging the _wall of force_ and getting out of the cleric’s line of sight.

“_PholtusYourlightistheflamethatcarriesknowledgeofallthatisPholtusinYourlightallthingsarerevealed_.”  His eyes widen as he notices Prisantha grinning at him portentiously.

The lead Inevitable draws back both of its arms and crushes Redga between them, producing a lightning spark and a thunderclap on impact.  One of the bronze giants out to her flank moves in, replicating its companion’s technique.  The sound is deafening, and Redga’s knees buckle.

“Regie, No!” Jespo cries, helpless to assist her from behind the _wall of force_.

The third Inevitable moves around the scene of the beating, and stops beneath the double door’s arch, having no trouble locating Heydricus, despite his _greater invisibility_.

Gwendolyn points a finger at the wall of force and _disintegrates_ it with a raised eyebrow toward Jespo.  Jespo steps forward and enacts a _quickened haste_ spell for Redga, and then _summons_ his old companion the hound archon (okay, technically the archon is Pris’ companion, but Jespo knows its celestial name as well).

“You have _summoned_ me here to battle with celestials?” The archon demands.  “This is not just, Crim.”

Jespo cackles briefly.  “Nevertheless, you must obey!”  And truth be told, the archon must.  It half-heartedly moves to Redga’s side, but it might as well be attacking the blue sky for all the effect its assaults have against the mighty brass juggernauts.

Regda is swinging furiously at the Indomitables, having abandoned her brilliant energy weapon in favor of her more pedestrian (although not technically mundane) greatsword.  This magic sword doesn’t glow, it doesn’t talk, and certainly doesn’t sing; it is as generic as these sorts of fantastically expensive weapons go.  It could be exchanged for enough gold bouillon to ransom a prince, but against these creatures she might as well be trying to wound them with a reproachful expression.

Still, she is in her own way quite indomitable, and has not had the fight beaten out of her quite yet.  Blinking her eyes against the blood pouring down her face, she lays into one of the giants furiously.  Her giggle has been replaced by a thin gasping, and her hopes of becoming the next Indomitable Maestro have been crushed under the Cruel Wheel of Reality.  Like most musicians, her dreams will die before she does.  Unlike most, it won’t be by much.

Heydricus flies past the Inevitable in the doorway and lays into the cleric, arriving just behind the first volley of Lucius’ arrows.  The Pholtan staggers back and touches Heydricus with a _maximized harm_ spell, muttering “_Pholtusburnallinfidels_.”

Heydricus cries out in pain, but manages to remain conscious as the Light of Pholtus pours into every crack and crevice of his soul, expanding and withering as it goes.  Prisantha presages the cleric’s death with a _feeblemind_ spell followed by a quickened _charm person_.  Thus, the Pholtan goes to his god with a really stupid-looking infatuated expression on his face, as Heydricus swings from his agonized heels and takes the cleric’s head off (at the torso).

Prisantha steps over the bottom half of the fourth-ranking cleric in Wintershiven, and _summons_ a leonal guardinal into the fray.  _This_ conjured creature does not sass its summoner before stepping forward to _heal_ Heyrdicrus.  The two beings--one real, and one a figment of its true self juxtaposed into the physical plane through wizardry--favor one another with smiles before turning their attention to the fight playing out below them.  

Redga may have noticed this touching exchange just before her head was vaporized by a thunder-fisted bludgeon; the Liberators will never know—the rest of Regda’s corpse isn’t talking.

As Pris and Heydricus attempt to join the fray down below, they discover that another _wall of force_ has been placed between them and the beating that awaits Jespo, Gwendolyn, Lucius, Cochrane and Tau.  The leonal discovers the invisible barrier (nose-first), and seizing the initiative, Jespo Crim summons an earth elemental to burrow a hole through the stone floor and tunnel beneath the wall.  The leonal is the first to follow the elemental, with Pris and Heydricus not far behind.

Of course, in so doing, they have made the Inevitables’ environment that much more target-rich.  Lucius’ weapons are useless against them, and the construct-esque celestials are immune to Jespo and Prisantha’s enchantments.  Only Heydricus has the brute force required to batter through their brass skin, but he can’t be everywhere at once.

“Um, this is bad,” Heydricus says to no one in particular as he whangs his sword repeatedly against an Inevitable tuned to E#.

Gwendolyn is struck down, and stabilized by Prisantha.  All three _summoned_ monsters are destroyed, but Heydricus doesn’t actually give up hope until he sees the Inevitable that he just killed stand back up.

“Okay, this is bullsh-t.”  Heydricus turns to Prisantha and makes the “teleport us the f-ck out of here” signal, proving to her satisfaction that he can remember her carefully crafted plans when he _wants_ to.  She sets her huff aside long enough to drag the entire group four hundred miles through space where they can bleed onto their own really expensive furniture instead of the Pale’s dungeon floor.


----------



## coyote6

Sounds like the Liberators should've brought more _disintegrates_.


----------



## Elder-Basilisk

Of course, it remains to be seen whether they'll be permitted to bleed in peace or the Pholtans will come after them. It's what I'd do if I were in charge.


----------



## (contact)

Me too, but we'd need more guys.  The Liberators just puh-hunked our three top classed characters and made off with two of the corpses!  Who would we send?  The tenth level adventurers?

The Pholtans are not in their happy place anyway, what with the *wicked* infighting over the question of succession to the High Prelate's throne, and there is a reluctance to pull out all stops (since some of those resources might be needed to bully/intimidate/batter the guy sitting next to you).  

The Church Inquisitors are the group least likely to care about Wintershiven politics, and most likely to organize and go after the Liberators.  They just won't do it quickly.  Plus, Heydricus killed the  out of their two top leaders.  Eep.


----------



## Elder-Basilisk

Well there's that. But, in the Liberators' current state, well buffed 10th level adventurers with the teleport surprise trick going on might just manage it. (Toss in a few 11th level adventurers for antimagic shells and the Liberators would really be in for it seeing as Heydricus and Lucius are the only ones left who are much good at physical combat--heck, throw some grappling focussed monks in there and Heydricus and Lucius might well be out of it too). They'd certainly have better odds than they will for stopping the Liberators once they have a chance to rest and recuperate.

Either that or a Hit squad composed of Inevitables. (Bust out the scrolls of gate and/or Planar ally stored under Wintershiven and get some vengeance cooking).



			
				(contact) said:
			
		

> Me too, but we'd need more guys.  The Liberators just puh-hunked our three top classed characters and made off with two of the corpses!  Who would we send?  The tenth level adventurers?


----------



## (contact)

A trio of really large men in black suits step out of an unmarked black car and pull Elder-Basilsk inside.  As the car pulls away from the curb, two of the goons fail their saves against his turn-to-stone gaze, but the third rolls a 20.  This last tough guy closes his eyes and shoves E-B out of the car directly in front of this thread: http://www.enworld.org/forums/showthread.php?t=121&page=1&pp=25


----------



## Joshua Randall

Inevitables... been reading Sepulchrave's story hour, have you?

Also, shouldn't Int 28 Prisantha have known that constructs are immune to mind-affecting spells? I mean, she should be able to make Knowledge (Arcana) checks about stuff like that in her sleep!


----------



## (contact)

Gwendolyn was the one who tried to _dominate_ the thing-- she's not an experienced adventurer, so she assumed that a thing capable of having a conversation must also have a mind.


----------



## (contact)

*Patchwall 16, CY 593
81—No funerals are final.*

Heydricus frets as his wounds are bound.  This is going to be bad.  The Pholtans are going to stay pissed.  Of course, they probably won’t do anything about it until after their evening prayers, so no use worrying about it now.  That’s like stabbing the food taster, as Lucius would say.  Of course, on the other hand, Pholtus _is_ the kind of god who would send an army of constructs to avenge a slight, and if there’s one thing that the Liberators aren’t equipped to fight, it’s constructs.  

On the third hand, He’s pretty sure he’s got those things’ number—Tritherion grants a spell that should align his weapon to burn right through their Axiomatic hides, but Heydricus has never bothered to try it out.  He is sure, however, that Tritherion won’t be all stingy with it when the time comes.  That’s not Tritherion’s style.  The spirit of the law is what counts for Tritherion.  That is, the spirit would count if Tritherion had a law, which he doesn’t—Tritherion’s teachings are more like general guidelines, or really good advice from a wise and worldly mentor.  But as every Tritherionite knows, it’s the Spirit of the Advice that counts: Live free, and crush those who would oppress you.  Revenge taken justly is the holiest of sacraments.

Heydricus is torn from his musings by the arrival of Nevond Nevnend’s highest-ranking clerics.  As they tend to the wounded, he reflects upon all the clerics he has known; Aelniir, Ahlana, Gnomer, Keriann, Augustin, Halrond, Tau, Dabus.  These priests, scurrying from adventurer to adventurer try hard, he thinks, but they are no Dabus.  As he admits this, he feels a nearly heretical twinge of sadness.  Dabus is in a Better Place . . . hell, it’s the _Best Place_, but Heydricus can’t get past the nagging suspicion that it’s not the Right Place for his former companion.  As he watches Jespo cry, gently consoled by Lucius, Heydricus muses that no matter which side of the Law/Chaos axis Tau decides to get with, he’s never going to be a Dabus . . .

_Lucius consoling Jespo? _

Heydricus interrupts Lucius’ whispered monologue.  The rogue looks up innocently and says, “I got this one H., you better go make sure the _other_ wizards are ready.  Pholtans are comin’.”

Heydricus pulls Lucius away from the grieving wizard by the arm.  “Stay out of Crim’s head, Lucius.”

“What, I can’t console a friend?” Lucius is laughing.  He leans in close.  “The Pholtans _have_ to come, Heydricus.  We have the bodies of their bosses.  Law-and-order types can’t stand it when high-ups don’t get a proper funeral.”  Lucius seems inordinately pleased with himself.  “Here’s the plan.  We _dimensional anchor_ the center of the keep against _teleportation_ but not divination—we want them to know where to go.  Then, they have to _teleport_ to the outside of the keep, and fight their way in.  Your flunkies will wear them down a little.  Not a lot, but enough.  I’ve got some traps in mind.  By the time they make it to _our_ rooms, we take ‘em.  Blood bath, rinse, repeat.”

But Heydricus has moved on.  “Cocraine!  How much do you know about international law?”

-----

The peace initiative seems to be a success.  Regda’s corpse and her gear are _wished_ into Prisantha’s waiting arms, even as the mortal remains of Sir Mathor and Sir Amara are _teleported_ to the High Prelate’s personal suite.  Within hours, the new Prelate’s servants have spread the word—it’s a _miracle_!  Praise be to Pholtus, the Magistrates are alive!  Within days, both men are back on the job, and none the worse for wear, although perhaps a bit more . . . _severe_ with their judgments than usual.  (A blacker spot in an already very black field, to be sure, but the size of the distinction is small condolence to the remainder of the month’s heretical docket.) 

-----

“There is a splinter group within the Wintershiven hierarchy,” Tau says.  “My companion was privy to many of their secrets.”

“I’m really sorry about him,” Prisantha says, patting Tau’s hand.

Lucius affects a casual air, and spears a first-frost apple with the tip of his dirk.  “No sh-t,” he says paying full attention for the first time this morning.  “Splinter group of Pholtans?  Is that even _possible_?”

Mialec is taking minutes, as she often does.  No one ever consults them, but she takes them down just in case.  Jespo Crim refuses to leave his chambers, but all of the other Liberators are present.

“They are foreigners, outsiders,” Tau continues.  “No one is sure where they come from, and they use strange rituals to worship Pholtus.  They mark and scar their skin heavily, and wear black robes.  They bear no weapons, claiming only to need the Light of Pholtus to defend themselves.  This sort of talk does not sit well with many—it almost seems to be a challenge to the established hierarchy.  The fact that Pholtus hasn’t struck them dead has all the wags a-twitter. It’s very scandalous.  The whole prison was gossiping about it.”

“And the new prelate?” Heydricus asks.

“He is not one of these outsiders, if that is what you mean.  But he is sympathetic to them, and they have become more conspicuous around Wintershiven since he ascended to the High Seat.”

Heydricus nods to himself.  “Lucius, why don’t you get to Wintershiven, and tell us what you can find out.  In the meantime, I want to see and be seen in Liberated Tenh before winter sets in.  We need to know who needs food, and we need them to know who is going to get it to them.”

“No need to be concerned with winter,” Prisantha says shyly.  “I can _teleport_ the two of us anywhere we need to go, no matter the weather.”

“What about a retinue?” Heydricus asks.  “I want to be seen with Flan priests—the ones who talk about ethics and tradition.”

“Allistur’s faithful,” Tau says.

“That’s them.  I want people to see that the old gods are back in Tenh, that the old faiths are welcomed.  I want to foster that old-time Tenha spirit.”

“I could bring a few priests,” Prisantha sighs.  “But not too many.”

“Just me and a few priests,” Heydricus smiles.  “That’s all we need.”

“Take a bard,” Lucius says.  “Think about it.  What do people do in the middle of winter?  They sit around at the inn and get drunk.  Drunks love bards.  Bring a bard, it’ll make you popular.”

“That’s a great idea,” Heydricus muses.  “Bards, a priest, and the Lord of Tenh.”

“I’ll prepare the itinerary,” Mialec says, her hands on her hips.  “This is going to be a nightmare.”

Lucius stares at her.

“Logistically,” she clarifies.

“I’ll handle the logistics,” Prisantha says sweetly.

-----

“I know someone in Chendl who can _resurrect_ Regda.”  Heydricus has his Serious Face on.  After a full evening of searching, Jepso Crim finally turned up in the library.  With a candlestick.  “Black looks good on you,” Heydricus adds as an aside.

“You . . . you do?”  the wizard’s face compresses and expands, then compresses again as he struggles to grasp this dangled hope.  Jespo Crim is a man who spends much of his inner life waiting for the punchline.   “It does?”

“Hell yes, and sort of.  Remember Belvor’s buddy—Malwyn the Pelorite?  We’ve been talking, and he agreed to _resurrect_ Regda for you, provided you pony up a donation.”

“Anything!” Jespo gasps delightedly.  His face finally relaxes as it all sinks in.  Maybe, just maybe, there is some justice in this world for anemic conjurers after all.  Jespo glides on air to pack for his journey, and is so excited he forgets to take off his black robes.


----------



## CrusadeDave

(contact) said:
			
		

> Dabus is in a Better Place . . . hell, it’s the _Best Place_, but Heydricus can’t get past the nagging suspicion that it’s not the Right Place for his former companion.





			
				(contact) said:
			
		

> “I know someone in Chendl who can _resurrect_ Regda.”  Heydricus has his Serious Face on.





			
				(contact) said:
			
		

> “Hell yes, and sort of.  Remember Belvor’s buddy—Malwyn the Pelorite?  We’ve been talking, and he agreed to _resurrect_ Regda for you, provided you pony up a donation.”




I hope Tau gets with the program. This party needs a Cleric. Badly. If this keeps up, the party won't be able to kick as much *** and grind it under their boot heels, as we're used to seeing them. And that would be a shame.


----------



## weiknarf

(contact) said:
			
		

> Hello, Weiknarf.  Your name sounds like a character from Final Fantasy Tactics to me.  "Weiknarf Belouve the Red Lion Knight" or something like that.




Tee hee.  I like that.  And you have reminded me that I really need to get around to finishing that game.  

and two great updates to boot (from my perpective)!!!


----------



## dpdx

or it's frankiew, backwards. 

Cool update.


----------



## (contact)

Good call, xdpd.


----------



## (contact)

*Patchwall 22, CY 593
82—Consolation prizes so rarely do.*

Jespo Crim is inconsolable.  He returns from Chendl after a week-long absence, looking even more miserable than when he left.  Gwendolyn is the first to see him, and when confronted by his wretched countenance, she softens and becomes almost tender.  She leads him into the sun-room, where Prisantha and Heydricus are having a quiet meal together.

“Jespo!” Heydricus jumps up.  “We missed you . . . say, where’s the little lady?”

Jespo cries.

“Um.”  Heydricus puts his hands on his hips, and looks courageous.

“Oh, Jespo, Whatever is the matter?” Prisantha asks.  She stands up and takes Jespo’s arm, patting his hand.

Gwendolyn turns away from the sobbing conjurer and coughs into her hand, then mutters the somatic component to a _detect thoughts_ spell.  After a moment, her eyes widen and she covers her mouth.  

“Did the _resurrection_ not take, Jespo?” Heydricus asks with a worldly air.

“No, no.” Jespo says.  “The _resurrection_ went well.  _Too_ well.”  Jespo cries again.

“Um, okay.” Heydricus is not one to surrender in the face of either death or enigma.  “How can someone be too alive?”

Jespo looks up, his bleary red eyes pleading for understanding.  “When she . . . when . . . well, when he was _ressurected_, the spell undid a certain _curse_.”

At this, Heydricus squints suspiciously, but Gwendolyn only nods.  “Go on, Crim,” she says.

Jespo is warming to the story, his upper lip growing stiffer by the moment.  “His name is Redgar, and he is a man.  He’s always been a man, but he’s been under a _curse_.  Something to do with trying on a girdle, in a witch’s lair.”

Heydricus gapes, Prisantha’s nose twitches, and Gwendolyn nods.   No one laughs, except for Lucius, who until now was lurking unseen in the doorway.  Heydricus shoots him a warning glare.

“You’re just unlucky in love, Jespo.”  Heydricus puts his arm around the smaller man.  “Maybe next time, kid.”  Heydricus considers chucking Jespo’s chin, then decides it would be too much.

“So, is your wedding off?” Prisantha ventures.

“Of course it’s off!” Jespo blusters.  “He’s a _man_!”

“Well, men and men get married all the time,” Gwendolyn says.  “And men who were women but are now men again, or vice versa.”

“They do?” Jespo says.

“Really?” Prisantha asks incredulously.

Gwendolyn rolls her eyes.  “Don’t be so provincial.  Of course they do.”

Heydricus crosses his arms and arches his eyebrows meaningfully.  “So, was he . . . you know, a big fella?”

Jespo starts.  “Well, I don’t . . . I wouldn’t know.  What does _that_ have to do with anything?”

“So who was the cow, and who was the milkmaid?” Lucius asks.  “Before.”

“Well.”  Jespo sniffs.  “We were going to be married first.”

Gwendolyn is determined to find the Bright Side.   “You know, Jespo, you could always just _wish_ her back.  Or _wish_ yourself into a woman, if you’d rather.”

“Well, I’d rather not!” 

Gwendolyn shrugs.  “What did Regda say when you talked to her?”

“Redg_ar_,” Lucius corrects her.  “It’s a boy fighter.”

“He said that he was sorry, and that he wished that I’d never found out.  That he liked being a woman, but it wasn’t meant to be.  He said that did love me, and that it was his fault, and nothing to do with me.”

Lucius rolls his eyes.

“He wanted us to be friends,” Jespo says.  “I told him I didn’t know if . . .” he begins to sob again.

“Oh, Jespo,” Gwen says.  “I’m sure Prisantha here would be happy to _wish_ him back into the old Redga.”

“Hell, you could make her better looking!” Heydricus interjects.

Gwendolyn narrows her eyes.  Prisantha elbows him.

“I don’t want her back,” Jespo says.  “It isn’t about the _curse_, it’s about the lying.”

Prisantha and Gwendolyn murmur agreement.

“No,” Lucius says slowly.  “_It’s about the money_.  Look at you, the lot of you—clucking like barnyard hens,” Lucius says.  “F-ck your _principles_, where’s your _stuff_, Crim?  All the magic items you crafted for her?”

“Well, he has them, of course,”

“’Of course’, hell!  Why don’t you straighten up and act like a Liberator?  Thrommel robbed you blind, and now this lying, cheating fraud of a woman is going to do the same?”  Lucius moves very close to Jespo.  “Look, I’ll help you get your stuff back.  I think somebody should pay for this, and I think you do too.”

-----

Jespo is packed off to his room with several cups of mulled wine, and a very soothing illusion originally crafted by Gwendolyn for when Belvor couldn’t sleep.  After Pris and Gwen lead Jespo away, Heydricus confronts the assassin.

“Lucius, I don’t like you tearing into Crim like that.”

Lucius laughs and walks away.  Over his shoulder, he says, “Lighten up, Heydricus, your own f-cking angel called him a pussy.”

-----

Despite his recriminatory words, or perhaps in support of them, Lucius takes Jespo under his wing, and over the next few days shadows the wizard everywhere, shepherding him from one drinking-hole to the next.  The selection of locations in Nevond Nevnend for soul-rending alcohol binges isn’t what it was during the height of the Stonefister occupation, but Lucius has a local ace-in-the-hole; a grizzled dwarven ex-soldier, ex-adventurer, ex-a-lot-of-things by the name of Hastur.

Initially, Hastur is paid to keep an eye on the supremely drunken (and supremely rich) wizard during his “grieving process” in the gutters of the shattered Tenh capital.  Over time, Hastur and Jespo develop a mutual fondness based on crushing self-pity and bitter regret.

Jespo wears a lot of black.

-----

Lucius scouts Wintershiven as requested, and gathers intelligence on the Pholtan splinter-sect.  Or, to be precise, he hires out the job, and spends the rest of the time in Stoink, cross-checking Elenthal and C’min’s information, and making contacts of his own.  In short, he establishes a coven of interested business leaders, rogues, thieves and thugs, and sets himself above them all.  He instructs them on how to organize themselves, and assures them that when the time comes, they will be called upon to Run the City.

That settled, he returns to Wintershiven, de-briefs his informants, kills a few Pholtans, and returns (via _teleportation_) to Nevond Nevnend.

“Tau’s story checks out,” he reports.  “But no one knows much else.  It was a slow month.”

-----

“Are you really a conjurer?”  Lucius isn’t drunk, although he is pretending to be.  Jespo is drunk, a state that he has spent most of his time in since his return from Chendl.  The two Liberators are sitting on the bench outside Jespo’s favorite watering-hole, drinking the house bitters from dirty mugs and watching the first snowfall of the year.  “I mean, really?”

Jespo stiffens, and sits up straight.  “I am, in fact, the Dean of Conjuration at the Willip Wizard’s Community College.”

“I didn’t ask about your _job_, Jespo.  I asked if you were actually a conjurer.  Do you specialize in conjuration magic or not?”

Jespo squints.  This seems like a fairly personal question, and one that flirts entirely too close to the border between what non-wizards are allowed to know and what they are not regarding the Craft.  “I’m afraid I don’t understand your question,” Jespo lies.  “In my career, I have made a specialty of summonings, yes.”

“That’s not what I asked, Crim, and you know it.”  Lucius leans forward.  “Are you or are you not barred from other schools of magic?”

“Well.  As you know, I do not cast spells of the evocation type.”

“But could you?”

Jespo sighs.  “I suppose I _could_.”

Lucius rolls his eyes.  This gesture of disrespect provokes a startling reaction from the frail wizard.  Jespo seems to deflate almost two full sizes, his chesty braggadocio evaporating.  

“Then why don’t you, Crim?”  

“There are more . . . well.  Subtlety is vital to the practice of wizardry.”

“No, seriously, Jespo.   You spend most of your spell-casting time _killing_ people, or trying your damndest to do so.  I know because I’m there.  Explain to me where subtlety enters in to that picture.”  Lucius is sneering now, reducing Jespo a sheath of flaccid skin dangling from bone.  “Do I look _stupid_, Crim?  Do I look like Regda?”

Jespo’s eyes moisten.  “No, you do not,” he mutters, his eyes on his hands.

Lucius continues.  “Then don’t f-cking lie to me.  _Why don’t you cast evocations_?”

Jespo is whispering.  “I . . . I’m frightened of them.  When I was an apprentice, I set my familiar on fire with a botched _burning hands_.  That was the first Fräs, you never knew her.  My master had her _regenerated_, but . . .”

“What happened to that familiar, Crim?”

“She died in the Temple.” 

“She burned to death, didn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“And it was the best thing to ever happen to you.   You should have been issued a sack with rocks in it when you graduated to wizard.  Now look here, I know you’ve had a hard life—but _your life ain’t got nothin’ on mine_, are we agreed?”

“I suppose,”

“’I suppose’ is a pussy way to say ‘no’, Crim.  Do you _or do you not_ think that my life has been six shades of trouble?”

“Well, yes.”

“Then do you or do you not think that I know a thing or two about a thing or two about pulling your own ass out of a fire?”

“I . . . I do.”

“Good.  Then trust me on this one.  I’ve arranged for a real mentor for you, Jespo.  His name is Nystul.  He’s a very famous man, and he could probably take out Prisantha’s candy-ass wizard’s academy single handed.  He’s agreed to teach you evocations, Jespo, and you’re going to learn them and say thank you.”

“I don’t think . . .”

“A smart wizard says, ‘thank you.’  Say it.”

Jespo looks down.  “Thank you.”

“Good.  We go to Chendl tomorrow, you start your training, and when you’re finished we’re going to get your goddamned stuff back.”  Lucius stands up.  “Stop crying, Crim, makes you look like a woman.  Besides, I just put you on the winning side.  If I were you, I’d be whistlin’ like a halfling.”  Lucius leans in close to Jespo’s ear.  “And a smart wizard keeps his mouth shut about where he’s going.”


----------



## ajanders

*Whoa...*

Oh. No.
This can't possibly bode well.


----------



## coyote6

Say, am I mistaken, or did Jespo just convert to 3.5e and lose that whole "specialist wizard" schtick?


----------



## (contact)

Bob, he did convert to a generalist when we re-statted him for 3.5-- which raised the question, "why *hasn't* he ever cast any evocations?"


----------



## Capellan

Because evocation is for wimps? 

Well, obviously not, since that would mean Jespo _would_ cast it ...

Any particular reason for the decision to go generalist?  I would have thought Jespo could have lived without necromancy, say?


----------



## (contact)

Neither Pris or Jespo could find two schools that they could give up without giving up "signature" spells.


----------



## Urbanmech

> “Well, men and men get married all the time,” Gwendolyn says. “And men who were women but are now men again, or vice versa.”




Because in a fantasy world with all kinds of shapechangers, men marrying men (or in this case men marrying women who are really men) really isn't that odd.  

Great update, it should be interesting to see what old Jespo can do with some blasty spells from Nystul.  Lucius is right being afraid of your own spells really isn't very becoming of a Liberator.  Did any of the players see the Regda/Regar thing comming?  Definately a laugh out loud moment.


----------



## dpdx

Great update - consider me a Lucius fan. And he's absolutely right about Crim - if not forcibly snapped out of it, dude's gonna be more useless than Thrommel. Nystul's a great start - ba-dass, like Bigby or Mordy.


----------



## Plane Sailing

Good posts, great storylines here Contact. It's a shame to see Jespo getting kicked in the nuts again and Lucius the cohort is a lot more _independent minded_ than his predecessor.

I'm looking forward to hearing a little bit more about Tau and what he's up to now...


----------



## Morte

(contact) said:
			
		

> Jespo is warming to the story, his upper lip growing stiffer by the moment.  “His name is Redgar, and he is a man.  He’s always been a man, but he’s been under a _curse_.  Something to do with trying on a girdle, in a witch’s lair.”




(contact), you are a bad, wicked, nasty, cruel man. If you weren't doing it to your own ex-PC, I'd come over the San Francisco and put whiskers and a tail on you.

In other words, I love it.

Nystul, eh? Your lot must be pretty serious powers in the land by now. The LGG has Nystul as level 17, and the junior member of the Circle of Eight 15. Have you beefed the big name mortal NPC figures up at all?


----------



## (contact)

Urbanmech said:
			
		

> Did any of the players see the Regda/Regar thing comming?  Definately a laugh out loud moment.




No, not at all.  They had a terrible time keeping a straight face while I was playing teary-eyed Jespo.  It was hilarious.



			
				Morte said:
			
		

> (contact), you are a bad, wicked, nasty, cruel man.




Don't blame me, it was Barastrondo's idea!



			
				Morte said:
			
		

> Nystul, eh? Your lot must be pretty serious powers in the land by now. The LGG has Nystul as level 17, and the junior member of the Circle of Eight 15. Have you beefed the big name mortal NPC figures up at all?




Not really.  We're sticking pretty close to the canon, *except* for any bad guys directly in the path of the oncoming Liberators.  Lucius' trip to Chendl didn't make it into the logs, but he selected Nystul because Nystul is an expat Tenha, and Lucius reckoned (rightly) that any nosy Tenha member of the Circle of Eight would *love* to get closer to the Liberators of Tenh, if only to snoop around.


----------



## Zaruthustran

(contact) said:
			
		

> *Patchwall 22, CY 593
> 82—Consolation prizes so rarely do.*




Awesome.



> “Jespo!” Heydricus jumps up.  “We missed you . . . say, where’s the little lady?”
> 
> Jespo cries.
> 
> “Um.”  Heydricus puts his hands on his hips, and looks courageous.




Awesome.




> Jespo is warming to the story, his upper lip growing stiffer by the moment.  “His name is Redgar, and he is a man.  He’s always been a man, but he’s been under a _curse_.  Something to do with trying on a girdle, in a witch’s lair.”




Awesome.



> Heydricus gapes, Prisantha’s nose twitches, and Gwendolyn nods.   No one laughs, except for Lucius




Hilarious.



> “You’re just unlucky in love, Jespo.”  Heydricus puts his arm around the smaller man.  “Maybe next time, kid.”  Heydricus considers chucking Jespo’s chin, then decides it would be too much.




This, combined with the courageous look above, makes me think that Heydricus and Captain Fury (of Q-Ship fame) would be good friends.



> “No,” Lucius says slowly.  “_It’s about the money_.  Look at you, the lot of you—clucking like barnyard hens,” Lucius says.  “F-ck your _principles_, where’s your _stuff_, Crim?  All the magic items you crafted for her?”
> 
> “Well, he has them, of course,”
> 
> “’Of course’, hell!  Why don’t you straighten up and act like a Liberator?  Thrommel robbed you blind, and now this lying, cheating fraud of a woman is going to do the same?”  Lucius moves very close to Jespo.  “Look, I’ll help you get your stuff back.  I think somebody should pay for this, and I think you do too.”




Lucius is just the best NPC ever.



> Lucius scouts Wintershiven as requested, and gathers intelligence on the Pholtan splinter-sect.  Or, to be precise, he hires out the job, and spends the rest of the time in Stoink




See above comment.



> “That’s not what I asked, Crim, and you know it.”  Lucius leans forward.  “Are you or are you not barred from other schools of magic?”
> 
> ...
> 
> Lucius is sneering now, reducing Jespo a sheath of flaccid skin dangling from bone.  “Do I look _stupid_, Crim?  Do I look like Regda?”
> 
> Jespo’s eyes moisten.  “No, you do not,” he mutters, his eyes on his hands.
> 
> Lucius continues.  “Then don’t f-cking lie to me.  _Why don’t you cast evocations_?”
> 
> ...
> 
> “What happened to that familiar, Crim?”
> 
> “She died in the Temple.”
> 
> “She burned to death, didn’t she?”
> 
> “Yes.”
> 
> “And it was the best thing to ever happen to you.   You should have been issued a sack with rocks in it when you graduated to wizard.  Now look here, I know you’ve had a hard life—but _your life ain’t got nothin’ on mine_, are we agreed?”
> 
> “I suppose,”
> 
> “’I suppose’ is a pussy way to say ‘no’, Crim.  Do you _or do you not_ think that my life has been six shades of trouble?”
> 
> “Well, yes.”
> 
> “Then do you or do you not think that I know a thing or two about a thing or two about pulling your own ass out of a fire?”
> 
> “I . . . I do.”
> 
> “Good.  Then trust me on this one.  I’ve arranged for a real mentor for you, Jespo.  His name is Nystul.  He’s a very famous man, and he could probably take out Prisantha’s candy-ass wizard’s academy single handed.  He’s agreed to teach you evocations, Jespo, and you’re going to learn them and say thank you.”
> 
> “I don’t think . . .”
> 
> “A smart wizard says, ‘thank you.’  Say it.”
> 
> Jespo looks down.  “Thank you.”
> 
> “Good.  We go to Chendl tomorrow, you start your training, and when you’re finished we’re going to get your goddamned stuff back.”  Lucius stands up.  “Stop crying, Crim, makes you look like a woman.  Besides, I just put you on the winning side.  If I were you, I’d be whistlin’ like a halfling.”  Lucius leans in close to Jespo’s ear.  “And a smart wizard keeps his mouth shut about where he’s going.”




This whole bit reminds me of the Samual L "Jules" Jackson scene in pulp fiction--the one with his famous "Does-Marsellus-Wallace-look-like-a-b*tch?" speech.

Before today I never pictured Lucius as an intense, scary black man. It works.

-z

Pulp Fiction scene:



> BRETT
> I just want you to know how sorry
> we are about how ed up things
> got between us and Mr. Wallace.
> When we entered into this thing, we
> only had the best intentions --
> 
> As Brett talks, Jules takes out his gun and SHOOTS Roger three
> times in the chest, BLOWING him out of his chair.
> 
> Vince smiles to himself.  Jules has got style.
> 
> Brett has just sh*t his pants.  He's not crying or whimpering,
> but he's so full of fear, it's as if his body is imploding.
> 
> JULES
> (to Brett)
> Oh, I'm sorry.  Did that break your
> concentration?  I didn't mean to do
> that.  Please, continue.  I believe
> you were saying something about
> "best intentions."
> 
> Brett can't say a word.
> 
> JULES
> Whatsamatter?  Oh, you were through
> anyway.  Well, let me retort.
> Would you describe for me what
> Marsellus Wallace looks like?
> 
> Brett still can't speak.
> 
> Jules SNAPS, SAVAGELY TIPPING the card table over, removing
> the only barrier between himself and Brett.  Brett now sits in
> a lone chair before Jules like a political prisoner in front
> of an interrogator.
> 
> JULES
> What country you from!
> 
> BRETT
> (petrified)
> What?
> 
> JULES
> "What" ain't no country I know!  Do
> they speak English in "What?"
> 
> BRETT
> (near heart attack)
> What?
> 
> JULES
> English-motherf*cker-can-you-speak-
> it?
> 
> BRETT
> Yes.
> 
> JULES
> Then you understand what I'm
> sayin'?
> 
> BRETT
> Yes.
> 
> JULES
> Now describe what Marsellus Wallace
> looks like!
> 
> BRETT
> (out of fear)
> What?
> 
> Jules takes his .45 and PRESSES the barrel HARD in Brett's
> cheek.
> 
> JULES
> Say "What" again!  C'mon, say
> "What" again!  I dare ya, I double
> dare ya motherf*cker, say "What"
> one more goddamn time!
> 
> Brett is regressing on the spot.
> 
> JULES
> Now describe to me what Marsellus
> Wallace looks like!
> 
> Brett does his best.
> 
> BRETT
> Well he's ...he's...black --
> 
> JULES
> -- go on!
> 
> BRETT
> ...and he's...he's...tall --
> 
> JULES
> -- does he look like a bitch?!
> 
> BRETT
> (without thinking)
> What?
> 
> Jules' eyes go to Vincent, Vincent smirks, Jules rolls his
> eyes and SHOOT Brett in the shoulder.
> 
> Brett SCREAMS, breaking into a SHAKING/TREMBLING SPASM in the
> chair.
> 
> JULES
> Does-he-look-like-a-bitch?!
> 
> BRETT
> (in agony)
> No.
> 
> JULES
> Then why did you try to f*ck 'im
> like a bitch?!
> 
> BRETT
> (in spasm)
> I didn't.
> 
> Now in a lower voice.
> 
> JULES
> Yes ya did Brett.  Ya tried ta
> 'im.  You ever read the Bible,
> Brett?
> 
> BRETT
> (in spasm)
> Yes.
> 
> JULES
> There's a passage I got memorized,
> seems appropriate for this
> situation: Ezekiel 25:17. "The path
> of the righteous man is beset on
> all sides by the inequities of the
> selfish and the tyranny of evil
> men.  Blessed is he who, in the
> name of charity and good will,
> shepherds the weak through the
> valley of darkness, for he is truly
> his brother's keeper and the finder
> of lost children.  And I will
> strike down upon thee with great
> vengeance and furious anger those
> who attempt to poison and destroy
> my brothers.  And you will know my
> name is the Lord when I lay my
> vengeance upon you."
> 
> The two men EMPTY their guns at the same time on the sitting
> Brett.
> 
> When they are finished, the bullet-ridden carcass just sits
> there for a moment, then TOPPLES over.
> 
> All is quiet.


----------



## Schmoe

(contact) said:
			
		

> Neither Pris or Jespo could find two schools that they could give up without giving up "signature" spells.




Why didn't Jespo give up the School of Big Cajones and the School of Kicking Ass?  I can't remember him casting any of those...


----------



## Schmoe

By the way, do have any idea just how perfect this tiny exchange is?



> “I don’t want her back,” Jespo says. “It isn’t about the curse, it’s about the lying.”
> 
> Prisantha and Gwendolyn murmur agreement.




It made me teary eyed.


----------



## Sejs

*Lucius*



> Lucius scouts Wintershiven as requested, and gathers intelligence on the Pholtan splinter-sect. Or, to be precise, he hires out the job, and spends the rest of the time in Stoink, cross-checking Elenthal and C’min’s information, and making contacts of his own. In short, he establishes a coven of interested business leaders, rogues, thieves and thugs, and sets himself above them all. He instructs them on how to organize themselves, and assures them that when the time comes, they will be called upon to Run the City.
> 
> That settled, he returns to Wintershiven, de-briefs his informants, kills a few Pholtans, and returns (via teleportation) to Nevond Nevnend.
> 
> “Tau’s story checks out,” he reports. “But no one knows much else. It was a slow month.”
> ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
> “No,” Lucius says slowly. “_It’s about the money_. Look at you, the lot of you—clucking like barnyard hens,” Lucius says. “F-ck your _principles_, where’s your _stuff_, Crim? All the magic items you crafted for her?”
> 
> “Well, he has them, of course,”
> 
> “’Of course’, hell! Why don’t you straighten up and act like a Liberator? Thrommel robbed you blind, and now this lying, cheating fraud of a woman is going to do the same?” Lucius moves very close to Jespo. “Look, I’ll help you get your stuff back. I think somebody should pay for this, and I think you do too.”
> ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
> “Good. Then trust me on this one. I’ve arranged for a real mentor for you, Jespo. His name is Nystul. He’s a very famous man, and he could probably take out Prisantha’s candy-ass wizard’s academy single handed. He’s agreed to teach you evocations, Jespo, and you’re going to learn them and say thank you.”




Wow, Lucius really took being a foot note in the "Pholtan's Big Book o' Badguys: Liberators of Tenh" section hard.  

I say godd*am we love that assassin!


----------



## the_mighty_agrippa

> “Good. Then trust me on this one. I’ve arranged for a real mentor for you, Jespo. His name is Nystul. He’s a very famous man, and he could probably take out Prisantha’s candy-ass wizard’s academy single handed. He’s agreed to teach you evocations, Jespo, and you’re going to learn them and say thank you.”
> 
> “I don’t think . . .”
> 
> “A smart wizard says, ‘thank you.’ Say it.”
> 
> Jespo looks down. “Thank you.”
> 
> “Good. We go to Chendl tomorrow, you start your training, and when you’re finished we’re going to get your goddamned stuff back.” Lucius stands up. “Stop crying, Crim, makes you look like a woman. Besides, I just put you on the winning side. If I were you, I’d be whistlin’ like a halfling.” Lucius leans in close to Jespo’s ear. “And a smart wizard keeps his mouth shut about where he’s going.”




This is the best.


----------



## Joshua Randall

I think at this point it's best if I disguise my bump as a reply, by quoting (or paraphrasing, depending upon how good my memory is) my favorite Lucius line. (Also Wulf Ratbane's favorite line from the ToEE story.)

"... a short but murderous foray to re-establish the party's reputation as people not to be trifled with."

Oh yeah. Go, Lucius!


----------



## (contact)

"Several of the Shieldlanders were captured before the mob was driven off, and Lucius sets to work on one of them.  After a rather lengthy ‘session’ during which he wrests forth the names of the civic leaders in the refugee camps, he proposes a killing spree.  A quick, and murderous foray into the refugee camps to repair the party’s reputation as people not to be trifled with.  

The party shoots this down."


----------



## (contact)

*Patchwall 25, CY 593
83—Gossip is what they call espionage when no lives are at stake.*

A Greyhawk City winter isn’t like a winter anywhere else.  Greyhawkers seem to thrive on the cold, and if anything, the city becomes more active once the temperatures drop.  While Heydricus’ Tenha are hunkering down around their hearth-fires, trying not to loose any limbs to the cruel wind, Greyhawkers get _busy_.  Perhaps it’s the light snowfall in this part of the world—enough to be scenic, but rarely more.  Or perhaps it’s the fact that the standing pools of human waste freeze solid, and no longer offend the nose, or bring tears to the eyes.

 While Jespo spends this idyllic time training with Nystul, Hastur busies himself with a thorough inventory of the foreign quarter’s fest-halls.  For his part, Lucius lurks around the Terrible Two Linnorm, an inn favored by a motley crew of admirers, groupies, lackeys, functionaries, profiteers, and star-gazers—and, of course the adventuring party around which they all revolve.  Greyhawk City’s premier adventurers, the “Boon Companions,” have made the Linnorm their home away from home.  They are the most well-known and successful adventuring group in Greyhawk, and therefore (just ask any Greyhawker) the world.

Regdar is part of this exalted company.  After his brief life as a woman, Jespo’s former bride-to-be has spurned his chance at feminine bliss for the embrace of his former adventuring companions—men and women he has shed blood with (and for), but never spoke of during his stint with the Liberators of Tenh.  

Lucius doesn’t have any trouble learning their names and the legends associated with them—the Boon Companions are the pride of the city, and the tales of their adventurers are told in seven different tongues underneath the unpainted doorways of the foreigner’s quarter, and bandied across the starched tablecloths on the other side of town:  Mialee, Jozan, Krusk, and Lidda versus the Shadow Legions of the Demon’s Bride!  Vadiana, Alhandra, Soveliss and Ember defiant against the Seven Serpentine Sorcerers of the Forgotten Temple!  In fact, the city is still laughing about Nebin and Devis’ high-spirited antics against the self-styled King of the Rats.  Truly, no adventurers are better known, or better loved than the Boon Companions.

 But all is not entirely well within the group; Devis, the high-minded bard and leader of the company has had a falling out with the sorcerer Hennet, a rising star whose light threatens to eclipse the rest of the group.  As Hennet has grown in power and established himself as Greyhawk City’s most-eligible arcanist, he has become simultaneously more withdrawn from his companions, and more visible to his public.  Of late, the rift has widened, and Hennet chooses to associate himself only with the two members of the group who share his firm conviction that he should be the center of attention at all times: Kerwin, the group’s “information specialist,” and Regdar, the barrel-chested formerly-female brawler.  These three ultra-macho adventurers drink and cavort side-by-side, rarely leaving the Linnorm.  Under Lucius’ disguised eye, Regdar drinks away his days at Hennet’s right hand, gazing milkily at the bare-chested sorcerer and receiving more than his share of lordly attention; the first among peers.  

In three weeks, Lucius doesn’t see the Boon Companions pay for drinks once.  He makes a mental note to leave a silver bar behind; the staff of the inn have had enough uncompensated trouble.

-----

The Viscountess Trill arrives (as has been her habit since Prisantha became a Wanted Woman) in disguise.  Or rather, she makes a big production of wearing all black, and covering her face with a diaphanous scarf.

“Ah, Viscountess, it is so good of you to see me.”  Prisantha has rented the top-floor suite of Chendl’s finest holstery, primarily for its flattering mirrors.  “Particularly under the circumstances.”

The gnome woman casts aside her veil and beams up at the Enchantress of Verbobonc.  “Soon my dear, we will no longer need to meet like this—why, Butrain has not forgotten who set him upon his throne, and he has gone after the ecclesiastic judges.  They have been in a terrible fight, but you didn’t hear that from me.”

“Of course not.” Pris looks about conspiratorially, to the Viscountess’ delight.  “Dearest, I require unusual . . . well, I suppose you might say _special_ undergarments.”

“Oh!” The viscountess gasps.  “Do you mean . . . _presentable_ undergarments?”

Prisantha nods.  “_Very_ presentable, please.”

To her acting credit, the Viscountess manages to blush before removing several lacy, half-wrought (but fully finished) articles from her _bag of holding_.  “Well, fortune smiles, dear.  I happen to have something in your size.”  the Viscountess looks Prisantha up and down.  “Is this for that dashing Duke S—?”

“Whom?” Prisantha asks innocently.

“The gentleman who _some_ say wouldn’t leave your side at our prince’s wedding?  Hm?  The same fellow who mentions you _often_ to Thrommel, asking for tales of your adventures?  Surely you haven’t forgotten about your friend the prince, have you?  Why, since you’ve been gone, he’s . . .”

-----

“. . . surrounded himself with a retinue of young, ambitious lordlings.  Among them, Thrommel has achieved fame for his martial prowess and bravery.”  Prisantha addresses Heydricus and Gwendolyn.  The three Liberators are sitting in front of a large fire, attended by Mialec, two priests and sundry other Tenha functionaries as they make their final plans for their winter tour of Tenh.

“Makes sense,” Heydricus says.  “He was in over his head with us, but at court, he’s probably as tough as they come.”

“Amongst the Northern lords, this is surely true, but Butrain’s Southerners are a different breed—older, hardened men.  As you might imagine, a rivalry is brewing.”

“And the King?”

“The king has his own battles—Belvor was a close friend to the churches, but our new liege intends to change all that.  He picked a fight with the religious establishment, and it looks like he’s won it.  He’s banished the theocrats from court, and surrounded himself with younger, reformatory clerics.  He attends services for all of the good faiths as a show of piety, but it is well known that he doesn’t really love the gods.”

“And the older clerics were all close to Belvor,” Heydicus adds.

“Well,” Prisantha leans close, “certain _knowledgeable_ persons contend that he has only courted these young clerics because without them he would have no magical protection at all; Butrain has disbanded the Four.”

“No!” Gwendolyn gasps, her eyes glittering. “The Royalty of Furyondy have kept the Circle of Four since . . .”

“He fired Lizst as soon as we left, and hasn’t replaced him.”

“Lizst backed the wrong pony,” Heydricus laughs.

Prisantha nods.  “There are those who say that Butrain has developed a fear of arcane magic—he won’t abide any sorcerers or wizards in his court.”

Gwendolyn looks up innocently.

“And more disturbing to some—since his ascension, he’s taken no lovers.” 

Gwedolyn inspects her manicure, and finds it in need of attention.

Prisantha pauses briefly to pour wine, then continues.  “There is a celebrated couple, a name that might be familiar to you, Heydricus; Millia, formerly engaged to the head of the Provost-Marshall’s regional affairs directorate, Toban?”

Gwendolyn glances up at Heydricus.

“What?” he says.

“She’s thrown Toban aside for this ragamuffin Shieldlander by the name of Margrove.  Supposedly he’s _very_ dashing.  He’s been dueling in her honor non-stop, and they’ve had some adventures together as well.”

Heydricus doesn’t pout—his face isn’t suited for it, but at this news his mouth seems to be giving it the Old Academy Try.  “I know this fop.  He challenged me once to a duel.”

“And I’m sure you would have beaten him, too,” Prisantha says, misreading Heydricus’ angst.


----------



## Despaxas

haven't read it yet, just wanted to be the first who replied 

ok, read it, hahahaha, the iconic characters eh? So, how badly do your players feel?


----------



## Zaruthustran

(contact) said:
			
		

> *Patchwall 25, CY 593
> 83—Gossip is what they call espionage when no lives are at stake.*
> Of late, the rift has widened, and Hennet chooses to associate himself only with the two members of the group who share his firm conviction that he should be the center of attention at all times: Kerwin, the group’s “information specialist,” and Regdar, the barrel-chested formerly-female brawler.  These three ultra-macho adventurers drink and cavort side-by-side, rarely leaving the Linnorm.  Under Lucius’ disguised eye, Regdar drinks away his days at Hennet’s right hand, gazing milkily at the bare-chested sorcerer and receiving more than his share of lordly attention; the first among peers.




Love, love, loving the Regda/Regdar thing. Hilarious!

-z


----------



## Zaruthustran

So, (contact) any plans for illustrations of Heydricus, Prisantha, Lucius, and the rest of the crew? I miss the adventure art from RtoToEE.

-z


----------



## CrusadeDave

(contact) said:
			
		

> Prisantha nods.  “There are those who say that Butrain has developed a fear of arcane magic—he won’t abide any sorcerers or wizards in his court.”
> 
> Gwendolyn looks up innocently.
> 
> “And more disturbing to some—since his ascension, he’s taken no lovers.”
> 
> Gwedolyn inspects her manicure, and finds it in need of attention.




Hmmmm... It appears that the Donkey's curse was not wholly lifted.... naughty, naughty...


----------



## the_mighty_agrippa

Brilliant, just brilliant.

I can't wait for Lucius to kill the s*** out of the Boon Companions.  Or at least expose one of them and fracture the group.

HAHAHAHA


----------



## (contact)

Zaruthustran said:
			
		

> So, (contact) any plans for illustrations of Heydricus, Prisantha, Lucius, and the rest of the crew? I miss the adventure art from RtoToEE.
> 
> -z




That's a really great idea.  If Heydricus' player gives my drawing tablet back, it might even happen.


----------



## Plane Sailing

I love the idea of the PCs potentially getting into a fight with the iconic D&D heroes...

Especially if those heroes are, well, generally acknowledged as true heroes by the people of Greyhawk (thus allowing the potential for the liberators to become hated outlaws for killing the beloved heroes!)

What a rat-bastard, eh?


----------



## (contact)

*Ready’reat 4, CY 593
84—Breakin’ up is hard to do. (Part 1)*

_And so the general of hot desire
Was sleeping by a virgin hand disarm'd.
This brand she quenched in a cool well by,
Which from Love's fire took heat perpetual,
Growing a bath and healthful remedy
For men diseased; but I, my mistress' thrall,
Came there for cure, and this by that I prove,
Love's fire heats water, water cools not love._
--Shakespeare, CLIV.


The Boon Companions run the city, no question about it.  Hennet likes to look the part—in fact, if you ask him, he’ll tell you that accessorizing is a _must_.  If you’re a hot-sh-t, high-speed adventurer, you need two things: leather clothes and magic items.  If you’re also a big-time stud, you’ll need leather, magic items, buckles and tattoos.  Take a look at Hennet—_take a good look_:  Buckles?  From bits to t-ts.  Leather?  Nothing but the finest calfskin, baby.  Magic items?  Slap on a d-magic on and watch him light up like a _daylight_ spell.  Tattoos?  Sh-t, Hennet’s wearing more ink than most scribes use in a lifetime, and it’s _all_ masterwork.

Look, when Hennet walks into a room, he’s checking for the _second_ finest bitch, because the first is who he came with.  Got it?

The patrons of the Terrible Two Linnorm get it.  Big time.  So do Kerwin and Regdar.  Now, Hennet is used to being approached by strangers.  Most of them just want an autograph, or to tell the lads at work that they shook hands with Hennet.  Yeah, man, _the_ Hennet.  So he’s not that surprised when a trio of hay-seed provincials show up and start in on Regdar, without so much as an “aren’t you the guy who . . .”.  

Something in the tone of the conversation draws Hennet’s attention.  Who let these dumbasses make Charisma their dump stat?  “Come again?” Hennet asks, his confident sneer summarizing his first impression.

“I’m not talking to you.”  The balding pasty-skinned man is standing in front of Regdar with his little toothpick arms crossed in front of his chest.  His clothes are cut from the ends of the bolts, and there’s not a stitch of leather to be seen any higher than his ankles.  “Redga . . . r, I’ve come for my things, and then I’ll go.”

“Oh for f-ck’s sake,” Regdar says, his deep baritone dropping to a whisper.  “_Not here, Crim_,” he hisses.

“You used to call me Jespie.”  The scarecrow starts to cry.

“Reg.  My man.  Who the f-ck is this?”  Hennet is looking around to make sure that people know that he’s still asking the questions around here.

“I thought we established that nobody’s talking to you.”  The sawed-off little black-haired bastard pulls up a chair and leans on it, staring hard at Hennet.  Hennet’s seen that look before—usually from things that Jozan then _dismisses_.  He opens his mouth and then closes it. 

“You’re first,” the little man whispers.  “So you know.”

“What?”  Hennet’s still smiling, but this doesn’t _feel_ funny.

Regdar stands up, his plate armor clanking.  He seems embarrassed to be so overdressed, but Hennet always insists that the Boon Companions be “_ready to rock_—any time, any place.”  Of course, _Hennet_ doesn’t wear 80 pounds of gear.

Regdar is sweating.  “Jespo . . . Jespie.  Let’s take this outside where we can talk.”  The barrel-chested fighter casts sideways glances at Hennet and Kerwin, then shoots Jespo a pleading look.

“No, Redga.  No, I am not going to let you sway me with your sweet talk.  You _lied to me_.”  The tears are streaming freely now.

Hennet laughs out loud.  This must be a joke.  “Well, sh-t, Regdar, if you have friends in town you should have told us.” He leans back and tucks his fingers into buckles.  “Why don’t we all relax and have a drink?”  Hennet waves his arm-candy away.  “Why don’t you go get us some drinks, doll . . . across town.  All of you, get lost.”

At this, the tavern begins to clear out, the patrons reluctant to leave, but also eager to please.

Lucius smiles, but doesn’t take his eyes off Hennet.  

Kerwin leans back in his chair.  There was a stretch of Kerwin’s life where he was concerned with rounding himself out and becoming _distinctive_.  But that time has passed.  A long adventuring career has taught him that violence trumps personality every time; a smart rogue should be concerned with striking first.  He casually puts his fingers on the brace of daggers hidden under the table and lets the black-haired human catch him sizing up the whimpering mage.   Two can play at this game.

Regdar grabs Jespo by the upper arm, and leans in close.  “Let’s _take this outside_, please.”

“Ah, look here f-cker.” The filthy, wild-eyed dwarf hasn’t spoken before, but he steps forward and plants his palm on Regdar’s chest.  “Nobody’s going outside, and nobody touches Crim.”

“I’m here for the magic items I made you,” Jespo snivels.  “You can keep any other treasure you earned.”

Hennet’s smirk has returned.  Ah ha, it’s all about _money_.  “Regdar, you sly dog.  You’ve been adventuring behind my back?”

“Hennet, I got this,” Regdar says over his shoulder.  “Jespo, you need to leave,” he pleads softly.  “Hennet is getting mad.”

“Hennet?” Jespo shrieks.  “Is that what this is about?  How can you be so concerned with _his_ feelings, when you _don’t even care about mine_?  We were _betrothed_, Regdar.  Doesn’t what we had _mean_ anything to you?”

Regdar puts his face into his hands.  

“What the f-ck, man?” Hennet is staring at Jespo disgustedly, shaking his head.  He starts to say something, but Lucius interrupts him.  

In the throat.


----------



## Urbanmech

Poor Henet isn't going to look so FINE with a huge scar on his neck.  Though does that mean that Nebin will take over the Boon Companions?  A gnome in charge is just silly even if he is packing the high charisma and social skills.

Nice to see Jespo getting his items back.  Sure he can't use them, but it is the principle of the matter.


----------



## shilsen




----------



## Morte

I fear no good will come of this.

Should be fun, though.

For onlookers.


----------



## thatdarncat

all I can think to say is


> please sir, could I have some more?


----------



## Hammerhead

Wonderful. Simply wonderful. I love the attitude that just drips from that post. Who's the dwarf though?


----------



## the_mighty_agrippa

(contact) said:
			
		

> “You’re first,” the little man whispers.  “So you know.”




And so he was.

How much you wanna bet the Theocracy of the Pale had a nice, long entry on Hennet as opposed to Lucius?


----------



## Joshua Randall

I am having visions of the most recent part of the story as part of movie.

Presenting...

*Brad Pitt* as _Hennet the Sorcerer_
*Nathan Lane* as _Regdar/Regda_
*David Hyde Pierce* as _Jespo Crim_

and a special appearance by...

*DMX* as _Lucius Maturin_


Rock on!


----------



## KidCthulhu

(contact) said:
			
		

> Hennet is staring at Jespo disgustedly, shaking his head.  He starts to say something, but Lucius interrupts him.
> 
> In the throat.




And somewhere, Devis begins a dance of joy.  Power to the Real King of Charisma, baby.

Contact, you make me giggle like a schoolgirl.  Really.


----------



## Old One

*Dude...*

(contact),

You are seriously twisted...pure genius !

~ Old One


----------



## (contact)

Heydricus' player DM'ed the encounter with the iconics.  I was running the story up until Lucius "decided" that he, Jespo and Hastur should go get Jespo's stuff.  Chris ran the encounter with Hennet and had me *rolling* on the floor with his rock star cum frat boy take on the iconics.

Hastur is the bodyguard that Lucius hired for Jespo.  (i.e. new cohort)


----------



## (contact)

*Ready’reat 4, CY 593
84—Breakin’ up is hard to do (Part 2).*

 “You don’t hyphenate ‘Druid f-ckers.’”  Prisantha hands Mialec’s minutes back, her extensive revisions in sepia ink.  Mialec scans the notes looking for Heydricus’ handwriting, but returns the papers to her haversack dejectedly.

“Did you have a chance to review the export projections I sent over?” She asks hopefully.

“Oh yeah, they were great.” Heydricus smiles and clasps her shoulder firmly.  “Great job.”  He turns back to the hilt-etchings he and Prisantha are discussing.

“But, what do you _think_?” Mialec says.  “Do we even want to operate in an overproduction phase, and if so, for how long?”

Heydricus pauses for a moment as he tries to recall the document.  Failing that, he looks both ways for an ambush before leaning in.  “Well, you know, I think your recommendation was perfect.”

“You do?” She says.

“Absolutely.  Great job.”

Mialec glides back to her sunless cubicle, to revise and redraft the work orders.

“You never read her reports,” Prisantha says.

“I’m a ‘big picture’ guy, Pris,” Heydricus explains.  “What’s important is that Mialec believes in herself.  You and I have bigger fish to fry.”

Gwendolyn prances into the room, her diaphanous springtime dress billowing behind her.  Her cheeks are flushed and she looks as happy as any of the Liberators have ever seen her.

“Gwen,” Heydricus says.  “Is there . . .”

“I have good neeeeews,” she sings.

“Well?” Prisantha asks.

Gwendolyn waggles her eyebrows.  “I _wish_ you were standing over here, Pris.”

And suddenly, she is.

“Hey, Gwen!” Heydricus exclaims.  “Great job.”

“You’re _wishing_!” Prisantha squeals.  The two women clasp hands and jump up and down.

-----

Hennet clasps his hands to his throat against the spray of blood and manages to look astonished before slumping face-first into the remnants of the afternoon’s paté.  Kerwin is the first to react—he flings a fist-full of daggers in one smooth motion, striking Jespo in the chest and neck, and then tumbles backwards out of his chair, whipping a pair of long fighting-knives from wrist sheathes as he rises into a crouch.  Jespo gasps once, clutches Regdar’s shoulders, and collapses to the ground.

Lucius leaps over the table and plants his boot on the back of the slumped sorcerer before springing at Kerwin, slashing him across the face and chest.  Hastur charges past Regdar, overturning the table, a bloody rage evident on his face.  Kerwin goes down under a flurry of axe blows and spit, even as the remaining patrons of the Terrible Two Linnorm begin to scream and flee for the exit.

Regdar starts to reach for his sword, but stops mid-draw.  It has taken ten seconds for the fight to go from Lookin’ Good to Sucker Bet.  He doesn’t recognize the angry little dwarf, but he does know what Heydricus’ assassin is capable of.  He starts unbuckling his armor.

“You can have my stuff,” he says.  “Just . . .take it easy.”

-----

Jespo takes his first breath of the day and sits up on a rune-covered slab in the Halls of the Radiant Sun, his skin burned pink from the Light of Pelor.  Lucius is counting coins into the fat hand of a rotund cleric.  Fräs nuzzles Jespo and purrs.

“Look, Crim,” Lucius says over his shoulder as he drops the last of the coin.  “This needs to stay between you and me, right?  For your sake.”  Lucius sits down next to Jespo and puts his arm around the wizard’s thin shoulders.  “There’s been some talk, Jespo.  Concern about you dying so much—you know, that you may not be . . . cut out to be a Liberator.”  Jespo raises a finger to protest, but Lucius hushes him.  “I know, I know.  I told her that she was full of sh-t, but . . . Heydricus was listening.”  Lucius shrugs.

“You told who?  Who said I wasn’t fit for adventure?”

“Ah, you know I can’t say.  Look, it wasn’t Prisantha, if that’s what you’re worried about.  The point is, as far as the others are concerned, we never came here, we never killed nobody, and you didn’t die.  Got it?”

-----

Jespo, Hastur and Lucius return to a Tenh capital abuzz with the latest news:  Three weeks after the Liberators’ assault on Wintershiven, the Pale instructed their diplomats to release a statement blaming the assassinations of both the High Justicars and the former Prelate on Nyrondeese agitators.  They subsequently made a formal declaration of war and invaded Nyrond, despite the snow on the ground.  After seizing several key targets and positioning themselves well for a longer campaign come spring, they ceased their offensive and hunkered down for the winter.  

Heydricus contacts the King of Nyrond via _sending_, and pledges his support.  Come spring, Lynwerd assures him, Nyrond will call upon Tenh, and the Pale will learn to their peril why the lamb leaves the lion to sleep!


----------



## Wish

*Another fun post.*



			
				(contact) said:
			
		

> Gwendolyn waggles her eyebrows.  “I _wish_ you were standing over here, Pris.”
> 
> And suddenly, she is.




What a waste of 5000 xp!    

Anyway, thanks for spoiling us with two updates, back to back, (contact).  The Liberators story hour still rocks.


----------



## Squire James

I imagine it's pretty tough to keep a person who can cast Wish as a cohort under magical compulsion, hm?


----------



## Plane Sailing

What makes them think that Hennet won't get Resurrected too, I wonder? He certainly seems like the kind of guy that will want to get some payback. Hope he's not capable of casting wish himself...

(summons loads of nasties. Wishes Lucius into the middle of them and then demolishes him with magic would be one reasonable tactic, I'm sure)


----------



## Victim

Plane Sailing said:
			
		

> What makes them think that Hennet won't get Resurrected too, I wonder? He certainly seems like the kind of guy that will want to get some payback. Hope he's not capable of casting wish himself...
> 
> (summons loads of nasties. Wishes Lucius into the middle of them and then demolishes him with magic would be one reasonable tactic, I'm sure)




He's supposed to get rez'd, I'd imagine.  This was about Crim's stuff, not killing Hennet.  His death wasn't important at all.  And it doesn't sound like the group took his stuff, so he shouldn't have too many complaints.


----------



## Vargo

Victim said:
			
		

> He's supposed to get rez'd, I'd imagine.  This was about Crim's stuff, not killing Hennet.  His death wasn't important at all.  And it doesn't sound like the group took his stuff, so he shouldn't have too many complaints.




Except he's got an ego almost the size of Heydricus.  I'm sure he'll be looking for vengeance now.


----------



## (contact)

Oh, they looted Hennet.    IIRC, they got a rod of absorption, and a carpet of flying off of him before they ran like . . . er . . . _withdrew to a stronger tactical position_ (i.e. Tenh).

If Hennet wastes Lucius, the Boon Companions should expect to get the Boneheart treatment.  The prosepect of a gang-war between the Boon Companions and Liberators of Tenh sounds like a lot of fun.

Or, as Taran says in the Risen Goddess Story Hour, "Having enemies with _clones_ is like treasure coming to you!"

But unfortunately, the world of Greyhawk has run out of time for such shenanigans, as we shall see in the next update.




			
				Wish said:
			
		

> What a waste of 5000 xp!




I actually don't make my PCs spend the xp cost to duplicate spells off of their known spell lists (or similar effects); the xp cost is just there to keep them from abusing the spell, and cheeky stuff like Gwen's little demonstration doesn't count.



> Anyway, thanks for spoiling us with two updates, back to back, (contact).  The Liberators story hour still rocks.




And there's more in the que!


----------



## (contact)

*Interlude:  Snow and Stone—Giving the Miser’s Gift.*

It has been a fine winter.  The second week of Ready’reat, the Lord of Stoink was disposed in a bloody coup, organized by a coalition of merchants claiming to desire an end to the gang-land rule of the city.  The first action of the new governing council is to petition the newly formed Tenh state for protectorate status.  The petition is immediately granted.

Before the worst of the cold arrives, Elenthal takes C’min into the mountains, the two of them trekking back to the lonely peaks that had been Elenthal’s home prior to his encounter with the Liberators, promising to return when the last of the giant strongholds have been destroyed.  

Jespo, Lucius and Hastur hunker down in Nevond Nevnend, drinking, gambling and (occasionally) getting some work done.  Gwendolyn pretends to dislike them, but winds up joining them more often than not, over Jespo’s objections.

Tau returns alone to Cur’ruth to meditate amongst the ruins, and take up a hermitage there in the hopes that he may gain some glimpse of the God that Was.

Left to rule the shattered city alone, Belvor sets about the task of restoring Calibut, serving as both a steadfast administrator as well as a shining example of all that is Pure and True.  Under his firm and gentle guidance, Calibut slowly emerges from the nightmare that had taken it, body and soul.

Prisantha and Heydricus spend the winter traveling the length and breadth of Tenh, visiting the small communities and holdfasts of the shattered nation.  Their message is brief:  There is a Lord in Tenh, and the land will have justice.

It is common for the local “authorities” to take offense at this—honorable men are given a chance to swear fealty, but the corrupted are destroyed without mercy.  Warlords, bandits, and village tyrants had long since taken practical control of Tenh, and over the winter, Prisantha and Heydricus put in the ground-work necessary to root them out and crush them. 

After whatever fighting proves necessary, they settle down wherever the Tenha gather.  Traditionally this would be the lodge of a clan head, or village leader, but in more cases than not, the community’s inn serves as the meeting ground.  Heydricus speaks, his retinue of Flan clerics speak, and the bard tells the epic stories of better times.  Prisantha uses her _inherent charm person_ spell to ensure the reputation of the new Lord is a good one, and they _teleport_ to the next holding, to do it all over again.

 By the first of Coldeven, spring is in sight and the morale of Tenh is heightened, if not its actual circumstance.  For the first winter in memory, no communities dried up or starved to death waiting out the cold.  The Liberators saw to that.

Prisantha and Heydricus have completed their long winter’s mission, and have left their retinue back in Nevond Nevnend, choosing to return to a particularly charming mountain town for an actual vacation.

That first night, shortly after their arrival, both Liberators have a foul dream; in it, they are aware of a tremendous weight pressing in from all sides—a great birth, seven cries of pain heard with the skin and bone.  They are standing before a circle of seven huge obelisks.  The nearest appears to be covered with a vein-like striations that leak a thick, viscous liquid.  Each of the stones is crowned by a bluish fire, and cracked down its vertical center—an enlongated diamond rift.  In the middle of the standing stones, a thin and frail old man is bared to the elements, naked and alone, hunched nearly double by the weight of uncounted years.  As the storm rages, the man gazes knowingly into the eyes of the heroes; a flat, abysmally cruel glance, unspeakably dead, yet horribly human.  At that moment they awaken.

It doesn’t take long to determine that not only did Heydricus and Prisantha have the same dream, nearly everyone in the village had a similar nightmare.  No others saw the old man, but many report a terrifying sense of weight upon them, accompanied by the vision of a large block of stone.  A rare, highly attuned few saw the stone bleed.

In fact, all over the world, the same scene was witnessed by the night’s sleepers.  Most brush it off, attributing the mystery to whichever boogeyman they are accustomed to blame for frightening phenomena they do not understand.  A rare few however, recognize the sender of the dream, and are wise enough to realize that the whole world has grown subtly sick overnight.  

These few are terrified; Iuz is born again.


----------



## the_mighty_agrippa

Ah, Epic levels.


----------



## Enkhidu

Is it wrong that all I can think about is the surviving members of the Boneheart singing for the Liberators: 

The Old One's back, and there's gonna be trouble
(Hey la, hey la, my boyfriend's back)
When you see him comin', better cut out on the double
(Hey la, hey la, my boyfriend's back)


----------



## (contact)

Short answer?  Yes.  

Long answer?  Yes yes.


----------



## Old One

*That's right...*



			
				Enkhidu said:
			
		

> Is it wrong that all I can think about is the surviving members of the Boneheart singing for the Liberators:
> 
> The Old One's back, and there's gonna be trouble
> (Hey la, hey la, my boyfriend's back)
> When you see him comin', better cut out on the double
> (Hey la, hey la, my boyfriend's back)




<insert evil cackle>

That's right...I am BACK!

Oh...wait...wrong Old One 

~ Old One


----------



## (contact)

*Coldeven 1, CY 593
85—All beginnings are endings, but some are the Beginning of the End (reprise).*

Tritherion does not choose his Liberators for their piety, or even their devotion to His religion.  Tritherion calls the most able, and makes him willing.  So it is that inside a mostly darkened room at the top of a nearly abandoned inn nestled within an almost forgotten Tenha mountain village, Heydricus prays fervently, for the first time that he can recall.  

In fact, Heydricus isn’t even sure if his prayers are working, until he feels a warmth wash over him, and sees a soft, yellow light through his closed eyelids.  He cracks an eye open, worried that peeking might piss Tritherion off, and break whatever miracle he’s managed weasel out of Him.  

“Holy sh-t,” Heydricus mutters.  “This praying stuff really works!”

“Hello, Heydricus,” Dabus says warmly.  “I’ve missed you.”

“Wow, Dabus, you’re . . . bigger!  And you’re glowing!”

“It’s because I’m not alive,” Dabus explains sagely.  “Although, I’m not dead either.”

“You’re an angel!” Heydricus says.

“Ah, no.  Not really.  It’s very difficult to explain.  You’ll understand more when you are with Tritherion.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I have been empowered to answer your prayer.”

“Really?”

“Of course.  Tritherion always answers his Liberator.  I have taken a very liberal interpretation of that empowerment, so here I am.”  

-----

“I have a surprise.”  Heydricus is leading Prisantha up the stairs toward his room, nearly dragging her.  She checks her hair and straightens her neckline.  

“Really?” She blushes.

“Oh yeah,” he says, grinning at her.

“Now?” She asks.  “We just got here.  Are you sure?”  

“I’m sure.” 

“Oh, Heydricus.”

Heydricus stops just before his door, and wiggles his eyebrows.  “You’re going to be shocked.”

“I am?” She breathes.

“Wait until you see it.”

Prisantha is looking over his shoulder.  “Heydricus, something in your room is _glowing_.”

The Liberator only smiles.  “Oh _yeah_.”

-----

“I can see the future,” Dabus explains.  “Or rather, I see what mortals call the future.  Technically, the future does not exist, but that may be too difficult of a concept for you right now.  Nonetheless, I’m not encouraged to talk about it to you, but neither am I prohibited.  

“The dream you had was shared by every living thing on this world with a soul.  It marked the beginning of a great and terrible rite.  The ritual will take many weeks, and at its end, Iuz will have ascended to full divinity.  The crafty demon hid his preparations well.  We were all taken by surprise.”

“Full divinity,” Prisantha muses.  “What does that mean?”

“It means that this world will be transformed however it suits him,” Dabus says.  “The Flannaes is his _realm_.  He is not bound to an outer plane.  He belongs here.”

Three heroes gaze at each other.

“I expect that we won’t like it here at all,” Dabus says softly. 

“People will fight,” Heydricus says.

Dabus nods sadly.  “Yes, they will.”

“We’ve got to stop this,” Heydricus says.  “I’m ready now.”

“It cannot be stopped,” Dabus asserts.  “There are those who will make the attempt, but they will fail.  Even now, they gather in Crockport; the greatest assemblage of heroes this world has ever seen.  They will go into Dorraka to disrupt this ritual and prevent the ascension.  They will fail, and they will all die.  Iuz the god will be born.”

“How can you be sure they will fail?” Prisantha asks.

“The greatest assemblage of heroes?” Heydricus asks.

Dabus shrugs.

Prisantha frowns.  “Well, some good must come from this slaughter . . . right?” 

Dabus shakes his head.

“Why wasn’t I invited?”  Heydricus puts his hands on his hips.  “This is bullsh-t.  Not that I’d go die with people I don’t even know, when I have you to go die with, but still.”

“I think I would like to know more about this ritual,” Prisantha says.

Dabus thinks for a moment, and the soft yellow nimbus of light radiating off of him intensifies.  “I suppose the best way to understand what Iuz is about is to consider taking cider from apples.  In one sense, the cider is within the apples the whole time, but the apples must be pressed, that the cider can emerge.”

“Cider?” Heydricus is incredulous.

“When cider is pressed—what is left behind?”

Prisantha sits up.  This is almost like the academy.  “Pulp, skin, seeds.”

“Yes, but it would be most accurate to say ‘everything that is not cider.’  Through this ritual, Iuz is cleansing himself of everything that is not an utterly amoral, evil god.”

Prisantha frowns.  “Literally?  Or are you speaking in metaphor?”

“Ah,” Dabus shifts uncomfortably.  “There is no meaningful distinction between the two, when discussing the gods.  Metaphors _are_ their literal manifestations. It’s a very complicated theological issue.”

“You shall have to explain it to me, someday,” Pris says. “Are these ‘literal metaphors’ physical?”

“Oh, yes.”

“What do they look like?”

Dabus shrugs.  “It depends.  They can take the form of gems or stone, but the more enlightened parts of a being tend to resemble glowing motes of light—fey lights.”

Prisantha looks at Heydricus.  “The emotes!” 

“Yes, where are the emotes?” She asks.

“They are in Dorraka,” Dabus says, then adds, “we’ll count that against your questions.”

“What?”

“You’ll see.”  

“Okay, what are we waiting for?” Heydricus begins rooting through the pile of clothes on his bed for his armor.  “Let’s go stop them.”

Dabus shakes his head.  “No, he is too strong.”

“What about the crusade?”

“Utterly doomed.”

Heydricus squints.  “You used to be a ‘can-do’ kind of guy Dabus.”

Dabus nods.  “Seeing the future will do that to you.”

Prisantha raises a finger.  “Nonetheless, we should warn them.”

“It won’t do any good,” Heydricus says.  “If their gods say ‘go,’ they’re gone.”

“But if the effort is doomed,” Prisantha counters.  “How is it these gods don’t know this?”

“Oh, they know,” Dabus says.

“Then why send their followers on a suicide mission?”

“Because live or die, Iuz takes the world.”

Heydricus scowls.  “Then what the f-ck are we going to do?”

“I thought we could go in just after he attains godhood.”

“Oh, come on now, that’s just stupid.”

Dabus shakes his head.  “No, Iuz will be dissolute for a time—disoriented from the process.  His priesthood will have to help him reconstitute his identity.  He will be at his weakest, and essentially ineffectual.”

“But if he’s already ascended,” Prisantha says, “What’s the point?”

Heydricus knows.  “The point is, we kill the most Iuzians that way.”

Dabus smiles grimly, and nods.  “It will fall to his priesthood to aid their master’s re-integration and midwife the process.  From their point of view, it is a monumental undertaking, and a profoundly profane thing.”

“And then we die,” Heydricus says.  

Dabus leans forward, sorrow plain on his face.  “The truth, my friends?  I’ve been sent back to see to it that your souls make it to Tritherion.  Sonahmiin promised you paradise.”

-----

Dabus is answering a _commune_ for the Liberators.  Heydricus sits in a chair facing him, and asks questions of Tritherion, while finishing off a basket of spring berries.

“The seven faiths of the crusade are sending their champions?”  

“_Yes,_” Dabus intones, his voice sepulchural.

“Will there be more than twenty of these crusaders?  

“_It will be the greatest force of heroes ever assembled._”

 Heydricus clenches his jaw.  “Will Halrond represent Tritherion?”

“_Yes._”

“Will he die mad at me?”

“_Yes._”

Heydricus rolls his eyes.  “Will he ever get over it?”

“_Of course._”

Prisantha raises a hand.  “Can I ask questions, too?”

“_Yes._”

“Do the crusaders understand the futility of their quest?”

“_Some of them do, some do not._”

“Could they be swayed to reconsider?”

“_No._”

“Will their efforts benefit our mission?”

“_No._”

“Will they weaken Dorraka?” Heydricus asks.

“_No._”

“Not even in the slightest?” Prisantha complains.

“_No._”

“That wasn’t a question!” she protests.

Heydricus snaps his fingers.  “Does Belvor intend to go on this crusade?”

“_Yes._”

“Goddamnit.” Heydricus frowns.  “Legend has it that Iuz’ mother was an archmage named Iggwilv.  She has a lost tomb, never found, fabulous treasure, the works.  Would finding that tomb profit us?”

“_Yes._”

Heydricus looks at Pris.  “Could you find it?”

Pris grabs Dabus’ arm.  “That’s not a question!  Yes, of course.”

Heydricus nods.  “Will the Old One’s high ranking priests be in Dorraka for the birth?”

“_Yes, all of them. _”  

This causes Heydricus’ eyes to light up.  “What about the Pale,” he says.  “Are they contributing champions?”

“_Yes.  The High Justicars will represent Pholtus._”

Heydricus grins.  “Did I hurt their egos when I implied they hadn’t done enough against Iuz?”

“I’m sorry,” Dabus says.  “You’re out of questions.”

-----

“It will be glorious.”  Belvor’s eyes are full of life.  “I’m sorry you won’t be with us.”

“Well, Halrond’s still mad at me,” Heydricus says.  He looks at Belvor, but doesn’t know where to begin.

“This is what I have been praying for my whole life, Heydricus.  Finally, the true faiths have gotten together to stomp out that Shadow in the North.”

“Who is involved?” Heydricus asks blandly.

“Well, of course Heironious.  Hextor will be represented.  Rao, Pelor and St. Cuthbert.  Wee Jas is sending wizards, and Halrond will represent your faith.”

Heydricus nods.  “Seven faiths, seven stones.”

Belvor smiles and clasps his shoulders warmly.  “And seven Liberators, Heydricus.  I’m leaving the group.  I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done for me.  If it weren’t for you, I would be stuck with my hind-end growing fat on that accursed throne.  Farewell.”

Heydricus nods.  “Farewell Belvor.  May we meet again.”

“I’ll bring you a trophy from Dorraka!”  Belvor waves as Jespo Crim _teleports_ him away.


----------



## Capellan

(contact) said:
			
		

> Hextor will be represented.




I wonder what poor SOB irked the 6-armed God enough to get _that_ job?

*suddenly starts to feel nervous*


----------



## shilsen

***Pulls up chair and grabs the big bag of popcorn***

Hoo boy! This should be good. Or really, really bad, which is the same thing from us readers' perscpetive


----------



## Enkhidu

I like the way you've pretty much given the players a big sign that says "This way to the end of the campaign - it'll be a TPK, but you'll enjoy it anyway!" It gets me right here, like a kick to the solar plexus.


----------



## Plane Sailing

There was a bleeding stone at the center of a bizarre nest of giants that the liberators cleaned out some time ago... any connection?

Cheers


----------



## Graywolf-ELM

I'm hooked.  The different layers of deviousness going on, the story, the hooks, and recent updates now.

Thanks for further entertainment.  Now to decide on the next Story Hour to tackle.


----------



## Plane Sailing

Graywolf-ELM said:
			
		

> Thanks for further entertainment.  Now to decide on the next Story Hour to tackle.




Hey, you could try mine! 

Just pimpin'


----------



## Joshua Randall

This is like in _The Wild Bunch_, when they're all like "F-ck it, we're gonna die anyway, may as well take a bunch of those b-stards with us!" Maybe I should update my movie casting so that Heydricus is played by William Holden?

On a (slightly) more serious note: isn't this kind of situation what D&D is all about? Heroes are faced with an impossible challenge. Death is certain. Yet they must confront it -- because they are heroes, G-ddammit! *ROCK. ON.*


----------



## KidCthulhu

See, now I don't see a TPK coming.  At least not for the Liberators.  I think they've just been shown the tunnel under the fortress.  All the other shiney, happy people are going to kill themselves charging the front gate, but the Liberators are going aroun' back.


----------



## (contact)

Plane Sailing said:
			
		

> There was a bleeding stone at the center of a bizarre nest of giants that the liberators cleaned out some time ago... any connection?
> 
> Cheers




Short answer?  Yes.

Long answer?  



			
				Chapter 36 said:
			
		

> A handwritten note from a being identified as “Festering” charges the Lamia with “converting and transforming all giant supplicants, willing or no” and “harvesting any dissenters”.  The group concludes that “harvesting” is a metaphor for gathering body parts, as the grisly butchery C’min and Elijah witnessed seems to indicate.  The note further instructs the Lamia to deliver any “harvested” giants to an excavation site, and bring them “before the Bleeding Stone”.  The note gives directions for a caravan to follow a trail further North and East, into the heart of Tenh’s Northern mountain range.






			
				Chapter 38 said:
			
		

> The passage connects to the base of the excavation.  A series of rough-cut concentric circles widen as they rise in height, and the chamber is exposed to the frigid, thin air.  The group stands on the largest circle—a ledge some forty feet in width, running around a circumference of several hundred feet.   In the center of the chamber, a support structure of posts, pillars and cross-beams is built into the ice and stone.  Ropes and pulleys dangle from the construction, and three frost giants stand upon it, pulling up huge loads of stone and ice, or hacking into the mountain with pick-axes.  Another giant supervises the work, hands on his hips.  This supervisor is heavily tattooed, but the giant is too far away for the party to make the designs out.
> 
> At the center of the bowl-shaped tier excavation, a massive obelisk rises half-exposed.  The obelisk is composed of a material so dark as to absorb the light, dimming the scene around it.  The thing is covered with fine traceries that glow like pulsing phosphorescent veins along its length.  When examined, the thing seems to shunt the viewer’s gaze off to one side, and directly looking at the obelisk causes the vibratory sensation to grow in strength.  Elijah is sure for a moment that the traceries are not veins, but rivulets of blood, innocent blood—children’s blood, enough blood to . . . she averts her gaze before her morale degenerates any further.
> 
> Just at that moment, all of the giants in the room raise their heads in unison and stare directly at Elijah.
> 
> Elijah, meet the Bleeding Stone.
> 
> As the supervisor giant comes screaming into the party’s torch-light, the group notices that his tattoos are actually cut-marks—hundreds of them, covering his mostly naked body from head to toe.  The cut-marks duplicate the twisted traceries of the Bleeding Stone, and appear to be self-inflicted.  The giant bellows forward and literally runs over Thrommel before coming to a stop in the midst of the spellcasters.  Where he stops, a thick, noxious mist rises from the ground, obscuring all sight, rising to the height of his chest.






			
				Interlude said:
			
		

> Althea's correspondence relates entirely to the Bleeding Stone.  According to her letters, the Bleeding Stone is one of seven great artifacts that predate and presage the birth of Iuz in the Flannaes, objects that are considered sentient (if entirely alien) and self-aware.  The Seven Stones appeared in what was to become the land of Iuz, and prepared the tribes there for their eventual unification under his tyrannical rule.  Shortly after his birth, they disappeared, and were assumed to be scattered to the far corners of the Flannaes.  The Stones are apparently resistant to normal divinations, and their locations have only gradually been discovered by Iuzian search teams, operating under the direction of Cranzer of Riftcrag, a member of the Lesser Boneheart.
> 
> Althea mentions three other Stones that are in the possession of the Iuzian forces, and levels the threat that the last stone to be reclaimed will result in the death of the official in charge of its discovery.  She hopes that this will spur Festering and the others on toward an ever-greater zeal in their service to the Old One.
> 
> Althea states in one letter that the Seven Stones are fractured parts of one great whole—an object of epic power that would “open lost gates” and “hasten the alliances for which we have worked since the Great War”.


----------



## (contact)

KidCthulhu said:
			
		

> See, now I don't see a TPK coming.  At least not for the Liberators.  I think they've just been shown the tunnel under the fortress.




Sigh.  Not our Liberators.  I had given them an out, but as we'll see, they killed the sh-t out of it.


----------



## Plane Sailing

(contact) said:
			
		

> Short answer?  Yes.
> 
> Long answer?




Thanks (contact).

That'll teach 'em to not chase down exactly what was going on with the bleeding stone - and with all those clues too! I guess they may have though other stuff was more important but they seem to have been forgetting the most basic lesson they learnt at the temple. 

Take it one level at a time, clean out that entire level, and move on.

The world is a whole lot bigger than the dungeon, but they left some loose ends a-dangling that it seems they shouldn't 

Great manouvre on your part though.

Cheers


----------



## coyote6

(contact) said:
			
		

> Sigh.  Not our Liberators.  I had given them an out, but as we'll see, they killed the sh-t out of it.




Oops. So, is this _really_ The End?

And if so, does this . . . 



			
				(contact) said:
			
		

> that Shadow in the North




...mean there's going to be a sequel? Starting around midnight, maybe?


----------



## Schmoe

KidCthulhu said:
			
		

> See, now I don't see a TPK coming.  At least not for the Liberators.  I think they've just been shown the tunnel under the fortress.  All the other shiney, happy people are going to kill themselves charging the front gate, but the Liberators are going aroun' back.




Having read some of the ideas in the "thread of doom" (can't find the link right now), my money is on the TPK.


----------



## CrusadeDave

*Expectations of Grandeur*



			
				(contact) said:
			
		

> Sigh.  Not our Liberators.  I had given them an out, but as we'll see, they killed the sh-t out of it.




And you expected strategy? From the party that ignored the emotes until after they were kidknapped, never investigated the Bleeding Stones, takes months off at a time to take breaks from crossing items off of the list, gained a massive enemy in Panshzek, facillitated the assasination of an innocent noble child, probably have gotten on "The Elder Conclave's" list, picked a fight with a nation-state that wasn't controlled by Iuz, actively initiated a coup in Stoink, picked a fight with the Boon Companions, has no real support in any major church structure, including the Holy Liberator's own faith.....

Strategy isn't their strong point. Now Tactics, there's something they excel at. I have total faith in their ability to wipe the floor with the baddies we created in the Dirty Rotten Thread. (contact) I posted some questions there today, btw....

Of course, three Wizards who can Wish, and a Cleric who can Miracle helps out a bit. Heydricus isn't a stiff, either, and no that's not just the rumors.


----------



## skullsmurfer

wow this stuff is fantastic.  i love the characters and the violence.  the whole rip on the Boon Companions is a plus, my brother has the books.  Ha! Keep up the good work I will be watching for the next update.


----------



## Joshua Randall

I have to start being more careful about reading the LoT story immediately before my own game. Because last night, when my PCs went to meet with the mysterious stranger who was going to sell them crucial information, my initial thought was _An empowered magic missile would certainly get his attention, especially coupled with a charge action plus feat of strength plus smite_. Then I remembered that my PCs are  not named Heydricus and Prisantha.


----------



## (contact)

CrusadeDave said:
			
		

> And you expected strategy? From the party that ignored the emotes until after they were kidknapped, never investigated the Bleeding Stones, takes months off at a time to take breaks from crossing items off of the list, gained a massive enemy in Panshzek, facillitated the assasination of an innocent noble child, probably have gotten on "The Elder Conclave's" list, picked a fight with a nation-state that wasn't controlled by Iuz, actively initiated a coup in Stoink, picked a fight with the Boon Companions, has no real support in any major church structure, including the Holy Liberator's own faith.....




Um.  Touche.  What was I thinking?


----------



## CrusadeDave

(contact) said:
			
		

> Um.  Touche.  What was I thinking?




Sorry if I offended. My previous post was a bit... harsh. It was meant in the best intentions. Can't wait to hear more about the Liberators futile attempts to investigate your well crafted plots and wonderful deep DMing and instead leap headlong into close-combat free for alls with all of the nasties you've decided to punish them with for ignoring your hard work and eye for detail.

This story hour rules all.


----------



## Look_a_Unicorn

I absolutely adore the Liberators High-level Hijink... and the subtle manner of your writing style makes this one of the best Story Hours I've ever been privliged to read. Thanks Contact.

Perfect case in point:
“I have a surprise.” Heydricus is leading Prisantha up the stairs toward his room, nearly dragging her. She checks her hair and straightens her neckline. 
“Really?” She blushes.
“Oh yeah,” he says, grinning at her.
“Now?” She asks. “We just got here. Are you sure?”


----------



## (contact)

CrusadeDave said:
			
		

> Sorry if I offended.




Oh, no-- not at all!  I was playing, and I guess I forgot the smiley.  --> 

Thanks for the kind words, folks!  I write the SH, but that's the easy part-- my players write the game.


----------



## Graywolf-ELM

Plane Sailing said:
			
		

> Hey, you could try mine!
> 
> Just pimpin'




Done, thanks it started off a little scattered, but developed into a good story, your style changed along the way as well. 3.75 stars of 5 for enjoyment.

GW


----------



## Ghostknight

Right so I spent the last two days reading the RTtoEE and this instead of working and now I don't know if I'll get that analysis report finished in time.  I tell you, this is just way too intersting ot anaylising a database and making sure the developers on my other projects have managed to not misinterpret requirements (again!)

Heh, now I get to sit and moan with the others about updates if it takes too long


----------



## Plane Sailing

Graywolf-ELM said:
			
		

> Done, thanks it started off a little scattered, but developed into a good story, your style changed along the way as well. 3.75 stars of 5 for enjoyment.




Hey, thanks! I never actually expected you to   

Out of interest, did you just read part IV, or did you go from the very beginning? It was *really* scattered back then!

Oh, and (contact) - great story, man!


----------



## Graywolf-ELM

Plane Sailing said:
			
		

> Hey, thanks! I never actually expected you to
> 
> Out of interest, did you just read part IV, or did you go from the very beginning? It was *really* scattered back then!
> 
> Oh, and (contact) - great story, man!




From the beginning.   My appetite for reading is pretty big.  I read from beginning to end before I will post in a SH.  At least for the ones that have the older back story archived or still posted.  I have been tempted when reading really good lines or story points, but how lame to get a post from someone over something that is 2 years old.

Sorry for the hijack.  I'm looking forward to how this story spins out from here.  If anyone will work out a contingency spell, to teleport their dead body and posessions back to where new clones are kept.  Probably not enough time to come up with new clones at this point though.


----------



## (contact)

Old One has carte blanche to hijack my threads.  I've got the next update in the hopper right now.


----------



## Zaruthustran

*Reborn?*

So, who killed Iuz? I mean, to be *re*born he has to have been unborn/killed, right? They should find that guy, ask for some pointers.

-z


----------



## GreyShadow

Zaruthustran said:
			
		

> So, who killed Iuz? I mean, to be *re*born he has to have been unborn/killed, right? They should find that guy, ask for some pointers.
> 
> -z




He might have done himself in.... you know how it is with these EVIL dudes.  They'll deny Heydricus xp anyway they can.


----------



## (contact)

"Rebirth" as in Miles Davis' "Rebirth of the Cool."   Except Evil instead of cool, and tyranny instead of a trumpet.

. . . Bad choice of words, I guess.  "Second birth" would be a better way to put his transformation.


----------



## Dyntheos

A week ago I copy / pasted all of the story from this thread into a word doc, shrunk it down to 7 point font, bound it and started reading. Actually I started with The return to the Temple story hour first, and read that over the course of a few evenings.

This weekend I sat down and read the whole story up till this point, 138 pages in all, and it was something I just couldn't put down. A fabulous read, extremely well written, full of everything from politics, tpk's and romance ( damnit I can't beleive Heydricus was that blind, KISS HER YOU FOOL! ).

Just thought I'd congratulate contact and his players for a very entertaining weekend, full of high adventure and a lot of laughs.


----------



## (contact)

Thanks, Dyntheos, I appreciate that.  I forwarded your comments along to Pris and Heydricus' players as well.


----------



## (contact)

*Coldeven 6, CY 593
86—The Lost Caverns of Tsojcanth*


_There once was a lass from Fontaine
And Iggwilv the witch was her name; 
She brought Graz’zt forth
And she rode that black horse
But the get was senior to the dame!_


Nearly a century ago, the Arch-mage Iggwilv subjugated the Marches of Perrenland, and ruled over them for nearly a decade, squeezing every drop of tribute she could from her unfortunate vassals.  The legends still circulating about her say that she used the wealth to fund her ever-deepening involvement with demonology and dark summonings.  That she had a run in with the demon prince Graz’zt, and that it ended her reign is accepted as fact.  But as to the nature of their encounter, stories differ.

The most commonly held version contends that Iggwilv’s empire was built to appease her own vanity, and that her ever growing hubris led her into a confrontation she could not win—that Graz’zt stripped Iggwilv of her power and sent her scurrying into history, another in a long list of would-be tyrants who didn’t make the cut.

That’s the version they like the most in Perrenland.

But if you ask the sages of the Marklands, the ones who can feel the Old One’s hungry gaze upon them as they sleep, you’ll hear a different story.   In their version, Iggwilv wasn’t looting the Perrenlands for vanity, she was building a nest.  And Graz’zt was not her enemy, but rather her unwilling thrall.  In that version, Iggwilv the Archmagi seduced a Prince of the Abyss to give birth to a demigod.

-----

Prisantha casts a _legend lore_ on the relationship between Iggwilv and Iuz.  She grimaces and reports, “The divination was brief; ‘_some children never wean_’.”

Heydricus winces at the imagery.  

Lucius rolls his eyes.  “Oh, that was helpful,” he says.  “Good thing we have all this mumbo jumbo, otherwise we wouldn’t know who to kill.”

“I’ve _discerned_ the location of an artifact known to have been kept within Iggwilv’s lair,” Dabus interrupts.  “Daoud’s Wondrous Lanthorn is in the Prime Material plane, on Oerth, in the Yatil mountains, on the border of Ket and Perrenland, between the gorge of the Velverdyva River and the hills east of the town of Krestible, four hundred feet beneath the peak directly to the South of the tallest peak visible when gazing due east from Krestible’s town square, within the heart of a series of caverns called Tsojcanth.”  Dabus looks at Lucius pointedly.

“We should _teleport_ in, and see about this Iggwilv,” Prisantha says fiercely.

“I don’t think that is wise,” Heydricus says.  

“Is this opposite day?” Gwendolyn asks.  

“She _is_ an archmage,” Heydricus continues, “and may have warded her demesne against such tactics.”

“_If_ she still lives,” Hastur counters sagely.  Everyone looks at him.  

“Well, I could _teleport_ us to Krestible,” Pris says.  “And we could hike from there.”

“Before we go, I should introduce you to my sword,” Heydricus says.

“Yes, we’ve all seen your sword, Heydricus,” Jepso sniffs.  “Unless you mean to make an allusion, in which case, I’ve a Greyhawk City adventuring band for you.”

“No, no, Crim, this is a new sword.”

“It looks just like your old one.”

“Ha!  That’s because it _is_ my old one.”

“Go on, Heydricus,” Dabus says.  “Tell them.”

“Dabus has taught me some prayers.”  Heydricus beams proudly.

“Congratulations,” Gwendolyn drawls.  “If he can teach Crim some spells, I say we keep him.”

“Really, Gwendolyn” Jepso hisses.  “You’ve been insufferable ever since you started _wishing_.   I happen to have an _extremely_ powerful mentor already, thank you very much.”

“At the Willip Community Wizard’s College?” Prisantha asks incredulously.

“No,” Jespo says.  “Think higher.”

“You’ve been accepted to the Furyondian Academy!”

“No, no.  Higher,” Jespo says smugly.

“There is no higher school, Jespo,” Prisantha bristles.

“Think, ‘Circle of Eight,’” Jespo says.  “I’ve recently finished tutelage with none other than Nystul himself.”

“The Tenha expatriate?” Heydricus says.

“Yes, I mentioned you, of course.  He’s very interested in our work here.”

“You’re lying,” Gwendolyn says.

“If I were lying, Fräs would hiss,” Jespo counters.

“Well, that’s true,” Dabus says.  “Lies make her fur itch.”

Heydricus draws his sword heroically.  “Liberators of Tenh, I’d like you to meet ‘Freedom’s Touch’!”

Dabus smiles and nods, the others stare blankly.

“It’s . . . wonderful, Heydricus,” Prisantha says encouragingly.

“I’ve enchanted it,” he says.

Gwendolyn looks at Fräs for confirmation.  The cat purrs.  “How?” she demands.

“Through dedication and prayer,” Heydricus states.

Dabus beams proudly.

“_And we’re going to kill the sh-t out of the Boneheart_,” the sword says, as it bursts into a cold, blue flame.

-----

People are growing sick all over the Flannaes.  Old Timers mutter about how they’ve seen worse, as old timers will, but young timers don’t believe them.  And it seems to most folks that the days have grown shorter—there’s just less time in the day to do all the things that you’re used to.  Of course, the first activities to fall by the wayside are the daily celebrations and simple pleasures.  There’s work to be done, work that _must_ be done, and with all the folk turning up sick, there are less hands to do it with.

In the Marklands, a dark smudge appears on the Northern horizon, and does not move.  Despite the best efforts of the Baroness Kalinstren to reassure her populace, refugees are leaving Crockport in droves.  Butrain has responded by enacting an entrance tax at the gates of Chendl.  Those with the silver can find what sanctuary Furyondy can offer.  The poor will have to fend for themselves.

-----

Krestible would be an _extremely_ quaint and charming mountain town, if it were quaint or charming.  The dirty collection of ill-kept hovels require quite a bit of leaning against to keep them standing, judging by the efforts of the meager populace.  The Liberators are greeted with suspicious glances, although the locals are scrupulously careful not to make eye contact.  Propped against one of the larger buildings, next to its entrance, is a crudely painted sign that reads “In.”

The Liberators enter the building, and see that it is indeed an inn, although one completely devoid of patrons.  Dabus moves toward the bar, and raps sharply on it with the hilt of his spear.  After a moment, a bent old woman emerges, glowering at the Liberators.

“I suppose you’ll want a room, and some food.”

“You have understood it admirably, madam,” Dabus says, with a courtly bow.

She glares at him as if regarding the underside of a slab of meat left too long in the sun.  “Adventurers,” she spits.  “Well go on, why don’t you just beat me now and get it over with!”

Dabus opens his mouth, then closes it again.  He looks back over his shoulder at Heydricus.

“We don’t beat old women,” Heydricus says with conviction.

“Unless they’re witches,” Lucius clarifies.

“Or abyssal hags,” Jespo says.

Prisantha clicks her tongue.  “You weren’t there for that fight!” 

“Oh, I was so,” Jespo counters.  “I remember it perfectly: the hag, the Pholtan and the darling orphan children.”

“No, no, that was while you were in Willip.”

“Was it?”

“I’m sure of it.”

“She’s right, Jespo,” Dabus says.

“You _adventurers_,” the old woman spits.  “Just go where you please with your magic spells and take what you want.  And what about the innocent?  What about them that hain’t never hurt nobody?”

“We protect the innocent,” Dabus says soothingly.

“Do you now?  Well where were you when we needed you?”

“We help those who’ve suffered, madam,” Dabus begins to glow.

The old woman seems not to notice the light spilling off the erstwhile cleric.  She steps through a curtain and returns with a small boy in tow.  “Look at what adventurers have done!” she cries.  The boy’s face is a mass of bruises and swelling, two black, crusted scabs bookending his unusually large and docile eyes.  “Can you help this boy, can you?” she demands bitterly, her point proven.  “Can you give back what’s been took?  Can you grow this boy new ears and a tongue?”

Dabus smiles.  “As a matter of fact, I can.”

-----

“I dreamed you here,” the boy says frankly, immediately following Dabus’ regenerate spell.

“Manners!” the old woman screeches as she cuffs the child on his new ear.  “A thousand pardons, good sir,” she smiles toward Dabus.  “This boy is just stupid, he don’t mean no disrespect.”

“Thank you madam, perhaps you should leave us now.” Heydricus says.

“Of course the gentlefolk will be wantin’ their supper,” she bows clumsily and leaves the room.

Dabus kneels down and places a hand on the boy’s shoulder.  “You dreamed about me?”

“Yes,” the child says. “All the time.  I dream many things.  The man with the burning spear told me about you.  And once, I dreamed my dog back to life, but only for a couple of days.”  The boy makes a sad face.  Dabus and Heydricus exchange glances. 

“How would you like to come live with us?” Heydricus asks.  “I understand your parents are dead, and that woman is no kin to you.  I have a home for orphans like yourself.”

The boy smiles.  “Yes, I know.”

Dabus and Heydricus exchange glances.

“Why did those men cut off your ears?” Jespo Crim asks.

“They said it was punishment for hearing too much.  I heard them making plans to travel into the mountains, and find Tsojcanth.  They found it too,” he adds softly.  “She didn’t want them there, but I think she does want you to come.  I think she wants to talk to you.”


----------



## ThoughtBubble

EEEEK! Creepy little children!


----------



## Wish

(contact) said:
			
		

> “_And we’re going to kill the sh-t out of the Boneheart_,” the sword says, as it bursts into a cold, blue flame.




Classic!  Perfect!  We love you (contact)!



			
				(contact) said:
			
		

> “Look at what adventurers have done!” she cries.  The boy’s face is a mass of bruises and swelling, two black, crusted scabs bookending his unusually large and docile eyes.  “Can you help this boy, can you?” she demands bitterly, her point proven.  “Can you give back what’s been took?  Can you grow this boy new ears and a tongue?”
> 
> Dabus smiles.  “As a matter of fact, I can.”




And isn't is just wonderful to be really high level sometimes?  Responses like this just make it all worth it.

Keep up the good work man.  Can't wait until we can see what this new sword can do, and all of Dabus' new powers and stuff.

Thanks for writing this story hour.  It's the only one I read regularly right now, and it never disappoints.


----------



## Plane Sailing

(contact) said:
			
		

> “We should _teleport_ in, and see about this Iggwilv,” Prisantha says fiercely.
> 
> “I don’t think that is wise,” Heydricus says.
> 
> “Is this opposite day?” Gwendolyn asks.







			
				(contact) said:
			
		

> “Before we go, I should introduce you to my sword,” Heydricus says.
> 
> “Yes, we’ve all seen your sword, Heydricus,” Jepso sniffs.  “Unless you mean to make an allusion, in which case, I’ve a Greyhawk City adventuring band for you.”







			
				(contact) said:
			
		

> “Dabus has taught me some prayers.”  Heydricus beams proudly.
> 
> “Congratulations,” Gwendolyn drawls.  “If he can teach Crim some spells, I say we keep him.”




Contact, whether it is you or your players, I don't know... but I bow before your mastery of dialogue!


----------



## Joshua Randall

Duh, I'm confused. Did Heydricus just take a level in cleric or something? Because, y'know, he wasn't multiclassed enough beforehand.

Also, can't remember if Heydricus has levels in Spellsword or not (that might be Taran from the other story). But you should check out the 3.5 Spellsword in _Complete Warrior_. Let's just say the PrC has been upgraded.


----------



## the_mighty_agrippa

Anointed Knight?  Heydricus' high charisma (and some level trades) would give him an intelligent weapon.


----------



## skullsmurfer

Ha! You gave me just enough to want more.  There must me some fiendish blood in you somewhere.......I will just have to wait patiently and not sign anything until the next posting.


----------



## Rugger

Ooooh! Lost Caverns, (contact)-style!

Can't wait... May god have mercy on your players' souls! 

-Rugger
"I Lurk!"


----------



## (contact)

The dialouge is actual, although I've just edited out the two hours of *unintersting* role-playing in there, so we wind up looking much more clever than we actually are.

I allowed Heydricus to take the Heirloom Weapon feat from . . . uh . . . I think it was the Book of Exalted Deeds?  Complete Warrior?  At any rate, we'd talked in the past about how it was each Liberator's duty to have Tritherion's ceremonial weapons & armor enchanted up in order to pass them on to the successor better than before, etc.  It made a lot of sense to me that H should spend his own XPs doing so, instead of farming the job out to the cohorts.

Plus, you guys know what a warm and fuzzy DM I am.


----------



## Lazybones

Good stuff; I have fond memories of Tsojcanth (and its add on WG4); it's one of those classic dungeons where there are 40 rooms each containing a huge lethal creature, with very little rhyme or reason as to how or why they all coexist in a dungeon together. 

In other words, classic kick-in-the-door gaming.


----------



## Zaruthustran

(contact) said:
			
		

> The dirty collection of ill-kept hovels require quite a bit of leaning against to keep them standing, judging by the efforts of the meager populace.




    

-z


----------



## Cannibal_Kender

I just finished reading this SH and.....WOW!!!

The descriptions, the characters, the dialogue; LoT is the best!!


----------



## Ghostknight

(contact) said:
			
		

> The dialouge is actual, although I've just edited out the two hours of *unintersting* role-playing in there, so we wind up looking much more clever than we actually are.
> 
> I allowed Heydricus to take the Heirloom Weapon feat from . . . uh . . . I think it was the Book of Exalted Deeds?  Complete Warrior?  At any rate, we'd talked in the past about how it was each Liberator's duty to have Tritherion's ceremonial weapons & armor enchanted up in order to pass them on to the successor better than before, etc.  It made a lot of sense to me that H should spend his own XPs doing so, instead of farming the job out to the cohorts.
> 
> Plus, you guys know what a warm and fuzzy DM I am.




Umm, the Ancestral weapon feat from Book of Exalted deeds is what this sounds like.


----------



## Joshua Randall

Hmm... re: the freaky kid. I vaguely remember that Dabus made an agreement with his planar ally to take in and shelter a child. I guess that responsibility might fall on Heydricus, or even Tau, (?) now.


----------



## (contact)

Yes, it falls on Heydricus.  But that arrangement was for a *specific* kid, not this one.    Heydricus loooves to take in orphans, but he just can't get around to the orphans Sonahmiin wanted taken in.


----------



## James Heard

(contact) said:
			
		

> Yes, it falls on Heydricus.  But that arrangement was for a *specific* kid, not this one.    Heydricus loooves to take in orphans, but he just can't get around to the orphans Sonahmiin wanted taken in.



Oooh, man I would take advantage of that. 

"Ziu was such a cute kid, and a great help. Too bad I was so bad at anagrams."


----------



## (contact)

*Coldeven 6, CY 593
87—Lost in the Caverns of Tsojcanth*


If the Liberators are a reliable gauge, the “Lost” part of “Lost Caverns of Tsojcanth” refers to _getting_ lost within a confusing labyrinth of natural caverns and spatial conundrums.  Luckily, Prisantha enjoys puzzles, a trait not widely present in modern-day adventurers, but very useful when called upon.  And it is particularly needed when exploring the ruins from Greyhawk’s by-gone era; tricks, riddles and traps abound, and while more modern-thinking Despots of Evil Intent may have left such quaint delaying tactics by the wayside in favor of the TPK-inducing behemoths now the rage, you just never know when you’re going to have to work your way through a hundred-year-old maze.  And when you do, you’re glad to have Prisantha.

As the Enchantress of Verbobonc leads her friends through the caverns and tunnels of Tsojcanth, the heroes discover the remains of many creatures—several score of some strange bulbous-headed goblinoid off-shoot, gleefully massacred and left wide-eyed with rictus.  Ogres, trolls and giants likewise lie where they fell, hacked to pieces or destroyed with magical flame.  A smashed stone golem decorates one cavern, and in another, Lucius laughingly points out the corpse of a large six-legged dragon-kin, impaled upon the stalactites thirty feet above the floor.

“Now, how the hell . . .” Heydricus wonders to himself.

Iuzians have been here.

Forewarned is forearmed, so when the group reaches an ominous-looking pair of double-doors, they prepare themselves for battle.  If the Iuzians are still here, they are dangerous foes; a cruel and brutally efficient adventuring group, judging by the bodies left behind.  Prisantha is convinced that she has seen the tell-tale signs of the _horrid wilting_ spell—not a reassuring thought.

But the double doors are themselves a _teleportation_ trap, positioning the group elsewhere within the caverns.  They make their way back to an identical set of doors, and when the scenario repeats itself, Jespo sighs with exasperation.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it all figured out,” Prisantha reassures him.  And so she does.  After another five _teleportations_, and a half-hour of tedious searching, the party approaches a set of double doors and are not transported elsewhere.  Rather, the doors open onto a recessed niche cut into the horizontal axis of a spherical room.  Eight identical landings ring the perimeter of the sphere, each one festooned with brass railings and velvet curtains, every inch the nobleman’s seats from a crown-theatre.  The sphere itself is a vivid turquoise at its uppermost apex, fading gradually to a deep emerald at its base—the effect is achieved by a clever fresco of carved stones set into the wall.  

The bottom fifth of the sphere is level ground, forming a twenty foot circular area covered with sumptuous curtains, cushions and tables containing all manner of finery, from expensive fabrics to gold chains.  On one luxuriously enameled rare-wood table, a bowl the size of an ogre’s head is filled to the brim with precious gemstones.  Another table contains stacks of lacquered ivory plates, cunningly carved to represent the flower of some ancient king’s chivalry.  The whole scene is lit by several elaborately decorated stone braziers that give off both a soft, reddish light as well as a gently scented smoke.

A single large platinum chain descends from the center of the ceiling, a surprisingly plain unlit iron lantern at its end.  Directly beneath the lantern sits a low, flat bier, covered with draperies of rich crimson and purple—beneath these fabrics brief glimpses of green and white marble can be seen.  Resting upon the bier is a beautiful young woman, her raven-black hair a stark contrast to her pale skin.  Her features seem to glow and hover in space, the only object in the scene untouched by the red light of the braziers.  She is adorned in elaborate plate armor—its fluting and enamel-work betray an ancient elven craftsman’s hand.  She clasps a brilliantly reflective greatsword to her chest, in the burial-pose of the Perrenlands.

“Iggwilv?” Gwendolyn asks.  Just then, the lantern above the woman flashes briefly and Gwendolyn is gone.

Dabus immediately enacts a _true seeing_, and while the more mercenary Liberators are grateful to hear that the wealth spread before them is no illusion, the divination reveals no immediate clues as to the nature of the threat before them.  Prisantha and Jespo begin furiously re-casting their protective spells, but even as they begin, the lantern flashes and Heydricus disappears.

“Goddamnit,” Lucius curses, as he vaults over the railing.  He leaps onto the foot of the bier, and gazes within the lantern.  Even as he jumps, the lantern flashes at him, but the wily rogue is too quick.  The almost imperceptible beam of light flashes wide, a near miss.  Inside, Lucius can see tiny wavering figures of his missing companions.  “They’re in here,” he yells, as he takes off his cloak.

“Duck!” Prisantha suggests, as she unleashes a _meteor swarm_ at the lantern.  Lucius hits the ground literally on top of the sword-maiden, and evades the strike as six _meteors_ slam into the lantern without effect; _whump whumpwhump whumpwhumpwhump_.

“Prisantha!” Lucius screams.

“We might not want to destroy the lantern, dear,” Jespo observes from the railing.  “Our friends are within.”

“It’s not a literal space, Jespo,” Prisantha counters.  “They haven’t been shrunk, they are elsewhere.”

“We shall see,” Dabus states, and he makes himself _ethereal_, but is disappointed to note that the lantern extends fully into the ghostly plane.  In fact, its radiance is brighter here, and within seconds, Dabus is also gone.

Lucius stands up and covers the lantern with his cloak.  This done, he straightens and smirks at his companions just before his face goes slack.  He turns immediately and removes the cloak.

“Prisantha, ‘ware Lucius!” Jespo yells, even as he wastes a _greater dispelling_ on the lantern.  Lucius is staring into the lantern blankly, and nodding from time to time as if in some slack and half-felt agreement.

Pris quickly _dominates_ the rogue, and to her surprise, immediately looses connection with his mind.  But whatever the cause, Lucius slips to the ground, lying still at the feet of the dead swordswoman.  Prisantha turns to Jespo for assistance, but he is gone.

“Oh, _bother_,” she says, recalling even in her distress the Viscountess Trill’s admonition against using un-ladylike language.

“Um, a word miss?” Hastur asks before he, too disappears.

Prisantha crosses her arms and glares at Daoud’s Wondrous Lanthorn.  “Well?” she snaps.  “Get it over with.  I’m not going to wait here all day.”

-----

One moment Gwendolyn is preparing spells next to Prisantha, and the next she is within a strange, colorless place.  Her stomach tumbles in the same way it might should she have _plane shifted_, and she surmises immediately that she is within a demi-plane.  “_Neither here nor neither there, a place between all your anywheres_.” 

There is no sky here, just a lighter shade of grey above the charcoal horizon.  The dim place has no apparent light-source, and she notices that she casts no shadow.  This disrupts her depth perception, and a faint throbbing behind her eyes tells her that she will have a headache soon.

The expanse she stands upon is completely flat, and seems to extend forever in all directions.  She is in the center of a ring of huge stones, seven in all, each of them as black as night in this dim grey place.  Black-robed bodies lie among them, indistinct even at such a short distance.  Directly before her is a bulbous and menacing statue of a grotesquely fat woman lying on her back, the fleshy girth of her massive legs spread wide as she gives agonizingly violent birth to a full-sized elderly human male.  The ancient is tearing free of her womb, his face cruelly expressionless.  Most disturbingly, she realizes, the statue of the Old One is casting two shadows—a perfect ‘V’ elongating to either side of her.

Gwendolyn does not need a divine oracle or a blind soothsayer to know what happens next.  Next, the statues will animate or even become that which they represent.  She doesn’t know where she is, or how she got here, but she does know that she doesn’t want any piece of either Iggwilv or Iuz.

“Well, I _wish_ you weren’t here.”  She says to the statues.

She is sure that her spell has some effect.  The whole demi-plane ripples for a moment, and then goes still.  Gwendolyn tenses, waiting for the gloating cackle or stony fist that comes next, but neither arrives.  She smiles to herself, satisfied.

Then the standing stones begin to grow.

-----

Lucius lies at the feet of a corpse.  Not surprisingly, this isn’t the first time he has done so, although it might be the last.  Towering over him is a naked mountain of flesh; layers of fat given a vaguely woman-like shape.  A pair of stubby arms protrude feebly just below a hairless round nub that hides eyes and a mouth within fleshy overhangs, and just above a pair of horribly bloated breasts.  The bottom half of the creature is given over to legs—eight in total, spaced equidistantly around the main mass, each one dimpled and rolled.  What lies between each pair of legs is best not contemplated by those who would remain sane.

Iggwilv skittles over to Lucius, and regards him with an unfathomable expression.  “Oooh . . .wookit you, _precious_,” she coos with a voice altogether too rumbling for its words.  “Do you need a mommy, yesyoudo.  _Yesyoudo_!”


----------



## Urbanmech

Poor Liberators go through an entire maze and the Iuzians have already killed the sh*t out of all the monsters.  Now they end up transported to different demiplanes to be killed individually.  I hope the Pris made some more clones.


----------



## Joshua Randall

Isn't Iggwilv on her bier pictured in the 2e PH or DMG? That's one of my favorite D&D pictures.


----------



## (contact)

It's actually not Iggwilv on the bier.  The image you're thinking of (if I'm thinking of the same one) is in the Lost Caverns of Tsojcanth module.


----------



## CrusadeDave

*Beautiful*

Beautiful. Just Beautiful. Heh Heh....


----------



## ajanders

(contact) said:
			
		

> It's actually not Iggwilv on the bier.  The image you're thinking of (if I'm thinking of the same one) is in the Lost Caverns of Tsojcanth module.




If I remember correctly, the woman on the bier is Drelnza, Iggwilv's vampiric granddaughter.
Of course, if I've remembered correctly, I really need to get a life.


----------



## GreyShadow

I thought it was her daughter, not granddaughter.... I haven't read that module for decades so can't be sure.

If it is her granddaughter, does that make Iuz a daddy?


----------



## Joshua Randall

(contact) said:
			
		

> It's actually not Iggwilv on the bier. The image you're thinking of (if I'm thinking of the same one) is in the Lost Caverns of Tsojcanth module.



As I have never played, read, or owned that module, I am 99% sure that the image I am thinking of is indeed in either the 2e PH or 2e DMG. I'll try to dig up my old books and have a look-see.

You may, of course, be right about the identity of the lady on the bier. Perhaps it's, umm, a different beautiful woman lying underneathe a mysterious glowing lantern.


----------



## Kid Charlemagne

The image originally came from the module; it was reprinted in the 2e PHB, I believe. 

So you're both right.


----------



## (contact)

Yet, you concede, I am *more* right.


----------



## spunky_mutters

You are more right in that it is her Daughter, Drelnza (whose lot was hunger tragic).

Last time I DMed that (in 1985), one of the PCs lost 6 levels to her.


----------



## (contact)

I also possess a higher, more refined truth.

[/philosophy troll]


----------



## Elder-Basilisk

My truth is certified, nonpastuerized, free range, raw, and organic. That makes it healthier than your refined truth.



			
				(contact) said:
			
		

> I also possess a higher, more refined truth.
> 
> [/philosophy troll]


----------



## Barastrondo

(contact) said:
			
		

> ...And it is particularly needed when exploring the ruins from Greyhawk’s by-gone era; tricks, riddles and traps abound, and while more modern-thinking Despots of Evil Intent may have left such quaint delaying tactics by the wayside in favor of the TPK-inducing behemoths now the rage...




That is _so true_.



			
				(contact) said:
			
		

> Iggwilv skittles over to Lucius, and regards him with an unfathomable expression.  “Oooh . . .wookit you, _precious_,” she coos with a voice altogether too rumbling for its words.  “Do you need a mommy, yesyoudo.  _Yesyoudo_!”




I don't think it takes a _detect thoughts_ to tell that Lucius is currently entertaining "noidon'tNOIDON'T!"

Hey, did anyone here know that (contact) recently did some design contributions to a d20 product that might be on the shelves of a store near you right now (that being Relics & Rituals: Excalibur)? Is he too polite to pimp? I'll pimp instead, if nobody objects.


----------



## (contact)

It's my first design credit!  (sniff)


----------



## (contact)

Elder-Basilisk said:
			
		

> My truth is certified, nonpastuerized, free range, raw, and organic. That makes it healthier than your refined truth.




And it probably tastes better, too.


----------



## (contact)

*Coldeven 6, CY 593
88—Lanthorn?  Is that a typo?*

The Space Between All Spaces isn’t very memorable.  It is, for the most part, a place of intense pressure and no form; a lightless, topical environment that does not stimulate the mind in any lasting way.  Most travelers pass through it so rapidly that they fail to even recall that any time has elapsed.  Stomachs are not so easily misled as the mind, however, and often rebel against the sudden shift from then to there.

When tiny holes are punched into this pseudo-ether by magic (usually prior to objects being shoved forcefully through), there is an accompanying escape of that _between_—marked on the exit side of the journey by a pop and a hiss.  So, when Heydricus appears within the grey interior of Daoud’s Wondrous Lanthorn, his sword already in hand, his arrival is presaged by a silibant burst (even though no one is there to hear it—the tree falling in the forest does not really consider its audience, after all). 

He finds himself within a similar scene to the one that greeted Gwendolyn, save that the statues within the circle lack any sense of real _presence_ and, of course, that they have been splattered with the unlucky wizardess’ insides.  The part of Gwendolyn’s body not currently in use as decorative art is still clutched by one of the hideous black tentacles sprouting in convulsing bunches from the tops of all seven standing stones.  The tentacle waves her corpse at Tritherion’s Liberator like a challenge.

“Allright,” Heydricus says to himself philosophically, deciding in that moment that for better or worse, he’s going to have to kill everything in this demi-plane.  He charges toward the nearest stone, and is intercepted by the whole hideous mass lashing downward at him.  He swings from the heels and instantly severs a tendril about as thick as his own meaty thigh.  Fortunately, he had _displaced_ himself just moments before being pulled into this colorless place, and the majority of the remaining tentacle-bunch passes through or around him harmlessly.  

The other six stones flop down upon the Liberator like a titanic flower bud closing reflexively about a fly.  Heydricus lays about him with his sword, and is battered and torn in response.  

At that moment, Dabus appears with a _whumpf_ and a yelp, and after orienting himself to the strange scene, moves forward to _heal_ Heydricus.  He is wounded in the process, but left reasonably well-off.  

Jespo Crim _ssssssnips_ in and exclaims, “Ah!  Fräs, look!  These are . . .” before he is snatched off his feet by a black tentacle and rudely inserted into a sphincter-like maw at the top of the nearest standing stone.

Heydricus and Dabus form up back-to-back, and Dabus immediately invokes Tritherion’s _destruction_ on the nearest stone, reducing it to a pile of dust, and destroying the symmetry of the circle in the process.  Jespo _teleports_ free from the inside of the stone that swallowed him whole, intending to remove himself from the reach of the vile things.  But he discovers to his surprise that the entire demi-plane is no more than eighty feet in circumference.  He appears just outside of the stone circle, covered head to toe in some kind of viscous, clear fluid.  

“Ah!  Fräs!  It seems,” he manages before he is immediately seized and re-swallowed by another stone. 

Hastur appears with a _ffwop_, his bright yellow adventuring-shirt already flecked with his own spit.  He manages a multi-syllabic yell that might have been some sort of battle-cry were it more intelligible, and charges squarely into the nearest mass of tentacles, hacking wildly and screaming like a madman.  

Jespo _teleports_ for a second time, and arrives directly on the spot where Hastur was just standing.  He scowls deeply and _mazes_ the nearest standing stone.  To his surprise, the thing shivers, shudders, and explodes, showering the heroes with stone, rubbery tentacle flesh and ichor. 

“Great Job, Crim!” Heydricus yells, as he rips chunks from another stone with powerful sledgehammer blows.

 “Well, this is curious,” Prisantha remarks, as she appears next to Jespo.  Black tentacles snake and whirl everywhere, to many to readily count; Jespo snickers and mumbles to himself as he fumbles with spell components while piteous Fräs-mewls emerge from the inside of a bag half-filled with tentacle-thing digestive fluid.   Dabus is intoning a mighty prayer, knee-deep in severed tentacles, Heydricus at his back hacking furiously at a standing stone.  Suspended above the scene, Hastur screams unintelligibly as he is whipped to and fro by a tentacle intent on either squeezing or shaking the life out of the little dwarf (although it seems to have snatched off more than it can crush).  As Pris takes all of this in, Jespo is struck from behind, and falls face-first onto the cold ground with a high-pitched grunt.

Prisantha whirls on the offending tentacle just as Dabus sends a _mass heal_ arcing though the group, restoring Jespo to consciousness.  Heydricus fights his way over to where Hastur has managed to wedge himself between a tentacle clump and its base, and the two of them finish off the standing stone that seized the little yellow fellow, reducing it to helpless, quivering chunks.

Jespo stumbles to his feet, twice swallowed, twice freed, and nearly stuck dead from behind.  He lashes a _prismatic spray_ into a pair of the stones, _plane shifting_ one and destroying it instantly.  Prisantha notes his success and duplicates the tactic, eliminating another stone.  Dabus joins Heydricus and Hastur, and they begin to hack their way around the circle.  Before Fräs can fully extricate herself from her befouled pouch, the remaining stones are destroyed.

-----

Dabus gently coaxes Gwendolyn’s skittish soul back into her magically repaired body.  She gasps and sits up, relieved to see her friends, but distraught to find herself still within the Lanthorn.

“Why are we still here?” She demands.

“We’re out of _plane shifts_,” Dabus explains.

“And _wishes_,” Prisantha clarifies.

“We were hoping you could use your _cubic gate_, Gwen,” Heydricus says cheerily.  “But that’s not why we _raised_ you,” he adds hastily.

Jespo sneers at the blood-spattered wizardess.  Fräs hisses at his uncharitable thought.   Hastur laughs.

“I don’t know where my _cubic gate_ goes,” Gwendolyn says.  “I’ve been busy.”

“Well?” Heydricus asks.

“It can’t be more depressing than here,” Gwen concedes.  “Let’s try this side.”

-----

The first plane arrived at is a wretched mountainside; a never-ending incline of scorched earth—ground that emits continuous blasts of volcanic heat and reddish light.  An pasty and thin ochre sun is hidden behind thick clouds fed by noxious geysers erupting from the cracked earth.  Rivulets of molten rock bubble forth from the steep slope, cascading forever into abyssal depths best not considered.

“Okay, I was wrong,” Gwendolyn says as she depresses another side.

-----

Darkness and rust; the tools of war decay alone in their afterlife, un-loved and no longer feared, forgotten forever.   In the sunless depths of Acheron’s hollow third layer, metal lies fallow, the fearsome machines of bygone conflicts reduced to rusting heaps.  Dabus calls forth a _light_ spell, and for a moment, the Liberators are disoriented—their eyes tell them that the space they are within is small; a room somewhere, over-full with sharp, metal things and splintered wood.  But their skin and ears tell them a different story.  There are no walls here, no ceiling to contain the ruined expanse or divide it into understandable pieces.

“Ah,” Hastur says, excited.  “Looka’ this!”

Gwendolyn presses her cube.


----------



## cidak

(contact) you and your players are magnificent.  Reading your story hour has been pure joy and one day when I grow up I want to play the way you do.  It is the way D&D is meant to be played. 

Thanks for sharing.


----------



## Thomas Hobbes

Finally reached the end, damn you.

Contact, I read the Temple of Elemental Evil ages ago and loved it.

But this... this is _glorious._  Simply glorious.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to bed.  Tomorrow morning is going to kill the sh-t out of me.


----------



## Plane Sailing

> He finds himself within a similar scene to the one that greeted Gwendolyn, save that the statues within the circle lack any sense of real presence and, of course, that they have been splattered with the unlucky wizardess’ insides.




Gwendolyn would have been better off wishing *she* wasn't there, methinks!


----------



## Joshua Randall

Why did all of the Liberators except Lucius end up in the same "place" inside the Lanthorn? And don't any of them care what has happened to him?

Incidentally, what is Lucius's Hide modifier? I'm thinking something like +50 or so.   So he could be around, but if no-one knows it, is he really there? Woah. Deep.


----------



## Barastrondo

Plane Sailing said:
			
		

> Gwendolyn would have been better off wishing *she* wasn't there, methinks!




Especially now that, thanks to a quick death-and-raise action, she's back to only _limited wish_ing.


----------



## (contact)

Thank you all for the kind words, I appreciate the compliments.  We do have a borderline indecent amount of fun with this game.  



			
				Plane Sailing said:
			
		

> Gwendolyn would have been better off wishing *she* wasn't there, methinks!




Alas, her inexperience is showing.  There’s something to be said for getting your first fifteen levels the hard way instead of sleeping with your instructors for good marks (and better research tomes) at the Academy.



			
				Joshua Randall said:
			
		

> Why did all of the Liberators except Lucius end up in the same "place" inside the Lanthorn? And don't any of them care what has happened to him?




The lanthorn missed Lucius with its ray attack, but _dominated_ him once he got too close.  Prisantha also _dominated_ him, and I decided on the fly that the two spells would just cancel each other, leaving Lucius a limp senseless noodle.

Until Prisantha disappeared.  Then the Lanthorn had control of our boy.  BUT.

On the first round she was in the lantern’s demi-plane/extradimensional space, Gwendolyn _wished_ Iggwilv out of there (as our repulsive anti-mom had been hiding in there for quite some time now—some children are best avoided; even on Mother’s Day, no?).

Since we played the events in the same order the logs depict them, we all got a good laugh when we realized that Lucius was trapped out there with Iggwilv the infamous witch of the Perrenlands and Worst.  Mom.  Evar.

I think by the time six or seven rounds had passed fighting the tentacle things and ten minutes to _raise_ Gwen, we knew that either the rogue had escaped or died or worse, and that at any rate there wasn’t going to be any rescuing him this day.  At best, the group could hope to get enough blood scrapings from the inside of Iggwilv’s treasure room to bring him back to life.

Little did they know how bad he really had it.



			
				Joshua Randall said:
			
		

> Incidentally, what is Lucius's Hide modifier? I'm thinking something like +50 or so.   So he could be around, but if no-one knows it, is he really there? Woah. Deep.




Now you are paying me back for my pathetic attempt to provoke a rant.  

It’s only +35.    Good, but not good enough to fool the gods and hide himself all the way out of existence.



			
				Barastrondo said:
			
		

> Especially now that, thanks to a quick death-and-raise action, she's back to only _limited wish_ing.




Ding ding ding!  Barastrondo wins the prize!  And, as it happens, she lost her self-appointed smugness token _in the very same session_ that Jespo Crim levels to 17 and begins _wishing_ himself.  

Take That, You Fiend!

We’ve known for a while now that Lucius hates Gwendolyn, but he also (rightly) fears her.  He figures he needs a wizard in his back pocket in case she decides to carry through with her threats to _polymorph_, _disintegrate_ or _imprison_ him.  Or, *ahem*, in case the mercurial winds of fate cause her to become a no longer favored (but difficult to “remove”) hanger-on. 

Jespo is not only the most gullible wizard around, he’s also the most emotionally vulnerable; two traits that endear him to our busy, busy assassin bee as an all-around “soft target.”  Hence, the poison poured in Jespo’s ear regarding our formerly _wishing_ coquette.

One of these days, they’re all going to put two and two together, and then the fur will fly.


----------



## Vargo

(contact) said:
			
		

> Take That, You Fiend!




Ahh, another fan of the best RPG EBAR!

(Sorry for the OT post.)


----------



## Barastrondo

(contact) said:
			
		

> Hence, the poison poured in Jespo’s ear regarding our formerly _wishing_ coquette.
> 
> One of these days, they’re all going to put two and two together, and then the fur will fly.




Me, I'm rooting for Gwendolyn. She may be slutty, but I'd rather have slutty at my back than evil.


----------



## James Heard

(contact) said:
			
		

> One of these days, they’re all going to put two and two together, and then the fur will fly.



Maybe one day he'll get around to making that wisdom enhancing item for himself that he so sorely needs 

Great job, whenever I see this thread even move to the second page I get a little sad now. Worried that life will catch up and you won't find time for us anymore *sniff sniff puppy eyes*

</layin' it on like buttah


----------



## CrusadeDave

*Hey!*



			
				Barastrondo said:
			
		

> Me, I'm rooting for Gwendolyn. She may be slutty, but I'd rather have slutty at my back than evil.




That is so wrong. Lucius is not Evil. He's just a) willing to do the things the others won't to kill Iuzians, and b) less interested in tyrannical societal positions on assasination, poison, and killing them _before_ they start trying to kill you.

Evil is predictable. You can count on Lucius to do what's in his best interest. Always. Who knows what Gwendolyn's motives will be session to session or time of the month, to time of the month.


----------



## coyote6

So, what were those things?


----------



## Urbanmech

Boy I bet the Liberators are glad they had the new improved _Mass Healing_ Dabus with them.  
That may have turned into a TPK without his healing and divine smiting.  Go Dabus!

What I would give to be a fly on the wall during a game to see how the games actually happen and witness (contact)'s evil DMing.


----------



## Barastrondo

CrusadeDave said:
			
		

> That is so wrong. Lucius is not Evil.




http://enworld.cyberstreet.com/showthread.php?t=10902&page=1&pp=20

Scroll down a bit. I dunno if it's organic or refined, but it looks like truth to me.

(And while we're on that page, what's up with Belvor's last name? Is that an homage to the Beoulve family of Final Fantasy Tactics?)



			
				CrusadeDave said:
			
		

> He's just a) willing to do the things the others won't to kill Iuzians, and b) less interested in tyrannical societal positions on assasination, poison, and killing them _before_ they start trying to kill you.




That's not the most sinister part. The most sinister part is that he gets really good and witty lines, which make people warm up to him and decide maybe he's not so bad to have around after all, and hey, maybe he's not as bad as all that. 

Evil is dangerous because it has a really good marketing campaign.



			
				CrusadeDave said:
			
		

> Who knows what Gwendolyn's motives will be session to session or time of the month, to time of the month.




I swear, I totally was hoping that Gwendolyn would fall hard for Dabus way back when, because she would be so much fun to watch actually in the throes of genuine feeling for once, and totally disbelieving that it was happening. ("Me? With a church boy like _that_? Ha! Impossible!") Much Ado About Nothing is essentially my favorite Shakespeare comedy, and there's just something about Gwen that would make her a hell of a Beatrice as far as comic denial is concerned. Dabus is no Benedict, mind, but that's what would make it not so much a retread and more an original (and potentially just damn hilarious) thing to be playing out among the cohorts. 

Besides, Dabus — as is only meet for the Hand of his God on Oerth — Kicks Ass. She could do (and has done) a heck of a lot worse.


----------



## Sejs

> That is so wrong. Lucius is not Evil. He's just a) willing to do the things the others won't to kill Iuzians, and b) less interested in tyrannical societal positions on assasination, poison, and killing them _before_ they start trying to kill you.




I prefer to think of Lucius as "Lawful Expedient".


----------



## (contact)

Sejs said:
			
		

> I prefer to think of Lucius as "Lawful Expedient".




I prefer to think of him as Lawful Evil.    He is loyal to Heydricus, however.  

And for whatever reason, Sonahmiin has kind of accepted Lucius as a Righteous Project.  Lucius is aligned diametrically opposite to Tritherion, but given time and exposure he might still Get With The Program.  Although while Sonahmiin has promised to pull some strings to get Lucius into Tritherion's realm after his death, the canny rogue has to at least try to meet the angel halfway.

And . . . I don't think that's happened yet.  May never happen, who can say?  Characters do weird things once you roll 'em up and start playing them.  I do know that in the current story arc, he's getting his deepest, most dearly-held wish.



			
				Barastrondo said:
			
		

> what's up with Belvor's last name? Is that an homage to the Beoulve family of Final Fantasy Tactics?




Why yes, yes it is.


----------



## Enkhidu

(contact) said:
			
		

> ... I do know that in the current story arc, he's getting his deepest, most dearly-held wish.




Because we all know that every good fanatical follower of St Cuthbert wants to do nothing more than smite Iuzian booty. And this way Lucius might actually get to smite the behind of the Old One himself.


----------



## Schmoe

Enkhidu said:
			
		

> Because we all know that every good fanatical follower of St Cuthbert wants to do nothing more than smite Iuzian booty. And this way Lucius might actually get to smite the behind of the Old One himself.





Hmm, I thought Lucius just wanted his mommy.


----------



## Thomas Hobbes

I get by with a little bump from my friends.


----------



## (contact)

Schmoe said:
			
		

> Hmm, I thought Lucius just wanted his mommy.




From Chapter 68: 

“And what of this one?” the angel asks Dabus, indicating Lucius’ corpse.  “I have heard your frequent supplications for his atonement, and it seems a shame to let him pass into the afterlife before he has had an opportunity to redeem his soul.”

“Well, I was going to ask for him to be _resurrected_, but I ran out of spells.”

“Very well.”  Sonahmiin takes a knee in front of Lucius’ body, and gently scoops the assassin into his arms.  The little man looks positively tiny in his embrace, like a child’s doll, limbs hanging limply to the ground.  The celestial breathes once onto Lucius’ face, and anoints his brow with a single tear, wept in sincerity for the wickedness of the world.  Lucius’ eyes flicker open, and for the first time in their memory, Gwendolyn and Dabus see the cold-hearted assassin smile.

“Actions are the currency of the simple,” the celestial scolds Lucius.  “You must learn the importance of motivations.  It is not enough to make your enemies from among the wicked—your cause to fight will be judged in the end.”  The celestial’s stern frown lightens, “and yes, she is still alive.”

“Who?” Gwendolyn asks, but no one answers.


----------



## Barastrondo

(contact) said:
			
		

> From Chapter 68:
> 
> “Actions are the currency of the simple,” the celestial scolds Lucius.  “You must learn the importance of motivations.  It is not enough to make your enemies from among the wicked—your cause to fight will be judged in the end.”  The celestial’s stern frown lightens, “and yes, she is still alive.”
> 
> “Who?” Gwendolyn asks, but no one answers.




Looks like the answer is "his mommy" to me! Okay, well, maybe whoever. Sister, mother, daughter, love interest (though the thought gives me the gibblies). 

Okay, back up. That doesn't give me the gibblies. The mommy that Lucius is actually getting _right now_ — that gives me the gibblies.


----------



## cidak

need....update....can't...hold...on....


----------



## Wish

Has it really been more than a month since we last heard from the liberators?  I'm starting to go through withdrawal.  We miss you (contact)!


----------



## coyote6

Don't make someone compile the storyhour, and post it as a PDF -- a *DRM*-protected PDF! 

Mwah-ha-ha-ha!


----------



## Tharen the Damned

coyote6 said:
			
		

> Don't make someone compile the storyhour, and post it as a PDF -- a *DRM*-protected PDF!
> 
> Mwah-ha-ha-ha!




DRM protected and exclusively sold by the first professional online vendor!

add: insane laughter.


----------



## Joshua Randall

Yo yo, Libuhratuh bruthaz. I rapped wit my homie (contact), 'n' he sez he's bizzy wit real life. I think he be frontin'. I still gives him mad propz for his writin' skeelz, but he is gonna lose out to some up-n-comin' MCs if he don't update soon.

Peace out.


----------



## the_mighty_agrippa

Joshua Randall said:
			
		

> Yo yo, Libuhratuh bruthaz. I rapped wit my homie (contact), 'n' he sez he's bizzy wit real life. I think he be frontin'. I still gives him mad propz for his writin' skeelz, but he is gonna lose out to some up-n-comin' MCs if he don't update soon.
> 
> Peace out.




Thank you Herb Kornfeld.


----------



## (contact)

I am teh uptat><or.  I swears.


----------



## (contact)

coyote6 said:
			
		

> Don't make someone compile the storyhour, and post it as a PDF -- a *DRM*-protected PDF!
> 
> Mwah-ha-ha-ha!




http://home.earthlink.net/~cklarock/TwentyYearsAfter_LoT.pdf

You all owe me five bucks.


----------



## Rackhir

(contact) said:
			
		

> I am teh uptat><or.  I swears.




I would reply in kind, but I have taken The Oath. That I as a square white guy raised in the burbs, will never pretend to be or attempt to imitate a hip urban african-american. 

Come on though SOMEBODY update! No piratecat for nearly a month, no (contact), no Sepulchrave in even longer. HELP, we need updates for the best story hours!


----------



## coyote6

It's a conspiracy, Rackhir. They're driving us to DRM!1!


----------



## Joshua Randall

[thread hijack]


			
				the mighty agrippa said:
			
		

> Thank you Herb Kornfeld.



Hah hah! I wondered if anyone would recognize my imitation of the great Accountz Reeceevable Supervisa. For those who have no idea what I'm talking about, go here:

http://www.theonion.com/opinion/index.php?issue=4021&o=2

Although frankly that isn't one of the best columns... too bad the archives are now available only to subscribers, because Herbert's first ever column was the funniest shizznit ever. [/thread hijack]


----------



## Thomas Hobbes

For what it's worth, I didn't recognize it but I did catch the reference when it was pointed out.

Needless to say, I was much amused.


----------



## (contact)

*I don't want a hug anymore, thank you.*

*Coldeven 6, CY 593
89—Mom put an ‘e’ in ‘Dad’. *


Twin suns shine warmly over a pastoral scene in the Blessed Lowlands of Arcadia, each careful not to duplicate the other’s efforts overmuch.  Trees grow in perfectly ordered rows—of uniform height, depth and (most likely) weight, the orchards of Arcadia are both bountiful and predictable.  The seasons are mild, more for appearance’s sake than out of any necessity.  Plants grow when planted, the whole of the place responsive to the imposition of structure by its inhabitants.  In Arcadia, each soul knows its place.

The Liberators rest within an orchard, careful not to be seen.  Prisantha and Jespo Crim resume their ongoing game of King and Country, played from memory without a board.  Prisantha wins again, prompting a hiss and a remarkably detailed curse (although not in that order).  Dabus, Heydricus and Gwendolyn brainstorm the most expedient means to find and rescue Lucius.

“Or scrape together enough of him to _resurrect_,” Gwendolyn says.

“Ooh, that reminds me,” Jespo Crim whispers to Prisantha.  “Now that Dabus is back with us, I’d like my _clone_ destroyed.  It seems counterproductive.”

“There are no _clones_,” Prisantha says.  “It slipped my mind until it was too late.  We don’t have time to grow new bodies before we begin in Dorraka.”

“Just as well,” Jespo sighs.  “Dreadfully grim, not knowing what got you.”

-----

The second passage through Iggwilv’s maze goes much more quickly than the first.  Nothing has disturbed the bodies, save for the finger-sized scavengers common to any cave at this elevation.  When they arrive at the spherical chamber, the raven-haired woman remains upon her bier, lying as if in state.  There is no evidence of any struggle, save for a slight singing directly beneath where _Daoud’s Wondrous Lanthorn_ used to hang.  The lantern is gone, and so is Lucius.

Jespo and Gwendolyn climb over the railing to have a closer look at the room’s finery, followed by a flustered Hastur.  Heydricus leaps over the rail, and moves closer to the woman on the bier.  

“Heydricus, that woman is undead!” his sword exclaims.

At that moment, her eyes flash open and with the smallest of movements she takes to the air, crossing fifteen feet with a single leap.  By the time she lands in front of the startled Jespo Crim, her sword has snapped from its sheath, and lashed across his neck and chest.

“Ah!” Jespo cries.  “I am undone!”

But Jespo’s _contingency_ takes effect, and the blow is warded by a _stoneskin_ spell.

“_Nearly_ undone,” he clarifies.  

Dabus strides forward purposefully and grips the woman’s shield with his right hand.  He pulls it off-line and touches her just above her heart with his left.  Tritherion’s unswerving integrity burns through her breastplate and _harms_ her, pulling the flush from her cheeks and drawing her soft features taut against the bone.  The creature gasps, revealing a mouth filled with sharp fangs.  Heydricus takes her head off in a single stroke.

Jespo regards the thin cut running from jaw to opposite shoulder.  “Ah, only partially undone, as it happens.”

Dabus absentmindedly closes Jespo’s wound with a touch, and then casts _true seeing_.  Gwendolyn puts away her spell components, and returns to examining the imperial wealth of Iggwilv.

“Let’s bag the loot and go,” Heydricus says, handing Gwen his _portable hole_.  “Pris—can you find Lucius?”

She shakes her head no.  “He is either warded or resisting my _scrying_ attempt.”

“Or both,” Gwendolyn snorts.  “Your imp has out-clevered himself again, Heydricus.”

“We’ll find him,” Heydricus says.  “If we need to, we can . . . “

“You should see this, Heydricus,” Dabus says.  “This bier has a concealed lid.”

Heyrdicus and Dabus pull the top of the marble slab away, revealing a hollow interior lined with velvet and silk.  Seven books are positioned reverentially within the space, alongside a tiny brass cage.

Prisantha whistles.  Jespo cocks his head, _detects magic_ and whistles.  Gwendolyn quickly follows suit, as does Dabus and Heydricus.  All five Liberators stare into the bier.

“Well,” Jespo says.  “Perhaps my mother was wrong about me after all.”

“What?” Hastur asks.  “What is it?”

“These are . . . potent items, Hastur,” Dabus says.  He gingerly removes one of the books.  “This one seems to be an exercise tutorial—conditioning for combatants?”  Dabus reverently reads from the cover, “Gainful Exercises for The Humble Everyman, pried from the Thews of the Ancients and set forth within by T’tam the Furious, Sacrist of Tovag Baragu.”  

“That is a very old book,” Prisantha says.

And five of the others are equally ancient.  Pre-dating the Rain of Colorless Fire, these magical tomes detail ascetic practices meant to enhance the growth of body, mind and soul.  The seven adventurers eye the six priceless books greedily, all but Hastur realizing the implications of the equation.

Even at a cursory glance, the seventh book stands clearly apart.  While of newer make, it nonetheless carries a spiritual weight that bears an air of unfathomable antiquity.  It is a plain-seeming tome, fairly thin, bound with some sort of reddish pebbled skin stretched tight over an ivory frame.  Gwendolyn rolls the book over in her hands, caressing it and examining it with a curiously bemused look on her face.  

Dabus frowns at her, and nudges Heydricus.

She regards the cover wistfully, and after a moment, she gasps.  “This is the Demonomicon of Iggwilv!” she says.

Dabus frowns.  “Gwendolyn, were you wise you would not open that book.”

But she is not, apparently, because she already has.  Or rather, you might say she is less wise for having done so.  “The . . . _names_ . . .” she gasps before slamming the book and her eyes shut at the same time.  “It’s all names!” she mutters.  

“Yes, of _demons_,” Jespo says patronizingly.  “A foul thing to be flipping through, I should think.”

“Into the bag,” Heydricus says sternly.  “And put the little bird cage in there, too.  Dabus, can you _discern_ the location of Lucius’ hidden knife?”

“He keeps a hidden knife?” Hastur says.


----------



## (contact)

*Eight legs means four . . .*

*Coldeven 6, CY 593
89—Mom put an ‘e’ in ‘Dad’ (continued).*


Lucius’ knife (and presumably its sheath, still attached to its owner) are not far from Iggwilv’s redoubt at all.  In fact, they are within a series of caverns no more than ten miles away as the pestilence-laden undead Roc flies.  Of course, when you can _teleport_, distances become curiosities; things discussed in meaningful tones so that it won’t seem like you’ve forgotten what it was like to be mundane.

Dabus enters a brief trance, and says, “_From the entrance: North through the door, to the back of the room, down the left stairs and back to the South, down again and straight on, past the square, the oval, and the diamond; into the center of the cavern, carried by Lucius, beneath . . ._”

“Ufh,” Dabus says grimacing.  “Never mind where.  I’m ready.”

Within seconds of Dabus’ report, the Liberators of Tenh stand before the entrance to a long-forgotten structure cut from the living stone of a sheltered plateau.  Atop the low peak is a two-stepped construction of basalt, a sort of flattened pyramid, completely hidden from the nearby mountain trails by surrounding peaks and rocky outgrowths.  The structure’s upper story appears to be approximately eighty feet in width and depth, the lower layer doubling that, with each layer standing forty feet high.  The bottom layer is bisected by wide stone steps cut into the stone that lead upward into a large portal set within the upper story, and nestled fully within the shade of a massive overhanging lintel.

Heydricus leads the way, and as the group approaches the opening, they see that the stones of the upper story are heavily carved with twining symbols of a vaguely disturbing aspect.  Prisantha is able to decipher that the glyphs call for curses upon “the heads of those bringers of light, the wretched blinders, and all responsible for wrapping blackness in everlasting chains.”

“Charming,” Jespo observes dryly.  “I don’t feel _cursed_.”

“No, Jespo, these are general curses, in the sense of insults,” Gwendolyn says.

“I doubt it,” Jespo replies.  “If one is villainous, one does not normally go through the trouble to build such a structure without intending to actually wreak harm upon one’s enemies.  In fact,”  Jespo raises his eyebrows arily.  “I would not be surprised to find either three, seven or sixteen individual twenty-by-twenty rooms, below.”

The entry is itself a twenty-by-twenty opening (Jespo insists on stopping to measure it), supported by a massive stone lintel, and carved with dire runes and sigils.  The hall beyond stretches back into an inky blackness, supported by a series of strangely carved basalt pillars that seem to twist and shudder when viewed from the corner of the eye.  At the back end of the hall, a pair of stair-wells are separated by a thick pillar and adjoining wall.  They mirror one another downward, turning away from the center, and lead into two halves of a large dungeon complex.

“No more than seven twenty-bys here, I should think,” Jespo says to himself as the Liberators pass through the eerie dungeon rooms.  “A dark sign indeed.”  Fräs concurs, and mewls tentatively.

The party follows Dabus’ directions, and passes unmolested down a second set of stairs, one hundred and seven steps in all.  A twenty-foot passage gives off at the base of the stairs to a larger room with exits at the cardinal directions, in the center of which a curious four-sided column of deepest purple stands guard.  Each face of the column bears a niche, and each niche contains its own sculpture—a stout warrior carved of a blue stone, a dark green hooded wiazard, a blood-hued nobleman, and a faceless figure of the deepest midnight black.

“This is Tharzidun,” Dabus says slowly.  “These are his aspects.”

 “Well, don’t f-cking touch it,” Heydricus says.  “If it starts glowing, run.”

The Liberators make their way past the four-sided column and down a long, lightless corridor.  Dabus’ _continual flame_ seems anemic in the place, and sheds progressively less light as they advance.  The hallway moves through a large ritual area, past two black altars set on either side of a huge ovoid pillar spanning from floor to ceiling.  In the exact center of its ebony face is an alcove containing a jet-black statue of a shrouded man-like figure.

“Black on black on black,” Gwendolyn scoffs.  “For shame.”

“When confronted by the panoply of color, texture and shape that bedevils our modern age,” Pris says, quoting the Viscountess Trill’s _Handbook of Ladylike Fashion_, “any well-bred lady quickly discovers that black is the path of least effort.  This is why it is so often favored by the weak-willed and the wicked.”

”And evil priests!” Hastur adds. 

 The statue is hunched forward in a beggar’s posture, holding a shallow bowl in his hands.  A thin trickle of water drips from the top of the alcove and seeps down the face of this statue and into the bowl, draining slowly from its sides to puddle around the base of the obelisk.  Over the years, the water has left a slight reddish mineral deposit behind, giving the impression that the figure is weeping blood.  

“Can we do something about the light in here?” Gwendolyn starts to complain, when Heydricus hushes her.

“I heard it too,” Hastur growls, removing his _brilliant energy morningstar_ from its place at his waist.

And after a moment, the group can all hear it—a series of meaty ploppings, like a giant’s tread, but eight where there should be two.  The rolling gait runs up and down their spines as it approaches, causing shivers and bringing to mind thoughts of spiders, or worse.  The party readies themselves, but are surprised by how large Iggwilv is—they had seen her representation within _Daoud’s Wondrous Lanthorn_, but her eight-legged aspect takes them all aback.  The grotesque witch shuffles forward, her gait a cross between an arachnid’s scuttle and a waddle, her loose-hanging bulk lurching not only side-to-side but in all directions as her legs plop thickly into the black stone.  

Lucius is held in her arms, cradled like an infant; apparently unharmed but wearing the most murderous expression any of the party have ever seen on his face.

Gwendolyn is too shocked to mock him, however.

“Iggwilv, I presume,” Heydricus begins, offering a nauseous shadow of his usual courtly manners.

“In a manner of speaking,” the foul thing wheezes, her words punctuated by thick gasps for breath.  “I am the world’s memory of Iggwilv, held by the _Lanthorn_ until your gracious arrival.”  The thing slops forward and deposits Lucius in front of his companions.  “You would be Heydricus, and these your followers.”

“We are his companions,” Pris clarifies.

“Semantics are a refuge for the intellectually bankrupt,” Iggwilv jiggles.  “You serve his purposes, do you not?”

Gwendolyn glares at Lucius.  The assassin shrugs.

Iggwilv strokes Lucius’ head cruelly, against the grain.  “It has been good to have a child again,” the witch-thing wheezes.  “If only for a short while.  Every mother goes through it, I suppose.  One day they thrust the breast from them, and the next they are after your soul.”  

“Do you refer to Iuz?” Prisantha says.  

“My dear, wicked naughty boy,” she murmurs with pride.  “I’ve many children you see, and all but one were girls.  Of course, His father was _unique_ among my suitors.”

“Suitors?  I was given to understand that Grazz’t was coerced,” Prisanatha says plainly.

Iggwilv leans close to Prisantha.  “You are still a maiden, no?”  She sniffs the air above Pris.  “Or so close as to make no difference.”  She waves a dismissive hand at the Enchantress of Verbobonc, provoking a roiling boil of flesh running down her body.  “You would not understand.”

Gwendolyn arches an eyebrow, and places her hands on her hips.  “Really?  Tell me, _mom_, do you miss your daughter, yet?”  

“Because we didn’t,” Prisantha finishes.

Iggwilv regards Prisantha coldly, her eyes slowly widening as she glares down at the dainty woman.  “I will give you some advice, dear, for a future mother-to-be.”  She slides her ponderous bulk forward until her massive fleshy head is within inches of Prisantha’s.  “_You can’t love them all_.”

Dabus beseeches Tritherion for an _anti-magic sphere_, centering it upon Iggwilv, and pulling Prisantha behind him as he does so.  Heydricus also steps forward and in a single motion has drawn _Freedom’s Kiss_ and nearly cut one of Iggwilv’s fleshy legs in half.  With a speed that belies her bulk, the former Tyrant of the Perrinlands leaps free of the anti-magic sphere, speaks a word, and is gone.

Prisantha stomps her foot in exasperation.  “We could have gotten some more out of her, Dabus!”

“I tired of it,” the angel says.  “She is a most despicable creature.  It is only disheartening that I did not have a chance to strike a telling blow.”

-----

The Liberators return to Nevond Nevnend to wait for any word of the Great Adventurers’ Crusade, and for a few days life returns to normal.  

Heydricus spends his time playing with his collection of orphans, Dabus discusses religion and metaphysics with Prisantha while Jespo, Hastur and Gwendolyn engage in competitive drinking games (over Fräs’ objections).  Lucius, however, remains alone, subtly removing himself even further from the emotional core of his companions’ lives. 

The young assassin has seen his share of suffering, and then some.  As a boy, he witnessed the fall of Geoff, and later fled the Shieldlands in the wake of Iuz’ brutal occupation.  He fought alongside Heydricus in the Temple of Elemental Evil, and even after his grisly death was transformed into an undead monstrosity and co-inhabited by a vile demonic spirit.  From time to time, he tells snippets from these stories to his companions, usually to illustrate a point, or provoke a reaction.

But until the end of his mortal days, Lucius Maturin never reveals what happened to him during his short tenure as Iggwilv’s Second and Least Favored Son.


----------



## Morte

There's something about the word "Tharizdun" that makes my skin crawl. Having an ounce of sense is probably something to do with it.

Hmm. Curiouser and curiouser, and faster turns the gyre.

Good stuff. More. Soon.


----------



## thatdarncat

*wakes up, looking groggy* *yawn* did someone just say something?

woohoo  Welcome back.


----------



## Thomas Hobbes

Kickin'!


----------



## Barastrondo

(contact) said:
			
		

> Dabus reverently reads from the cover, “Gainful Exercises for The Humble Everyman, pried from the Thews of the Ancients and set forth within by T’tam the Furious, Sacrist of Tovag Baragu.”




I spy with my little eye something beginning with "Xagygian Naming Convention." 




			
				(contact) said:
			
		

> And five of the others are equally ancient.  Pre-dating the Rain of Colorless Fire, these magical tomes detail ascetic practices meant to enhance the growth of body, mind and soul.  The seven adventurers eye the six priceless books greedily, all but Hastur realizing the implications of the equation.




Well, that does make things easier, though, doesn't it? Ignoramus is odd man out. (Although I only count six at that point — Lucius still being breast-fed or whatever horrible things happened to him at the time.)

Criminy. So who got the tome of Charisma? I shudder to think of Heydricus or Prisantha or even angelic ol' Dabus (who, by the way, still Kicks Ass in an appropriately Tritherionic fashion) augmented beyond the pale in such a fashion, but the image of Jespo Crim actually being augmented to "charismatic"... why, the mind boggles. Would we even recognize him?

This update R0><><0RZ.


----------



## Plane Sailing

(contact) said:
			
		

> Dabus beseeches Tritherion for an _anti-magic sphere_, centering it upon Iggwilv,





Isn't anti-magic sphere centred on the caster?

Nice update though, but it was strange to have two whole chunks of storyhour with nothing getting killed


----------



## Rackhir

Yeah! An update!

So if Lucius is now An Official Son Of Iggwilv, does that me he gets a share of the inheritance.

If might be fun if the Liberators come across a prophecy that states only Iuz's brother can kill him and of course until recently there was no such being....


----------



## James Heard

Iuz is dead, long live King Lucius? Hrmm. Somehow I don't think that would be as automatically fun for the rest of the Liberators as they might imagine...


----------



## (contact)

Barastrondo said:
			
		

> I spy with my little eye something beginning with "Xagygian Naming Convention."




www.combatconditioning.com 



			
				Barastrondo said:
			
		

> I only count six at that point — Lucius still being breast-fed or whatever horrible things happened to him at the time.




Yes.  That is author error.  The point is that there are seven treasure splits (because Lucius doesn't count as dead even in a Worst Case Scenario so long as Dabus is still in the mortal realm), and only six adventurers.  Still too much counting for Hastur, I'm afraid, but Fras wouldn't let the party just shaft him because he's stupid (even if they wanted to, which they don't-- Heydricus is a veeeery egalitarian and embracing guy).



			
				Barastrondo said:
			
		

> Criminy. So who got the tome of Charisma? I shudder to think of Heydricus




Shudder at will, sir.  You know it’s a high level game when the +5 mithral plate of speed gets picked last.

Manual of Bodily Health (+3) -- Prisantha
Manual of Gainful Exercise (+3) -- Hastur
Manual of Quickness of Action (+3) -- Lucius
Tome of Clear Thought (+3) -- Jespo
Tome of Leadership and Influence (+3) -- Heydricus
Tome of Understanding (+3) – Dabus

Jespo is now officially smarter than everyone on the planet.

. . . _except _ Prisantha.  

Gwendolyn thought she was getting the shaft until the party glommed on to the fact that both the Demonomicon of Iggwilv and the Prison of Xagyg were artifacts.  Gwendolyn actually got the Best Magic Item in the Game, but sadly the party had already (spoiler) by the time they figured out they could (spoiler) in order to save Greyhawk.  

The Circle of Eight have already left the plane.



			
				Plane Sailing said:
			
		

> Isn't anti-magic sphere centred on the caster?




Yes, that was my mistake in the write-up.



			
				Plane Sailing said:
			
		

> Nice update though, but it was strange to have two whole chunks of storyhour with nothing getting killed




Yeah, I think my players were annoyed as well.  I tried to tell them they didn't want any of Iggwilv-- even with her cleric levels commuted to ex-cleric, she's still faaaar too much trouble for the Liberators, but after a whole session and 1/2 without killing stuff, Dabus decided he'd had enough of her eeevil.



> If might be fun if the Liberators come across a prophecy that states only Iuz's brother can kill him and of course until recently there was no such being....




Ah, good idea!

Thanks for reading, y'all, and I'll try to update soon.


----------



## Barastrondo

(contact) said:
			
		

> Manual of Bodily Health (+3) -- Prisantha




One wonders what the gossips of Verbobonc would make of that.



			
				(contact) said:
			
		

> Manual of Gainful Exercise (+3) -- Hastur
> Manual of Quickness of Action (+3) -- Lucius
> Tome of Clear Thought (+3) -- Jespo
> Tome of Leadership and Influence (+3) -- Heydricus
> Tome of Understanding (+3) – Dabus
> 
> Jespo is now officially smarter than everyone on the planet.
> 
> . . . _except _ Prisantha.




Of all of the very appealing things to envy, I'm actually envious of Dabus. Because a guy with a Wisdom score in the 20s can figure out how to be _content_, even in the middle of footslogging through the Dungeon from Hell, dealing with LE co-workers, or whatever sort of troublesome workplace conditions manifest at the time. That's the stuff.

Though the prospect of the two smartest people in Greyhawk being Jespo and Prisantha is... let's call it "unnerving." 

(Oh, and by the way, though you may have already guessed, Gwendolyn has firmly ensconced herself among my Favorite People. Nothing says "awesome" like a well-dressed wizardess moving through a typical Tharizdun-inspired dungeon of Awefull Eldrytch Horrore and acidly commenting on the decor.)

[Edit: Not to take anything away from Prisantha, who does this as well. Gwen is simply... cattier. Bless her.]


----------



## Tharen the Damned

> Gwendolyn actually got the Best Magic Item in the Game, but sadly the party had already (spoiler) by the time they figured out they could (spoiler) in order to save Greyhawk.
> The Circle of Eight have already left the plane.




You are so cruel (contact) to give us only these tidbits.
We need the real nourishment to survive!
We need the story!


----------



## cidak

(contact) said:
			
		

> “Well, don’t f-cking touch it,” Heydricus says. “If it starts glowing, run.”




Ever the dispenser of good adventuring advice.  Soon we will see Heydricus with his own line of books.  

_Adventuring for Dummies_ anyone?


----------



## Dakkareth

> Gwendolyn actually got the Best Magic Item in the Game, but sadly the party had already *sold the artifacts through shady channels and spent the money on ale* by the time they figured out they could *summon a legion of fiendish bunnies* in order to save Greyhawk.




Whoa. Tough luck.


----------



## Sejs

> Adventuring for Dummies anyone?




A dungeoneering guide for the rest of us.

Why do I have the image of the cover guy wearing a horned viking style helmet?


----------



## Circle of Crows

I've found Heydricus' advice to be invaluable. For example, I'm a chef, and the trick to a real busy night:

"Take it one ticket at a time, cook everything, and move on."

 P.S.- Where's my update, fool?


----------



## CrusadeDave

Lo said:
			
		

> Ever the dispenser of good adventuring advice.  Soon we will see Heydricus with his own line of books.
> 
> _Adventuring for Dummies_ anyone?




Actually in my campaign, which will be coming to Story Hour soon, NPC's in the Sunless Citadel often quoted Heydricus' rules of adventuring as a side joke to the young, inexperienced adventurers. Now about to enter the Crater Ridge Mines in RttToEE, the PC's are regularly quoting them, almost like the Ferengi Rules of Acquisition. 

They're undecided if Heydricus really is a famous great adventurer, a blow hard scholar who only dabbles in theory and not practice, or some hack author trying to make a quick buck with a Dummy's Guide to Adventuring...

Never touch anything that glows until you know what it does, makes selling things expensive in my world. Most shop owners require 100 gp for an identify scroll to open negotiations on an item.  It's usually deducted off the resale price.


----------



## (contact)

That's awesome, Crusade Dave.  Heydricus lives on!



			
				Circle of Crows said:
			
		

> P.S.- Where's my update, fool?




Go ask your mama.  

Man, you know it's getting tough when your brother calls you up bitching about why haven't you updated the LoT . . .


----------



## coyote6

You could blame Sagiro -- 2 posts this month, trying to force you into posting an update.

There's only one thing for you to do -- post *three* updates in the next week or two!


----------



## Whitey

Can it be?  Has the mic indeed gone stale?

Make haste, young (contact), lest your deck be inspected, and found wanting!

PS: Is it time to post the _Revised Victim's Guide to the Unstoppable Hordes of Iuz_, in the rogue's gallery thread?


----------



## Rackhir

(contact) said:
			
		

> That's awesome, Crusade Dave.  Heydricus lives on!
> 
> 
> 
> Go ask your mama.
> 
> Man, you know it's getting tough when your brother calls you up bitching about why haven't you updated the LoT . . .




I DID ask her and she simply stared at me with a blank expression. 

Come on man! It has officially been a whole month since the last update. Even Sepulcherave II's updated! Don't make me drag Horacio out of retirement to start bumping this thread every day...


----------



## (contact)

OK, I'm writing the next update(s) right now.  We promises, precious.


----------



## Urbanmech

We will belive that when we see the pixels on the screen.  

But I am intrigued by the potential promise of update(s).


----------



## Rackhir

(contact) said:
			
		

> OK, I'm writing the next update(s) right now.  We promises, precious.




"Tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap,tap"


----------



## (contact)

*Be advised, your update is inbound.*

*Coldeven 6, CY 593
90—Killing your way through the self-help section*

It is the greatest treasure any of the Liberators have ever seen; the legendary city of Tovag Baragu’s secrets of self-perfection condensed into six volumes.  The six books are arrayed reverentially on a large serving-table shoved against the wall in Nevond Nevnend’s auxiliary dining hall.

Lucius narrows his eyes and cuts his gaze toward Hastur; the dwarf lounges in a tall chair, one fur-knuckled hand busily chasing a wandering itch across his neck and down his back.

“Let’s just shaft the new guy,” Lucius suggests.  “He probably won’t even notice.”

“No,” Dabus says.

“But he’s stupid,” Lucius reminds him.  “It’s his lot in life to get less.”

“That’s it, we’ll draw lots,” Jespo says.  “Numbered from one to seven, we choose in that order.”

“I agree,” Prisantha says.

“Fair is fair,” Heydricus says.  “Everybody fights, everybody gets a share.”

----

“So do I go first, or last?” Hastur wants to know—his straw is the longest.

“You go first,” Dabus says.  “Gwendolyn will be last.”

Gwendolyn’s lips have yet to un-purse themselves.  

In order, the Liberators select their books—Hastur quickly snatches up Gainful Exercises for The Humble Everyman, while Dabus claims the Exalted Treatise Concerning the Revealed Wisdom of the Ancients.  Heydricus finds the selection on Personal Magnetism and Boundless Allure to his taste, while Jespo Crim cackles despite himself as he selects the book that reveals The Seven Eternal Secrets of Perfect Memory and Immediate Comprehension.  Prisantha selects the tome whose exercises Promote Unflagging Health and Fortitude.

“Fine,” Gwendolyn finally manages, her lips still so tight as to render the word nearly silibant.  “I’ll take the Demonomicon of Iggwilv.”

There is a long moment of silence, broken by Jespo’s barking laugh.

“Are you mad?” he scoffs.  “That is not an item of treasure, it is a catalogue of demonic true-names.  A true demonomicon.”

“Well, it is my pick.”

“Out of the question,” Jespo says.

“And who are you to tell me ‘no’, Crim?  Were you up-jumped when I wasn’t looking?”

The party regards the _Demonomicon_, each of them lost in thought.

“Well, if Id’a known we could pick it,” Hastur says.  “Maybe I would have . . .”

“You’re too late,” Gwendolyn says.  “It’s mine.”

“Nobody’s picking that book!” Heydricus says.

“I think Heydricus is right,” Prisantha says.  “It’s not a thing for one of us to own.  Perhaps the _Prison of Xagyg_ would suit you, Gwen.”

“That book should be destroyed,” Dabus says.  “I don’t appreciate its presence.”

“Nor do I,” Heydricus agrees.  “_Flame strike_ it.”

Before anyone else can object, Dabus calls upon Tritherion, and after a moment, the _Demonomicon of Iggwilv_ is struck with a pillar of holy flame.

Gwen’s jaw falls open and she stares at Dabus.  “Of all the self-important, arrogant things to do!  How dare you!”

Dabus shrugs.  “I have a standing divine mandate regarding objects of known evil origin.”

“Not that it matters overmuch,” Jespo says.  “The Demonomicon is unscathed.”  Jespo places a hand on the book.  “It’s not even warm.”

“I have other spells,” Dabus says.  

But despite the best efforts of the willing, acid and arcane fire prove equally useless against the thing.  Holy light fails to sear it, and it cannot be _destructioned_.

“Somebody _wish_ it destroyed,” Heydricus says.

“I’m not _wishing_ against an artifact!” Gwendolyn says.  “I have a better idea.  Why don’t we copy the names, then give the book itself to the Pholtans?” 

“What?” Heydricus says.

Prisantha has been staring at the Deomonomicon while her companions debate its immunities and resistances.  “I know,” she says in a soft voice.  “We should sell it to a real demonologist.  Someone who would understand it.  That book could make us rich.”

“What?” Heydricus says.

“Well, more rich,” Jespo says, fingering the seam of his masterwork vest.  Fräs hisses warily and nips Jespo’s hand.

Lucius regards Prisantha suspiciously.  “Allright, that f-cking book’s got to go.  I’m locking it up.”

“Wait,” Gwendolyn says.  “It would be a shame to let its secrets rot away in some dank room.  Perhaps we owe it to ourselves to make a better use of it.”

“I know,” Hastur mutters, staring flatly at the book.  “Let’s pour some blood over it while reading names out loud.  I think I know which ones.”  He starts to open the book, but Dabus is quicker, and Hastur is suddenly _held_.

Lucius whirls on the group, his finger stabbing at each of the wizards in turn.  “No more ideas.  I’m tying up the dwarf, and the next one of you with a clever notion about that book gets the same.”

Heydricus swipes the book into a leather bag, and mounts the bag on the end of his spear.  “Dabus, throw this f-cking thing in the treasure room, and post a double guard.”

-----

With the Demonomicon of Iggwilv securely locked away, Gwendolyn finally claims the Prison of Xagyg for her treasure pick.  In a huff, she _teleports_ off to Greyhawk City where she reports she will be “looking in to a few things.”

The party discusses the likelihood that the Demonomicon is itself an artifact-level magic item.  Clearly, it has subtle mind-corrupting powers, and seems impervious to magic.

“There is a spell that can unbind such things,” Jespo notes.  “Although I do not myself possess it.”

“_Mordenkainen’s disjunction_?” Prisantha nods.  “It could work, but results are not assured, and the wizard casting the spell takes a tremendous risk; if the artifact reflects the spell, she could _disjoin_ her own wizardly gifts!”

“A risk, true, but no greater risk than leaving the vile thing within our living space,” Heydricus says.

“I would be willing to _disjoin_ it,” Jespo says.  “But I would first require the spell.”

“You don’t have anything to prove, Jespo,” Prisantha says.

“Nonsense,” Jespo scoffs.  “Fräs says that a virtuous man must prove his worth with each new day.”

“I will teach you the spell,” Prisantha says, unconvinced and more than a little worried.

Fräs purrs.

-----

Dabus does his part, protecting Jespo Crim as best he can.  The first two attempts are failures—the book is strong, and resists the spell.  But on the third day, the wards protecting the Demonomicon of Iggwilv are disjoined, and shortly thereafter the book is consumed in holy flame, its ashes scattered across the plains of Nevond Nevnend.

“Great job, Crim,” Heydricus says, clasping Jespo’s frail shoulder with one huge hand.  “You know, you’ve really been _kicking ass_ recently.  Keep it up!”

If Jespo blushes, no one but Fräs can say.  Exhausted, he returns to his newly remodeled suite on the keep’s top floor.

-----

The Liberators of Tenh (sans Gwendolyn) sit together in Prisantha’s study.   The six liberators remaining in Nevond Nevnend have been busy studying their respective books, but take the time to gather in the evenings to share a meal and discuss the relative merits of their various studies.  This evening, Jespo has begun a tirade impugning the Furyondian Wizard’s Academy and the “Traitorous Four.”

“. . . Piscean!  Need I say more?”  Jespo has recently taken to tucking one arm into his vest when he pontificates, a gesture he learned from Otiluke.  “The Circle of Eight are clearly the superior coven.  Furyondy’s Four considered themselves without peer in the wizardly world (and you know for a fact there are many at the Academy in Chendl who say no less about them, Prisantha), but when the final bell is rung, power wielded by an immoral hand is no worthy power at all.”

Fräs agrees.

“Like that unswerving paragon of virtue, Rary?” Prisantha asks sweetly.

“Well.  _That_ was a disagreement between gentlemen wizards, Prisantha.  We are not privileged to know the truth of the matter, and frankly, it would be unseemly to inquire.”

Lucius laughs.  “So if a Furyondian wizard murders another, it’s immoral, but if a Greyhawker turns on his companions, it’s a private dispute?  Why not just call the spade a spade, and admit it—all wizards are just a hair shy of crazy.”

Jespo will not be outdone.  “When one kidnaps a king for political gain, it becomes by definition a public crime.  Two gentlemen attempting to kill one another is a duel.”

“What if one of the gentlemen doesn’t realize he’s in a duel at the time?” Lucius asks.


----------



## Urbanmech

Yea for updates!  The pixels on the screen glow and give me joy.

I really want to know what the party said to Lucius after that last comment.


----------



## (contact)

There was an interruption.


----------



## coyote6

The conversation around the demonomicon amuses me vastly. 

Now . . . how long until the interruption?


----------



## Circle of Crows

(contact) said:
			
		

> There was an interruption.





  Bwaaaaahaahaahaahaahaahaaaaaa....


----------



## the Jester

Wow, (contact), I'm finally caught up!

I read your original TOEE2 story back in the day, and I've read chunks of LoT before... but I never managed to have enough time to get caught up on it.  

I just spent a considerable amount of the last two days reading from page 13 or thereabouts to the end... your writing just keeps getting better, and the story is fantastic over-the-top epic madness!  I love it- keep up the hard work, and keep up the updatin'!


----------



## Old One

Yo!

Haven't dropped by for a bit...all caught up now...good stuff!

Some of their diatribes...er, conversations just kill me.  Looking forward to more!

~ Old One


----------



## (contact)

*Coldeven 7, CY 594
91—It is always darkest just after the last light is extinguished.*


The distinctive spice and ink smell of Greyhawk’s sage’s quarter appears just before Gwendolyn does.  Her _teleportation_ causes the candles to flutter momentarily, casting dancing shadows across the faces of her companions.  Gwendolyn’s eyes are wide and her cheeks flushed.

“The _Demonomicon_!” she says.  “We’ve won!  We can stop this madness!”

Prisantha looks at Heydricus, who looks at Dabus.  Dabus shrugs.

“It is a book of _true names_!” Gwen says, laughing.

“Yes,” Dabus says.

“Grazz’t gave it to Iggwilv _before_ the birth of Iuz—she transcribed the true name of her son into the book!  _The_ Demonomicon _has Iuz’ true name_!”

There is a long moment of silence.

“Had,” Jespo says.

-----

Gwendolyn isn’t speaking to the Liberators.  Prisantha, Heydricus, Jespo, Lucius and Dabus crowd around Pris’ crystal ball as she spies upon the Great Adventurers’ Crusade.

“My god,” Prisantha says.

“Is it bad?” Jespo asks.

“They cannot . . . oh dear.  Their spells are not functioning.”

“Magic items?” Heydricus asks.

“Hard to say, but no one is glowing.”

“Wow.  That’s bad,” Heydricus says.

“And their teleportatives aren’t working at all.  There are many demons.”

Dabus leaves the room.

“Keep your eye out for survivors,” Lucius says.  “The Iuzians will want to capture as many as they can, for torture.  We can free them later, if they can survive long enough.”  He follows Dabus, and is joined by Jespo Crim.

Heydricus places his hand on Prisantha’s.  “Keep watching,” he says.  “Try to find Belvor.”

-----

“In Tritherion’s eyes, the whole world does not outweigh a single soul.”  

Dabus has finally cornered Gwendolyn in the narrow passageway that runs beneath Nevond Nevnend’s main stairwell.  It is very late; Gwendolyn is in her nightgown and holds a candle in one hand.  Dabus, as has been his habit since his death, does not sleep, and wears his ceremonial garb at all times.

“You self-righteous as-holes make me sick,” Gwendolyn says. 

“My righteousness does not come from my self.”

 “We could have _won_.  We could have killed him, we could have bound him.”

“Such a thing could not be done without imperiling the soul that did it.”

“That’s my choice to make, you hypocritical prayer-grubbing _lackey_.”

“You were under the influence of the book, and I think you still are.”

“I’m going to burn your face with this candle if you don’t clear the passage, Dabus.”

“I am resistant to fire.”

Gwendolyn narrows her eyes.

“I know you think we were wrong, but I would not have you sacrifice yourself—the souls of the just will never be the playthings of the Old One.  This world was not always, nor will it always be—it is an ephemeral shade, reflecting poorly the majesty of the Heavens.”

“Poetry?  You’re pathetic.”  She pushes past him.

“I am sincere,” he says as she goes.

-----

“I feel . . . _epic_.”  

Heydricus is flexing his muscles and regarding himself in a full length mirror.  Prisantha and Jespo sit together nearby, poring over a list of names.

“Avelarch,” Jespo says.  “A fighter, I believe—an old adventuring companion of Murlynd.  Nystul spoke highly of him.”

“Yes, Murlynd was present,” Pris says, “But I did not see him perish—of course, he was with Drawmij’s band, so he’s probably dead.”

“Otto?”

“Dead.”

“Do you feel epic, Pris?” Heydricus asks.

“No, Heydricus,” she says.  “I think it’s only you.”

“I feel epic, sometimes,” Jespo says.  “But I know in my heart that I am not.”

“Hey, don’t be so hard on yourself, Crim.  You’ve been kicking ass lately,” Heydricus says.

“Serten, Sigby, The Unnamed and Yrag are all confirmed killed,” Pris says.  “Mordenkainen, Bigby, Otiluke and Tenser were not present.”

“They’re smart.  They fled the plane,” Heydricus laughs.

“What about D—?  Oh, you know who,” Jespo says.

“Daern?”

“Yes.”

“Dead.”

“How about that Hennet fellow?”

“Unknown.”

“Jozan?”

“Captured.”

“Kermit?”

“Kerwyn.  Dead.”

“The other Boon Companions?”

Prisantha shakes her head, and places a hand on Jespo’s hand.

Heydricus puts his arm across Jespo’s thin shoulders.  “Today is the 8th of Coldeven.  Two years ago today, we lost our first companion to the Temple, a happy little hobbit named Whistlin’ Pippin.”

“Yes, you’ve mentioned him,” Jespo says.

“Today is the day that I remember the fallen, Jespo.  The longer you live, the more of those you’re going to have.”

-----

Cochraine and Reine are at each other’s throats again.  Heydricus has asked for wills for all the Liberators, and the two top Tehna bureaucrats cannot agree on the proper language for the _resurrection_ clause.

Lucius has been seen in the vicinity of Prisantha of late, whispering into her ear, and receiving replies in return.  When they defeat Iuz, he reckons, the world is going to be short a few dozen powerful adventurers, and the political climate should reflect that.  Prisantha agrees, and the two of them are hashing out the how.

Dabus prepares a _gate_ to Mount Olympus, and the Liberators _teleport_ across the length and breadth of the Flannaes to retrieve their loved ones and family.

Heydricus sends his gaggle of orphans through the gate first, led by the remnants of his most fanatical followers.   Prisantha convinces her grandparents that they are going on a “special magic vacation,” entrusted into the care of loyal Anon.

Jespo arrives with his mother in tow, an intractable hag who lets no opportunity to berate her son, his companions, or their surroundings pass.   After the first fingernails-on-chalkboard pass at polite conversation, Prisantha _silent still charms_ the woman and has done with it, _suggesting_ her through the _gate_ (but not before forcing her to agree that Jespo is a good son).  Fräs sends an alley-cat along with Jespo’s mother, a battered-looking Tom she claims to have befriended while homeless in Chendl.

Gwendolyn brusquely introduces the Liberators of Tenh to a trio of younger sisters (none of which possess her beauty, but all apparently in full possession of her sense of entitlement).  The three caw and complain, but are eventually lured through the gate by the handsome Anon.

Hastur sends no one through.  Lucius is not present.

-----

Jespo stands next to Heydricus as the _gate_ closes.  “Do you think it is strange, Heydricus?  We are probably now the most powerful adventurers in the Flannaes . . .”

“Except for the members of the Eight that fled.”

“Except for them, yes.  But for all of our power, we could not have filled a poor man’s scupper with our loved ones.”

Heydricus thinks and shrugs.  “Lots of people love us, Jespo, we save folks.”

“Yes, but they don’t know us, do they?”

“Well, that’s the life for you,” Heydricus shrugs.  “When you think about what we do for a living—- who would want us around all the time?”


----------



## Morte

(contact) said:
			
		

> “Grazz’t gave it to Iggwilv _before_ the birth of Iuz—she transcribed the true name of her son into the book!  _The_ Demonomicon _has Iuz’ true name_!”




Ooh.

Good. More.


----------



## Graywolf-ELM

Liberator background story.  Good for trying to decipher why they do what they do at times.

GW


----------



## Rackhir

You know I've never really been comfortable with Mord's Dis, being able to destroy artifacts. Backlash or no. I mean if you can destroy some powerful artifact just by taking a 5% once or twice a day, then where's the incentive to go on the epic quests. 



> “I know you think we were wrong, but I would not have you sacrifice yourself—the souls of the just will never be the playthings of the Old One. This world was not always, nor will it always be—it is an ephemeral shade, reflecting poorly the majesty of the Heavens.”




Glen Cook has a great bit in one of his books either one of the Books of the South or The Swordbearer (possibly both) where he describes how the greater the evil, the more evil that must be done to overcome it. So that when the evil is finally destroyed. Lo, another has simply taken its place. The lords of darkeness are crafty in that regards. 

Great to see an update (contact). You've managed to beat both Sepulchrave and PKitty! Congrats.


----------



## Urbanmech

I was just thinking to myself today that it was about time to bump (contact)'s story hour.  I click my way to the Story Hour forum and what do I find?  Another great update!  Nice to know that Heydricus is _epic_ though I wonder if it will do them any good against Iuz.  I can't wait to see this showdown.


----------



## Joshua Randall

> Heydricus puts his arm across Jespo’s thin shoulders. “Today is the 8th of Coldeven. Two years ago today, we lost our first companion to the Temple, a happy little hobbit named Whistlin’ Pippin.”



*sniff*  I raise my glass to Whistlin' Pippin Jumpscreek, the first PC (contact) created for his _Temple of Elemental Evil: 20 Years After_ game. 

I think the next time I make a character, it'll be a happy-go-lucky halfling rogue named Pippin. I'll be doing it for the children.


----------



## (contact)

For the f-cking kids, man.

(wipes eye)


----------



## zoroaster100

Great!!! An update!  More Liberator goodness!  I love Heydricus staring at himself in the mirror feeling "epic."  (contact), you do such a great job of portraying him as self-involved and charming at the same time.  And your sense of humor as always has perfect tone.


----------



## Zaruthustran

> “I feel epic, sometimes,” Jespo says. “But I know in my heart that I am not.”




Man, too awesome. Here, (contact): another "Best Dialogue Ever" trophy to add to the pile.

-z


----------



## (contact)

Thanks, Z (both of you).



			
				Zoraster said:
			
		

> you do such a great job of portraying him as self-involved and charming at the same time




That's the way Chris plays him as well.  Super nice, huge heart, valiant and brave, and . . . he really digs himself.  Wouldn't you?  (Kisses bicep)

Heydricus rox.  But one of my favorite scenes to date (at the table) was the party wizards all failing saves against the Demonomicon and trying to out-do one another with the Book-Inspired Really Bad Ideas.


----------



## weiknarf

(contact) said:
			
		

> *“What about D—? Oh, you know who,” Jespo says.
> 
> “Daern?”
> 
> “Yes.”*



*

tee hee

Does Jespo still have the fortress?*


----------



## Barastrondo

*Plugola*

(Wow, both zoroaster100 and Zarathustran posted to this thread in succession. I think "Also Spracht Zarathustra" is now this thread's official theme music — appropriate, considering the similarities between Heydricus and The Nature Boy, Ric Flair.)

Okay, so in this thread full of feverish ranting in General RPG Discussion, I mentioned that I'd gotten the inestimable (contact) to provide consultation on a couple of Relics & Rituals books. I think it was coyote6 who asked which ones, but when I logged on this morning to reply, the thread had been locked (the rantings had grown too feverish). So...

Hey, everyone! Did you know that (contact) provided some design work and consultation on the Sword and Sorcery titles Relics & Rituals: Excalibur and Relics & Rituals: Olympus? He was a great help in figuring out how to make the prestige classes work, never my strong point, but a real skill of his. Plus, since he has a good background in martial arts, you know that R&R:Olympus' "Master Pankratiast" prestige class looks pretty decent. He even rewrote some PrCs without being asked, and they look great! The books aren't, alas, filled with the signature humor that you've come to know from this thread, but  if you're in the market for some chivalric or Bronze Age fantasy, check 'em out. (contact) kicked ass on them.


----------



## Plane Sailing

(contact), I just love the dialog resulting from the demonomicon. I sure hope that my players would handle a similar situation with such aplomb (although it might be inclined to degenerate into an unseemly melee rather too quickly!)

Cheers


----------



## (contact)

Barastrondo said:
			
		

> (Wow, both zoroaster100 and Zarathustran posted to this thread in succession. I think "Also Spracht Zarathustra" is now this thread's official theme music — appropriate, considering the similarities between Heydricus and The Nature Boy, Ric Flair.)




Day-yum.  That string of references just made Dennis Miller's eye twitch.  



			
				Barastrondo said:
			
		

> Okay, so in this thread full of feverish ranting in General RPG Discussion




Don't slide all up in here smiling and acting sassy like you *aren't* trying to KILL ALL ROLEPLAYING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!11111

You know, I've never played any WhiteWolf games before, but I'm actually looking forward to the Werewolf redux.  There is probably only a 4% chance that I'll get Chris and Ang to actually play it with me, but . . .



			
				Barastrondo said:
			
		

> He even rewrote some PrCs without being asked




I did?  Eep.  I don't remember that.

Jesus, how pretentious am I?  I guess that's why I love the fact that you are trying to KILL ROLLPLAYING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!11

I'm really looking forward to the Olympus book.  That and werewolf are the only things I'm looking for, because I think the rest of the roleplaying hobby is plebian and beneath me, and I can only pray that Ethan and his self-loathing compatriots can KILL THE SH-T OUT OF IT asap.


----------



## (contact)

Plane Sailing said:
			
		

> (contact), I just love the dialog resulting from the demonomicon. I sure hope that my players would handle a similar situation with such aplomb (although it might be inclined to degenerate into an unseemly melee rather too quickly!)
> 
> Cheers




It's funny-- all of Chris' characters (Heydricus, Lucius and Dabus) either made their saves or were immune.

All of Angie and my characters (Pris, Gwen, Jespo and Hastur) failed their saves, with Gwendolyn actually loosing more Wisdom (heh, heh) as a result.


----------



## coyote6

(contact) said:
			
		

> You know, I've never played any WhiteWolf games before, but I'm actually looking forward to the Werewolf redux.




Everytime I ever played, it ended up either like Superheros by Night, or some sort of fangy Highlander-Terminator (without the metal skeletons) crossover adventure. 

It also took us 11.4 seconds worth of VtM 1e to realize that shotguns ruled. 

But, hey, WoD and Olympus are both on order at the FLGS. 

Now . . . Barastrondo has a small industry to destroy, and you, mr. (contact) have updates to write. Did some demon eat the champions of the Risen Goddess, or what?!?


----------



## (contact)

I'm sorry, I had an update all ready to go, but Ethan killed it.


----------



## Barastrondo

coyote6 said:
			
		

> Everytime I ever played, it ended up either like Superheros by Night, or some sort of fangy Highlander-Terminator (without the metal skeletons) crossover adventure.




Got you beat: in the first Vampire game I played back in college, one of the vampires was a crazed Jim Henson turned vampire with his legion of killer robotic Muppets. This anecdote is absolutely true.

No, we weren't on the drugs. Though you would never suspect it from the sketch of the Kerminator.


----------



## (contact)

Well, no wonder you want to kill role-playing.


----------



## Sejs

Well though, after the Kerminator can you really blame him?


----------



## Tharen the Damned

Bumpedibum!

Dear Mr. (Contact) please bring the joy back to my life.
Give me an update
or a teaser
a sentence
a word?


----------



## Thomas Hobbes

(contact) said:
			
		

> Well, no wonder you want to kill role-playing.




Words can not express how entertainign I find you, (contact).  Although the lack of sleep might be a factor.


----------



## (contact)

Tharen the Damned said:
			
		

> Bumpedibum!
> 
> Dear Mr. (Contact) please bring the joy back to my life.
> Give me an update
> or a teaser
> a sentence
> a word?




Filibrate


----------



## Tharen the Damned

(contact) said:
			
		

> Filibrate




Ooh, (Contact) replied to my humble post!

He send me a word!

A word that I, in my ignorance, don´t understand.
But I will ponder the ddeper meaning. The hidden message.
And maybe wisdom will come to me....


----------



## coyote6

Hey, look what I have -- Relics & Rituals: Olympus, with additional material by some guy whose name sounds rather familiar . . .

Or, more briefly, BUMP.


----------



## cidak

Hello?  Is this thing on?

<thumps the side of screen>

sigh....


----------



## Tharen the Damned

No Contact with (contact)!


----------



## the Jester

So, er, what happens next?


----------



## coyote6

Maybe he's stuck in Nothingland?


----------



## el-remmen

In the meantime, shall I suggest this story hour?

Or this?

Or even _this_?


----------



## (contact)

*Coldeven 11, CY 594
92—The Sun Does Not Here.*

Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,
And make me travel forth without my cloak,
To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
     --Shakespeare, XXXIV

Dorrakan Irregulars are perhaps the most disliked sub-set of an already very disliked group.  Trained for brutal efficiency along a wide spectrum of missions that primarily focus on small-force skirmish warfare (adventuring), information gathering (torture), and indigenous pacification (targeted massacres).  Aside from a high-priest’s vestment, there are few things that can bring more raw intimidation to the table than a Dorrakan Irregular Light Infantry scar chiseled messily into one’s forehead.

 While technically a part of Iuz’ larger army, these most elite killers go where they will and do what they wish—provided there is no one stronger than them present to dispute their passage.  Iuz, it is whispered, loves his Irregulars so much that should a even a single orc escape from a lost fight, that creature will be possessed by a divinely-inspired wrath so horrible as to transform it into a living haunt—a Tireless Killer from Before the Grave.  This rumor is so widely accepted that the population of Dorraka will generally not fight with any band of Irregulars that they are not sure they can slaughter to the last orc.

This makes the Irregulars perfectly suited for Iuz’ frequent population adjustment initiatives (gentrification in Dorraka always involves wholesale massacres), and of course, as subjects for a _seeming_ spell.  

Prisantha giggles to herself as she transforms the Liberators from a large adventuring party into a small unit of Irregulars.

-----

The Liberators stand before the full-length mirrors in Heydricus’ Valet Chamber, and regard the illusion; it is perfect.  Heydricus notices with some pride that he is the most handsome of all the orcs.

“Look, I’ve warts,” Jespo crows.  “I look like Sister Keriann, after she . . . _well_.”  Jespo adjusts his illusionary mail-and-plate.  “And Fräs!  You’re a rat, my dear!”

Fräs hisses.

“But it becomes you,” Jespo amends.

“We must be on our guard,” Prisantha says.  “This _seeming_  will serve to fool many, but not all.  And we have no means to conceal the kindness in our souls.”

“We should expect to be discovered, then?” Dabus asks.

“We should hope to be discovered,” Heydricus says, flexing and contracting his hairy grey fingers.

“We are going to help them discover us, I suspect,” Jespo says.

“They won’t discover us until it is too late,” Lucius says.

“I’m re-discovering my nausea listening to you people,” Gwendolyn says.

Jespo sniffs.

-----

The Great Tyrant’s Home is one part state house, one part church, one part civic center, one part military compound, and three parts torture chamber.  The two largest outgrowths of the tumor-like conglomeration squat on either side of the Opicim; the filthy river that races through the center of Dorraka, as anxious as any other sane traveler to escape the place.  Along its route, the citizens of Iuz’ crown jewel dump their waste hatefully into the water, both to mark their time on Oerth as well as to (hopefully) poison those unfortunate or poor enough to live downstream.

A gilded and skull-encrusted bridge arches across the river, connecting the two halves of Iuz’ Grand Home.  A full division of orcish and human conscripts control the bridge.  Their stewardship primarily consists of seizing any opportunity to take out their poor diet and abusive chain-of-command on any travelers desperate enough to believe that life might be somehow less miserable on the other side of town.  Tellingly, the bridge is crowded day and night, and is often the flash-point for brief and ruthlessly squelched rioting.  Covert raiders use the bridge as well; Dorrakans, as a rule, dislike and hate the citizens living on the opposite bank; neither side has any illusions about the trustworthiness of the other, and cross-river skirmishing is as much a part of Dorrakan life as plague and poison.

Suspended beneath the bridge, a hidden walkway connects the dungeons of Iuz’ Temple. This “Low Way” serves as a means for the Great and Important Lords of Dorraka to cross the river without being forced to sully the hems of their robes with the kisses of the common-folk.  Consequently, security at the under-gates is kept to a minimum—only a pair of hell-beasts and a swarm of curiously servile undead.  (In Dorakka, the higher one’s station, the less random cruelty one is exposed to; ironically, the higher one’s station, the higher the station of those still able to expose one to _planned_  cruelty, and therefore the greater the overall cruelty received.  Less is often more when you’re really Evil.)

A huge cold-iron gate blocks the Southern end of the Low Way.  Two foul wolf-things hunch by either side of the portal; bestial and sulfurous, the demons wheeze mightily, each exhalation marked by a deep phlegmatic rumbling accompanied by thick tufts of eye-watering metallic smoke from their cloven nostrils.  Their forearms end in long, human-like hands, and their over-sized haunches constantly twitch and press them forward.  Next to each demonic faux-wolf, a gaunt corpse wobbles uneasily on decaying legs, bowing to the occasional foot-traffic.  All are dressed in the livery of the Temple Guard.

The Liberators have marked this portal as the sole aboveground passageway between the two largest sections of Dorrakan dungeon.  Prisantha cried when she watched the Great Crusade through her _crystal ball_, and after consulting with Heydricus and Dabus, determined  not to speak of the details save to say that while there might be survivors, they should expect no aid in Iuz’ realm.

The Liberators _teleport_  to the North end of the bridge and swagger orcishly South.  The demon-wolves rumble and lurch forward, baring their fangs; the Irregulars do not use the Low Way.

Usually.  Rules are meant to be broken in Dorraka, better to check and be sure.  “Password,” one growls, even as it pulls a morningstar from its bandoleer.

“Password?” The Heydricus orc says, glancing at the  Prisantha orc.

Prisantha shrugs.

“Praise Tritherion!” Heyrdicus yells, and smashes into the demon before him even as its cadaverous keeper shambles forward, vomiting long ropy tendrils that twitch and lash around the Liberator’s waist.  Dabus and Hastur leap on the unengaged wolf-thing, and as it strikes back at them with its morningstar and seizes Hastur in its mouth, it is felled by bolts of lightning from Gwenolyn’s fingertips; arcs of electricity that leap from its corpse and strike its companions.  Lucius fires three arrows into the undead that has attacked Heydricus, and moves into a position on the opposite side of the wolf-demon, forcing it to split its attentions; a fatal condition, as Heydricus shortly proves.

Prisantha wiggles her ring-finger at the undead with its guts wrapped around her Heydricus and _dominates_  it.

“Mithress,” it says around a mouthful of its own insides.  “I therve.”

Prisantha smiles insincerely, out of habit, and says, “Tell us about the dungeon beyond the gate.  Tell us _everything_.”


----------



## Dakkareth

YAY! Liberator goodness!


----------



## Graywolf-ELM

Right there with you.  I went back and recently re-read the .pdf  It was fun to recall forgotten sections of the adventure.

GW


----------



## Capellan

(contact) said:
			
		

> Prisantha wiggles her ring-finger at the undead with its guts wrapped around her Heydricus and _dominates_  it.




Nice play, but aren't Undead "immune to all mind-affecting effects (charms, compulsions, phantasms, patterns, and morale effects).", and isn't _dominate monster_ a compulsion?

I'm just askin' 

(Maybe they just _look_ like undead.  Yeah, that's the ticket.)



			
				(contact) said:
			
		

> “Mithress,” it says around a mouthful of its own insides.  “I therve.”




Is its name Igor, by any chance? 

Loved Heydricus' vanity and the whole 'discovery' interchange in general.


----------



## Dakkareth

> Nice play, but aren't Undead "immune to all mind-affecting effects (charms, compulsions, phantasms, patterns, and morale effects).", and isn't dominate monster a compulsion?




I was assuming some special ability like the feat in the ELH allowing bards to affect undead/etc as well ...


----------



## Urbanmech

Ah it is good to have the Liberators back.  Can't wait to see what kind of EVIL you have whipped up for this final dungeon crawl.


----------



## Rackhir

Boy I've been getting worried. No Pcat, No Sepulchrave, No (contact). But Finally we have the Liberators back!

So I'm hoping that we won't have to wait another 3 months for the follow up?????


----------



## Sejs

> Nice play, but aren't Undead "immune to all mind-affecting effects (charms, compulsions, phantasms, patterns, and morale effects).", and isn't dominate monster a compulsion?



 There are spells that can affect the undead such.  Control Undead comes immediatly to mind.


----------



## Darthjaye

I must say that I have enjoyed the s**t out of this storyhour so far.  One of our GM's (coyote6) got me into it and I love every entry.  Glad that they started out what may be their last hours ignoring the subtlety of sneaking past the guards and just plain wasted them.  Although after reading the entire story hour (up to this point) and experiencing the creatures polymorphed to look like dragons thing first hand, I can only say...STOP GIVING MY GM IDEAS!!!!  Next thing you know we'll be stuck on a boat heading towards the Amedio Jungle while some idiot decides to ascend in the middle of the ocean while we are passing by......wait...never mind....strike that....ahhh crud......


----------



## Krud

I've been reading Liberators for about a year or so now and its deifinitely one of my favourite story hours. While Pcat, Sagiro, Destan and Sepulcrave are great too, I think that Liberators is probably the best in capturing the fun and giddiness of handing out the smak to the party's enemies.

My favourite bit so far was when the boys took on some of the boon companions...

'Your first... just so you know' 

Classic


----------



## (contact)

Hey, welcome to the new readers, and welcome as usual to the old crusties.  I'm glad people are having fun reading these logs.  I'm not updating as often as I used to, but I haven't forgotten about the Libs, and you'll see periodic updates all the way 'till the end.

The bitter, bitter end.


----------



## (contact)

*Coldeven 11, CY 594
93—Drip, drip, drip goes our days.*


“Swallow your intestines,” Prisantha commands, and the undead begins re-swallowing its insides with wet slurping noises, tossing its head back like a sea-bird.  The Liberators shove open one of the iron portals, and slip into the Dungeons of Dorraka.

The entry hall just beyond the bridge gates is a grand open space, simultaneously heady and oppressive.  The tall sweeping arches seem to threaten collapse, provoking subtle thoughts of cave-ins and suffocation.  Ghastly murals decorate the walls and floor, featuring death at its most mundane undermining and boring rotting holes through the life of Oerth.  Peasants and kings alike are struck dead by disease or sickness, accidents and circumstance.  People starve, and infants die for no apparent cause.  Demons cavort along the sides of these images, but unlike the decorations in the Temple of Elemental Evil, it is clear that within Dorraka they do not rule so much as observe.  The entire place is silent save for a few echoing footsteps wafting through the labyrinthine passages beyond the entry hall.

As the Liberators orient themselves, a faint scream drifts down from the North and slowly echoes away.  Prisantha’s new rotting friend spills his guts, and after a short interrogation, she dismisses the thing with instructions to await further orders at the bottom of the river.

“I hasten to obey, mistress,” it hisses as it shambles away.

“There are three Boneheart within this section of the dungeon,” Pris reports.  “Panshazek, Marynnek and Helga.  Panshazek is closest to us, due North, with Marynnek further to the South and Helga to the East.  The creature does not know for sure if she is herself present, however, as none of Iuz’ servitors are allowed within her demesne.”

“Did it say ‘demesne’?”  Lucius asks.

“No, I am paraphrasing.”

“So, she does or she doesn’t have sovereignty?”

“Don’t be pedantic, Lucius,” Gwendolyn says.

“Uh,” Hastur says.

“He has a good point,” Dabus interjects.  “Either Helga ordered Iuz’ servants away, or she is keeping them away with a threat of violence.  This distinction could be critical.”

“I did not ask, although I assumed the latter from its tone,” Prisantha says.

“Either way, she’s going to get some violence,” Heydricus says.  “But I want to kill Panshazek again first.”

“Again first?” Hastur says.

“Before your time,” Jespo whispers.

The party moves through a long passage leading north, and as they do they hear a renewed burst of screaming, this time clearly coming from directly ahead.  After another hundred feet they find themselves within an area where the corridor blooms wider for several yards before resuming its course.  Within the wider section of the passage, three massive ogre-sized orcs bearing the Iuzian Palace Guard livery stand barring the way with horrid chopping axes and jagged end-weighted swords.

The guards sneer down through narrowed eyes at the swaggering Irregulars advancing on them.  “State your business,” one says.

“I don’t present orders to my inferiors,” Heydricus growls in his best oricsh.

“See this patch?” the guard growls, jabbing his thumb at a pair of serrated black stripes fixed onto his left breast.  “That’s Boneheart, and that’s who you’re answering to.”

“F-ck the Boneheart,” Heydricus says.

The guards look at one another, amused surprise rippling their lips back and revealing long, sharp teeth.  “Well, that’s the end for you,” one of them says, and reaches for a horn at his waist.

“Your masters will reward you if you let us pass,” Prisantha _suggests_.

The orc reaching for his horn nods his agreement and stands aside.  His nearest companion snarls and raises his poleaxe.  Before it can drop the blade, Lucius shoots it three times, a tightly-placed nest of shafts punching through its femoral artery, and lodging within the bone.  The creature grasps its leg, and hits the ground dead before it can wonder where all that blood is coming from.

Lucius levels his flat gaze on Gwendolyn, who replies with a sneer and roll of the eyes.

The other giant-orc brandishes a long, wickedly re-curved butcher’s-axe and hefts it menacingly, but uses the butt of the haft to slam on the door behind it, provoking a sudden cacophony of metallic clanging and thuds from behind the wooden portal.

“I smell celestial,” the giant-orc mutters in common, giving Heydricus a knowing glance.

“Maybe it’s just your ass,” Prisantha suggests.

The orc with the horn raises his hands to protest, “Brothers!  We will be rewarded if we let them pass!”

The door bursts open and four more of the creatures come charging forward, only to be met by arcs of lighting from Jespo, Prisantha and Gwendolyn.  As the screaming and seizures reach their peak, Heydricus jumps forward and slices the arm from the closest guard.  Lucius fires another trio of arrows into the thing, blinding it, and Dabus finishes the job with a _flame strike_.

Jespo strides toward the front of the party, the static charge in the air causing the wisps of hair at his temples to stand straight out from his head.  He sends _magic missiles_ arcing over Heydricus’ shoulder and into the smoking mass of giants, killing a second one.

“Great job, Gwendolyn!” Heydricus yells without looking over his shoulder. 

“That was Crim!” she shouts back.

Jespo raises his hand to interject a point, but before he can speak, the surviving giant-orcs recover their wits and put their heads down for a charge.  Dabus moves forward to support the front, but he is a step to slow.  The giants charge into the party’s midst, knocking both Heydricus and Jespo to the ground, with one of the things crushing the frail wizard underfoot.

“Get off my wizard, you f-ck!”  Hastur screams as he flies into a blind rage.  The tiny dwarf nearly punches through the giant’s leg with three separate strikes of his axe, and overbalanced, the giant falls face-first, to spend the rest of its remaining few seconds of life contemplating the dungeon floor.

“Aaah,” Jespo moans softly.  “Oh, gods, it hurts.”

Dabus sends a _mass inflict critical wounds_ through his enemies, and wracked with pain, the creatures are nearly unable to defend themselves from Heydricus and Lucius’ lashing swords.  The last orc staggers forward, dead on its feet, but too stubborn to fall.  Dabus hits the thing hard right at its thighs, and the giant topples backwards with a grunt and sits hard on Jespo’s legs.

-----

“I say follow the screaming,” Heydricus suggests, as the party regards a maze of cross-corridors and doorways ahead of them.  They have left the bodies of the giants where they fell, and Dabus’ _mass heal_ has mended all breaks, sealed rends in flesh, and restored something of the youthful vigor of even the most beaten down Liberator.

Heydricus’ course proves to be well-thought, as the sounds of screaming lead eventually to a long alchemist’s laboratory, decorated tastefully in rarewood and silk draperies.  At the center of the room, a human male lies strapped to a tall stone slab, held immobile beneath several nozzle-lipped tubes that dangle from a larger patchwork array of coils, flasks, funnels, condensers, skin-bags, retorts, crystalline tubing and other bubbling apparatus.  An elderly degenerate crouches atop a short ladder, perched above the man like a vulture, his head cocked forward at the end of a long, supine neck.  He twists knobs and squeezes bags, producing a rhythmic drip from the multiple tubes above him.  Foul chemicals pop and hiss as they mix on the screaming man’s flesh.

“You’re welcome,” Prisantha says, startling him.

“You!” Panshazek says, as the Liberators step forward.  “I know you . . .” he releases his contraption and steps off of his ladder, wiping his hands absentmindedly on his apron.  He strides toward the door, squinting and attempting a wooden smile through a face long unused to even the attempt.

“Third time’s the charm!” Heydricus says as he lunges forward, bringing his sword down in a whistling arc.  A moment later, Panshazek is without a head, and Heydricus is painted head to toe with the old man’s blood.  “It’s just like the Temple,” he exclaims excitedly.  “Did you see that!”

“His head just _blew up_!” Hastur replies, growing excited.  “That was . . . that was . . . _awesome_!”

“Damn,” Lucius admires. 	

Dabus moves toward the torture table, and sees that the human lies directly on top of the corpse of an orc—the humanoid has had multiple spikes of a flat black metal driven into its form, and as Dabus regards them, they pop and crackle like a campfire might.  Dabus holds his lantern up to the body; it lies atop the spikes, balanced there and held immobile by tiny metal fingers that emerge from the ends of the spikes, and grip the human’s flesh.  Heydricus looks closely—the human casts only one shadow.

“Help me with these binds, please,” he says to the group.  “We can save this man.”

Slowly, they undo the arcane implements binding him to the orcish corpse, and as soon as he is free, Dabus’ heals him.  After a moment of soft sobbing, the man is able to clear his throat and speak.

“Why?”

“We are not orcs, sir,” Prisantha explains.  “We are adventurers, friends of King Belvor and Halrond.”

“You are too late,” the man says, “we are lost.”

“Oh, we’re not here to _win_,” Lucius says, “we’re just here to lose as spitefully as possible.”


----------



## weiknarf

(contact) said:
			
		

> ...I haven't forgotten about the Libs, and you'll see periodic updates all the way 'till the end.
> 
> The bitter, bitter end.




Bitter as in 'Return to the Temple of Elemental Evil Bitter'?


----------



## thatdarncat

woot!


----------



## Graywolf-ELM

Thanks,  I needed that.

GW


----------



## Capellan

Go kill Marynnek!  Go kill Marynnek!

And huzzah for the return of the LoT!


----------



## neverown

(contact) said:
			
		

> *Coldeven 11, CY 594
> 93—Drip, drip, drip goes our days.*
> 
> 
> 
> 
> “You are too late,” the man says, “we are lost.”
> 
> “Oh, we’re not here to _win_,” Lucius says, “we’re just here to lose as spitefully as possible.”





Now if that’s not one of the best lines in history, and so fitting in so many ways. Great story and always good for a laugh or an idea. Thanks


----------



## ThoughtBubble

Great. Now I'm going to be checking here every day for the next month looking for more information. String me out why don't you?


----------



## Darthjaye

ThoughtBubble said:
			
		

> Great. Now I'm going to be checking here every day for the next month looking for more information. String me out why don't you?





     And like the "crack" addicts we are we'll be back looking for the continuining updates.  Expecting them daily when they are most likely monthly.  But man do you gotta love Lucius for the memorable quotes.  Promise us, if he dies again and again, that he's gonna keep coming back like a bad horror villian.  

     Also, to touch on the addiction to this storyline i blame one person.....my GM (coyote 6 as you all know him).  Man that was insidious of him getting me hooked on this. 

     Well, tell your group to keep up the good work and kill the s**t out of them Iuzians.


----------



## (contact)

neverown said:
			
		

> Now if that’s not one of the best lines in history, and so fitting in so many ways. Great story and always good for a laugh or an idea. Thanks




I love it when people's first post is in this storyhour!  Thanks, Neverown.  And don't go owning, baby.  *gunfingers*

Thanks for the comments, folks.  I'll getcha an update soon!


----------



## godfear

(contact) said:
			
		

> “Maybe it’s just your ass,” Prisantha suggests.




This struck me as more of a Heydricus/Lucius line. I was surprised to see it from Prisantha. : )

[Insert Gratuitous Fanboy Worship for the Liberators]

The Liberators could use a theme song similar to the one used for Team America World Police...


----------



## Barastrondo

I've clearly been away too long. Not only is there new Liberators, I missed the last update when it posted. What is wrong with this life of mine? 

...Oh yeah, that. 

Gwaaarrrg, though, it's good to have fresh Liberators. It's like home cookin' after a tour of duty overseas, or a cold beer after a sweltering day of farmhanding. If, you know, you farmhand. Or something.


----------



## CrusadeDave

*Yay!*

Great Update!

(Contact), I noticed that you no longer have all the neato XP and Treasure tools used to track your campaigns.

It's not fair hinting about bitter, bitter ends, and not allowing those of us who can't control our need for information and a conclusion to jump ahead and get the inside scoop.



BTW, I'm stealing your torture device. Thanks. Where should I send the check?


----------



## (contact)

CrusadeDave said:
			
		

> (Contact), I noticed that you no longer have all the neato XP and Treasure tools used to track your campaigns.
> 
> It's not fair hinting about bitter, bitter ends, and not allowing those of us who can't control our need for information and a conclusion to jump ahead and get the inside scoop.




I still have them, they're just not part of the public site anymore.  When switched my home studio over to Mac, I re-skinned my site, and wound up hacking some broccoli.  If you want to see that kind of stuff, just email me.

I'd put the stuff up there for my players' benefit, and they used them . . . oh, about no times.



			
				CrusadeDave said:
			
		

> BTW, I'm stealing your torture device. Thanks. Where should I send the check?




Don't worry about it, man.  When you co-opt Iuzian technology, your creditors come to you.


----------



## (contact)

Barastrondo said:
			
		

> I've clearly been away too long. Not only is there new Liberators, I missed the last update when it posted. What is wrong with this life of mine?
> 
> ...Oh yeah, that.




Welcome back to the world of the semi-living.  When the new Werewolf book drops, you'll have to stat up the Liberators for the new WoD system for us.


----------



## Dakkareth

Muhahahahah! Liberator goodness!


----------



## Krud

*OMG!*

I can't get enough of Liberator goodness. Lucius is still my favourite. He's so bitter and cynical and morbidly funny.

Chance of an update anytime soon?


----------



## Herpes Cineplex

Letting this thread slip to page 4 cannot hide it from BUMP JUSTICE!  ...besides, I needed to update my "Favorites" link for the Liberators, anyway, what with the new server and all.

It's been over a month since the last update: I wouldn't be surprised if the statistics for holiday depression have spiked as a result of this thread's ominous silence.  Please, (contact), let's let the healing begin.

--
sycophantic but true: i first came to these forums to read this story hour, and was not disappointed
ryan


----------



## Darthjaye

Yes, we're all definately (and somewhat patiently) waiting for another update.  Love this stuff and hope to see some more this year.  Keep the good stuff coming.   God help us when the stories stop coming!  We'll all be strung out looking for something to fill the gap!!


----------



## (contact)

Herpes Cineplex said:
			
		

> sycophantic but true: i first came to these forums to read this story hour, and was not disappointed




Really?  How is that?  One of your gaming buddies posts here?


----------



## Herpes Cineplex

I was reading a thread full of funny RPG anecdotes on another forum (the Something Awful traditional games forum, in fact) and someone posted a link to what he said was one of the funniest, best-written ongoing campaign logs ever posted anywhere.  I clicked the link, and before I'd finished reading the third page, I knew he was absolutely right.

After I'd read as much of the Liberators as I could, I immediately jumped on your ToEE and Risen Goddess stories, and at some point I looked at the rest of the ENWorld forums and figured I'd better register. 

--
came for the great story, stayed for the rest...and hopefully for more of the great story, too


----------



## (contact)

Herpes Cineplex said:
			
		

> I was reading a thread full of funny RPG anecdotes on another forum (the Something Awful traditional games forum, in fact) and someone posted a link to what he said was one of the funniest, best-written ongoing campaign logs ever posted anywhere.




Woah.  I've been immortalized by some SA goons.  That gives me a warm fuzzy (in a 'could you show us on the dolly where he tickled you' kind of way).

If that thread is still up, would you post or email me a link?


----------



## Herpes Cineplex

Unfortunately, this was near the start of last year, and it looks like the original thread has been archived.  Not having archive access, I can't send a link.  Sorry.  

I keep my eyes open for similar threads there and on other forums, though, so I can use them as opportunities to post a link here and pimp this story to even more people.  (Awwww yeah.)

--
and this is how you shall _build your literary empire_


----------



## Darthjaye

So it's been a long time since the lat update and I guess the question is....are they dead yet?  We need to know.


----------



## Baby Mathias

I love this story hour and I'll miss it when the liberators die. Not only did this story hour inspire me to join enworld, but it also convinced me to pick up my bag of dice again. Thank you (contact) for the good times. Now when the *@#&!* are we getting an update?


----------



## aufhebung

(contact) said:
			
		

> Woah. I've been immortalized by some SA goons. That gives me a warm fuzzy (in a 'could you show us on the dolly where he tickled you' kind of way).
> 
> If that thread is still up, would you post or email me a link?



SA goon (lurker, not poster) reporting in as well. It was from a thread about best/worst DMs...or was it best/worst gaming experiences? Anyway, the link was to your Return to the Temple of Elemental Evil thread, and it was one of those "check this out, it's a great read and oh the TPKs" kind of plug.

It was also the first EN World Story Hour I read as well. Now I'm hooked on many more of the other story hours. Kinda like crack, sometimes. So, kudos to you, (contact)! 

....will you update now? 

Hi trilobyte


----------



## (contact)

Baby Mathias said:
			
		

> I love this story hour and I'll miss it when the liberators die. Not only did this story hour inspire me to join enworld, but it also convinced me to pick up my bag of dice again. Thank you (contact) for the good times.




Woah, another first post in this thread.  Ali wins!  Ali wins! Hearing that one of these threads inspired a lapsed gamer to return to the hobby is really gratifying. 



			
				aufhebung said:
			
		

> SA goon (lurker, not poster) reporting in as well. It was from a thread about best/worst DMs...or was it best/worst gaming experiences? Anyway, the link was to your Return to the Temple of Elemental Evil thread, and it was one of those "check this out, it's a great read and oh the TPKs" kind of plug.




And another first post!  

I really appreciate people who come here just for the SH-- I'm glad it's reaching out beyond the EN World community.  Are any readers here non-gamers?  My buddy Angie (Prisantha) has shared the LoT logs with incredulous co-workers as an example of a non-stupid D&D game, but has anyone else?

Have these stories ever left the cold, sterile womb of the internet?


----------



## Graywolf-ELM

(contact) said:
			
		

> Have these stories ever left the cold, sterile womb of the internet?




Yep, the .pdf has been downloaded and put on PDA's, and moved around the state of New Mexico.  

GW


----------



## Dawn

Long time reader of this thread.

Just never knew there was a pdf out there of this.  Can someone point me towards it?


----------



## Graywolf-ELM

Dawn said:
			
		

> Long time reader of this thread.
> 
> Just never knew there was a pdf out there of this.  Can someone point me towards it?




If there is no link, I should have the file at home.  I've deleted all non-work related files here at work, since tomorrow is my last day here.  It covered the Return to the Temple, and a good bit of the Tenh adventures.

GW


----------



## (contact)

Dawn said:
			
		

> Long time reader of this thread.
> 
> Just never knew there was a pdf out there of this.  Can someone point me towards it?




You can grab either an .rtf or .pdf compilation of the TOEE2 and LoT logs at http://www.cklarock.com/logs.htm.


----------



## Enkhidu

So, when should we expect the exciting conclusion as our heroes go and get their keisters handed to them?


----------



## the Jester

I've been wondering that too...


----------



## Richard Rawen

*A Bump*

as noted, let there be:

*BUMP!

*Thank you, that is all.


----------



## Morte

* does another "Meepo in mangle" impression *

Well, it got an update last time I tried it.


----------



## the Jester

*pokes head in*

Nope, not yet.  

*whistles, wanders off*


----------



## Richard Rawen

*Bueller?*

Bueller?



Bueller?


----------



## Herpes Cineplex

--
you _know_ you're not supposed to get him mad, right?


----------



## Krud

bump...


----------



## Rackhir

Krud said:
			
		

> bump...




You know I was all excited when I got the email about the post, then I clicked on the link and said "oh, Krud."


----------



## Baby Mathias

I really hate the fact that I'm addicted to The Liberation of Tenh.  How many months has it been since our last update? Perhaps it is time for rehab.


----------



## Krud

*Nooooo......*

I need my fix....


----------



## Herpes Cineplex

*CAN* Nite Owl help the mysterious and heartbroken Silk Spectre?

*WILL* The Liberation of Tenh return to delight us all?

*STAY TUNED*, True Believers...time will tell if _DORKY PHOTOSHOPPED COMIC BOOK PANELS_ can rouse (contact) from his dreamless sleep in the fathomless depths...

--
the stars are right, and at the same time, so very, very wrong


----------



## Richard Rawen

This Bump is for
*MORE*
_Liberator Goodness! . . . Please!?
_


----------



## Darthjaye

Honestly though contact, how soon do you think we might be getting abother installment of this great adventure.  Inquiring minds need to know.


----------



## Baby Mathias

You know <contact> I really love your work, but goddamnit seriously  . . .   is this not the longest people have waited for a freaking update?  It's been 4 months!  Are you dead?  Oh sh** . . . <contact> is dead.  That must be why. 

*casting resurrection*

Shhhh . . . I need to concentrate.


----------



## (contact)

Okay, Herpes Cineplex owns me.  "He photoshoped them, sir.  He photoshopped the sh-t out of them."

Hahahahaha, those are so hilarious.

So, I will start working on an update.

ck


----------



## Tharen the Damned

> So, I will start working on an update.




Yay!

(contact) be praised!


----------



## blargney the second

Tharen the Damned said:
			
		

> (conatct) be praised!




Yay!

Herpes be praised!
-blarg


----------



## (contact)




----------



## Tharen the Damned

blargney the second said:
			
		

> Yay!
> 
> Herpes be praised!
> -blarg




Oh, yeah, have a good laugh at poor Tharen.

There will come a time when I will laugh the sh... out of you!


----------



## blargney the second

*laugh*


----------



## Zaruthustran

Huzzah! An update looms!

So, who do you think is going to die first? My vote's for Crim. He has a talent for becoming deceased.

-z


----------



## Rackhir

Zaruthustran said:
			
		

> Huzzah! An update looms!
> 
> So, who do you think is going to die first? My vote's for Crim. He has a talent for becoming deceased.
> 
> -z




Thrommel will SOMEHOW find a way to die first, even if he isn't with the party.


----------



## (contact)

*Interlude: Things that must be, most often are.*

Prince Thrommel admires himself in the full length mirror, turning himself to and fro in a clumsy imitation of Heydricus’ practiced narcissism before the tailor’s glass.  The velvet green cloak that marks a High Knight of Furyondy sits squarely and well upon his broad shoulders.  His wife might have admired it, had she been there, but the King’s daughter has become a fixture at court of late (although whether this is to aid her father or simply keep an eye on him is a matter of some debate).

“I want the golden trim, I should think,” Thrommel says to his valet, who stumbles forward, laden with agreeable murmurs.  Quite right, sir, quite right you are, and the hem should trail behind, he agrees, because it does mark the prince as a man of the greatest station.

Thrommel sighs once, and adjusts the clasp, positioning it so that the stag on his house crest is revealed beneath the velvet cloak.  He is like the stag, he reflects; noble and proud.  A conquering beast.  When his father returns from the New Crusade, perhaps Belvor will pin the High Knight’s badge upon his chest, or perhaps even Heydricus will do it.  He could get Jespo to teleport Heyrdricus to the ceremony.  If he ordered it, Jespo would have to, he is the crown prince.  Besides, it wouldn’t take too much time away from Liberating and Venganceing, he reckons.  Just a couple of hours in the palace gardens.  He pulls his cloak closer around his shoulders and checks his teeth for any signs of his lunch.  

Finding none, Thrommel leaves the room, cloak in tow, and moves toward the balcony.  He trips once briefly on the cloak’s hem and curses the thing, before recalling what an honor it will be to have it pinned on him officially.  He pauses at the top of the stairs, looking down the long, curving expanse into the bustle of activity in the great hall.  There are war preparations in the air, and it titillates and arouses him.  He will be a general this time, a true general, not a paltry field officer like in Tenh.  Here in Furyondy he is in his father’s kingdom, and he will build the war against Iuz.

He tucks his hands within the cloak, clasped behind his back (as was his father’s habit), and dreams of how glorious it will be to receive a hero’s parade.  He laughs contentedly as he imagines the begrudging but sincere look of respect on the face of his father-in-law when he returns from a long, hard-fought (but stunningly victorious) Northern campaign.  He starts down the stairs.

He trips again on the hem of the cloak and pitches forward, his hands tangling within his sword belt behind his back.  He strikes the fourth marble step down with his temple, and pitches forward loosely, tumbling halfway down the long staircase before sliding to a thick, meaty stop.

Dead.


----------



## Plane Sailing

Rackhir said:
			
		

> Thrommel will SOMEHOW find a way to die first, even if he isn't with the party.




Rackhir clearly wins the prophetic gift of the year prize


----------



## Graywolf-ELM

Plane Sailing said:
			
		

> Rackhir clearly wins the prophetic gift of the year prize




Or is it self-fulfilling prophecy?

GW


----------



## Rackhir

Graywolf-ELM said:
			
		

> Or is it self-fulfilling prophecy?
> 
> GW




With Thrommel it was more like stating the obvious. 

Thanks for at least the brief update (contact).


----------



## (contact)

Rackhir said:
			
		

> With Thrommel it was more like stating the obvious.
> 
> Thanks for at least the brief update (contact).




Heh, heh.  I'm working on the big one, too, but I thought we could just close the whole Thrommel discussion while we were at it.    

I love Thrommel.

In the real world, Heydricus and Prisantha's players took their girls and moved to St. Louis last week.  I pine, I mourn, I game less.  It's a great thing for them and a good move, but I will sure miss having them around.  They were the best up the street neighbors I could have ever asked for.  

Long live the Liberators!


----------



## Rackhir

(contact) said:
			
		

> Heh, heh.  I'm working on the big one, too, but I thought we could just close the whole Thrommel discussion while we were at it.
> 
> I love Thrommel.
> 
> In the real world, Heydricus and Prisantha's players took their girls and moved to St. Louis last week.  I pine, I mourn, I game less.  It's a great thing for them and a good move, but I will sure miss having them around.  They were the best up the street neighbors I could have ever asked for.
> 
> Long live the Liberators!




Ah well, I'm sorry to hear you've lost the players. At least they'll go out with a bang! (or perhaps just loose as spitefully as possible). I'm eagerly awaiting the conclusion to this epic saga. 

Perhaps you can console your self by running parties through the Tomb of Horrors? That's always good for wiping out parties.


----------



## CrusadeDave

(contact) said:
			
		

> In the real world, Heydricus and Prisantha's players took their girls and moved to St. Louis last week.  I pine, I mourn, I game less.  It's a great thing for them and a good move, but I will sure miss having them around.  They were the best up the street neighbors I could have ever asked for.
> 
> Long live the Liberators!




Now is the time for either a) Me to move south to SF and beg to have you start a new group with me in it, or b) get you to move North to Portland and join my group, where we have a player who keeps quoting "Heydricus' rules of adventuring".


----------



## (contact)

*Coldeven 11, CY 594
94-Sometimes you are the knife, sometimes the gut.*

"We're going to win," Heydricus says.  "What is your name, sir?"

"I am Jozan of Pelor.  I came with the Boon Companions."

Lucius shoots Jespo a look and shakes his head no.

"Are you the only survivor of your group?" Prisantha asks.

"I do not know.  In truth, I was the first to fall.  Our magic, it does not work here."

"It does now," she says.  "The Old One is . . . sleeping for the moment."

_Healed_, and free from his pain, Jozan is able to speak his _word of recall_, and in so doing place himself within the history books as the first member of the Second Great Crusade to return with the Bad News.  The first sent will now be the second to arrive-His Holiness Othric IV, Bishop of Veluna was dispatched on foot days ago, as a zombie, with the Iuzian victory proclamation acid-scarred into his skin.  The message was verbose.  It took him days to die.

The party has a quick search through Panshazek's meager chambers and discovers that he is a man of few pleasures (aside from taking people apart and putting them back together in unnatural ways, which for Panshazek represents that happy intersection between vocation and hobby).  They destroy a number of his foul creations, and after a _true seeing_ (just to dot all the eyes), step through a hidden door.

Directly into the barracks housing several score orcs, _The Pledge of Unholy Contrition_, as their unit is known to Iuz' priesthood, or _The North Barracks Blood Takers_, as they call themselves.

"Where is Marynnek," Heydricus demands in pidgin Abyssal.  "We have a message for him."

The first orc to saunter forward, nostrils flared, is a huge brute clearly reckoned the bet-your-damned-soul right nastiest by his companions.  The other _Blood Takers_ part before him like leaves before a wind, and murmur in anticipation of the blood to come.  The orcs of the Temple Dungeons are by-and-large the nastiest of their breed, and the orcs of _The Pledge_ consider themselves the nastiest of that already nastiest pool.  His swagger is therefore, probably not entirely without merit.

It serves to note that if there's one thing the Blood Takers hate more than those gods-damned South Barracks orcs, it's the triple-damned Dorrakan Irregulars.

"F-ck you, meat," the brute growls, his Abyssal better than Heydricus'.  On the stone column directly behind the pugnacious orc, the following verse is etched:


_We've heard all about that Graz'zt
A fool, all the rumors would have it;
His sixth finger unfurls 
And he asks you to pull
But the joke is on you if you grab it!_


"_You should let us pass_," Prisantha _suggests_, "so that you can be rewarded by Marynnek with a promotion and eternal strength."

In the barracks of life, some orcs are thinkers, while others are do-ers.  This orc is solidly of the latter type, and without any further ado, he leads the group back through the secret door, past Panshazek's headless corpse, left at the intersection, through the second side-door, out the door opposite, and into a long wide hall running north and south.

"Just go south until you hit the _South Barracks Bleeders'_ camp.  Give them the password, and tell Marynnek that my name is Kuthuk Ahl-Achatl, called the Mighty, called the Strength of the Darkening Sky."

Lucius slips a knife into the orc's spine, just slightly beneath his ears.  "I'll pass on your regards," he mutters.  "_Meat_."

The party passes two checkpoints, and offers up passwords to the sum of two hundred and thirty gold pieces, before coming to the portal that supposedly demarcates Marynnek's personal compound.

This door is larger than the others, its size suggesting that its occupants are either giant-sized, or wish to appear that way.  It is cunningly decorated, bas-relief mixing with embedded iron-work to create a riotous scene wherein demonic figures undermine the righteousness of mortal knights, and exchange power for virtue. A stone sculpture of an imperious and coldly handsome human male straddles the lintel above all of this temptation and debauchery, his narrowed gaze expressing clear contempt for all those whose souls are still things to be wrestled with.  

True Abyssal runes are vile things to behold.  They twine, and they writhe, shudder and slither.  They corrupt the reader, and leave a residue in whatever parts of the mind are touched by their meaning.  They have the same function expected from mortal writing-they are symbols that represent concepts-but Abyssal runes are also suggestive of deeper secrets, things best left buried.  They hold hidden occult meanings that open cavernous vistas in the mind, and gently lead the reader to places she would never willingly go.  These runes are carved into the lintel:  "This is Marynnek's home, and all who pass beneath me are made subject to his desire.  Life, death, agony and ecstasy; his to offer, his to take away.  Make your obeisance, and surrender your heart.  In the name of Iuz the Old are you so commanded."

A rectangular slit bisects the door's façade, approximately seven feet off the ground, worked into the sculpture so as to seem like a leering demonic mouth.  The opening is barred, huge chunks of slagged iron set into it, meant to represent teeth.  Heydricus, still disguised as an orc, pounds on the door with his spear-haft.  Surprisingly, for all of its weighty trappings, the door is thin and taut, and his pounding echoes down the hallway.

A panel on the other side of the opening slides open, framing a huge pair of red-veined eyes, surrounded by warty, grey-green skin flanked by a pair of yellow tusks jutting up from a hidden mouth.

"We are here for Marynnek," Heydricus begins.

"Never heard of him," the orog rumbles, and slams the grate.  Faint orcish laughter can be heard from beyond the door-there are several orcs enjoying the scene.

Heydricus smiles to himself, and raps again.  The slit ratchets open.

"How may I be of assistance, milord?" the orc says, this time in a higher register.

"Marynnek.  We have a message,"

"Do you?  You can leave it with me."  Suppressed orcish giggling filters through the grate, something like a group of men dying from throat-wounds.

"It's for his ears alone, wretch," Heydricus says.

"Oh!  It's an _important_ message," the brute says.  "Well, why didn't you say so, friend?  Wait here, I'll send him right out."  The orog slams the grate shut again, followed by more laughter.

Dabus steps forward, and with a quick invocation is filled with the majesty of Tritherion.  He kicks the door squarely in a demon's ass, shattering the sculpture and ripping the whole construction from its hinges, causing it to strike the door-orog and fall to the side.  Heydricus steps into the gap and raises his spear in an overhead grip, jamming it down between the shoulder-blades of the brute, out through his abdomen, and into the thigh of the orc sitting on a stool directly behind him, who begins to scream.

The other five orcs in the room stop laughing.

"Shut up," Heydricus says to the screaming orc, who complies.  "Anything funny now?"  He glares at them.  "No?  Good.  Which one of you f-ck-bags is going to take me to Marynnek?"

The orcs stare at their former leader, who died so quickly that his corpse still appears to be laughing, although with a spear shaft where his lunch used to be, it must be a pretty good joke.

"I volunteer, sir," one orc says, admiration in his voice.

"No, I volunteer!" another shouts, leaping to his feet.

"Ignore them, my lord," the third cries.  "I am the most true to Iuz, and serve until death!  Choose me!"  This orc throws himself to the ground, prostrate.

The fourth orc rises calmly and stands straight-backed, placing a hand upon the pommel of his khopesh and lifting his chin.  "My lord, I am known as the Elf-Eater, for I have torn the hearts from the woodland vermin, and feasted upon them before the eyes of their children!  Half a score of elves have I killed in the name of our Dark Lord."

Heydricus turns to the fifth orc, expectantly.  The creature regards him sullenly and shrugs.

"You win," Heydricus says.  "The rest of you a-sholes talk too much."  He plants a boot on the back of the orog, and pulls his spear free with a wet and meaty pop.  "Take me to Marynnek."

The orc shrugs again and gathers his weapons before leading the group through a series of corridors that eventually end at a wide stairwell leading down into some sort of candle-lit space.  The floor at the base of the stairs is thickly carpeted, and the scents of amber and myrrh drift up in alternating waves.

"This is his home," the orc says.  "This is as far as I go."

"It's the end of the line allright," Lucius agrees, as he runs a thin dirk into the orc's heart, shoving him up against a wall.  "Look at me, that's it," he mutters looking into the orc's face.  The creature bucks and grabs Lucius, and they wrestle for a moment.  Lucius is nose to nose with the orc, whispering, "Stay with me, now.  That's it, that's it."  The orc fades, and Lucius sets him down gently, leaving the dagger in the corpse.

"You oughter just had his head off, I think," Hastur says. 

"Do you?" Lucius says.

"No need to dance with him, that way."

"Are you making small talk, Hastur?" Gwendolyn sniffs.

"Nobody likes a critic," Lucius says.

"Really, Hastur," Jespo says.

"I'd have had his head off, that's all I'm saying," Hastur says.

"That's the spirit," Heydricus says.  "We'll have all their heads off eventually!"


----------



## Capellan

Glee!

Good to see you back in the saddle, (contact).


----------



## Graywolf-ELM

Can I be a full grown 6'7" 290# man, and be giddy?  This is still one of my most favorite Story Hours to read.  I keep the .pdf safe on my computer and a CD burned just for gaming materials.

Thanks (contact)

GW


----------



## Wish

Woohoo!  More Liberatory goodness!

Thanks, (contact).


----------



## Morte

I woke up with a horrible toothache.

As I finished reading this update, it went away.


----------



## shilsen

(contact) said:
			
		

> *Healed, and free from his pain, Jozan is able to speak his word of recall, and in so doing place himself within the history books as the first member of the Second Great Crusade to return with the Bad News.  The first sent will now be the second to arrive-His Holiness Othric IV, Bishop of Veluna was dispatched on foot days ago, as a zombie, with the Iuzian victory proclamation acid-scarred into his skin.  The message was verbose.  It took him days to die.*



*

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is ART !*


----------



## Rackhir

shilsen said:
			
		

> And that, ladies and gentlemen, is ART !




Ah, I'd forgotten you were a fellow admirer of (contact)'s work. Yes, that was indeed a classic example of his writing. Ah, the sweet-sweet taste of new liberators install-mints.


----------



## the Jester

Aww yeah, now we just need another!


----------



## Zaruthustran

Lucius is so kind and gentle when he kills you dead.

-z


----------



## godfear

Hooray!

Please, sir... can I have some more? [/orphan liberator addict]


----------



## (contact)

Zaruthustran said:
			
		

> Lucius is so kind and gentle when he kills you dead.
> 
> -z




And the best part, after he murders an orc with this creepy intimacy and hush-baby talk, the party jumps on Hastur for talking out of turn.  I love my Liberators.






































(cries)


----------



## CrusadeDave

(contact) said:
			
		

> And the best part, after he murders an orc with this creepy intimacy and hush-baby talk, the party jumps on Hastur for talking out of turn.  I love my Liberators.




So do I. So do I. Now I have some motivation to kick start my story hour. Heh Heh Heh....

Bring on Marynnek!


----------



## Rackhir

(contact) said:
			
		

> (cries)




<Pats on shoulder> There, there (contact). I'm sure one day you will find another group of suvivors of a ruthless meatgrinder with no pity, mercy or compasion towards their evil foes. Who kill their enemies with not only a ruthless efficiency, but also snappy put down lines.


----------



## Dawn

Such a lack of compassion Lucius displays.

It’s perfect.


----------



## Vargo

The weird thing is, I could have sworn I heard or saw something similar to Lucius's "dance" in some film or book...  Can anybody help me out, or am I thinking of "Saving Private Ryan" and the German with the knife?


----------



## Plane Sailing

(contact) said:
			
		

> (cries)




* pats (contact) on back *

There there.


----------



## Plane Sailing

Vargo said:
			
		

> The weird thing is, I could have sworn I heard or saw something similar to Lucius's "dance" in some film or book...  Can anybody help me out, or am I thinking of "Saving Private Ryan" and the German with the knife?




Perhaps in Cliffhanger, the Stallone movie where John Lithgo comforts one of his followers with a hug and at the same time slides the knife in?


----------



## (contact)

Plane Sailing said:
			
		

> Perhaps in Cliffhanger, the Stallone movie where John Lithgo comforts one of his followers with a hug and at the same time slides the knife in?




No, I think it's a gangster movie.  Godfather maybe?  Goodfellas?


----------



## (contact)

Plane Sailing said:
			
		

> * pats (contact) on back *
> 
> There there.




(wistful)  Oh, I know . . . I know . . . someday I'l game again.


----------



## Vargo

(contact) said:
			
		

> No, I think it's a gangster movie.  Godfather maybe?  Goodfellas?




That's gotta be it.  We just watched Goodfellas last weekend, and that rings a bell.


----------



## (contact)

Vargo said:
			
		

> That's gotta be it.  We just watched Goodfellas last weekend, and that rings a bell.




Maybe Joe Pesci should play Lucius in the stage adaptation of the TOEE2.  I was going to push for Matthew Broderick, but this thread has me thinking . . .


----------



## Darthjaye

Contact, so was that where you guys got to before they moved?  

Sorry to hear they left.  Bummer to lose part of a group that seemed to have loads of fun together.  If your group's sessions were half as much fun as your recounting of events here have lead us to believe, then you truely lost part of what was a great group.  Cheer up though.  For now your group has spread itself out to recruit and increase the overall gaming population.  Or, at the very least, you can try to find people close to your area to add in.  How many in your group are left btw?


----------



## (contact)

Darthjaye said:
			
		

> Contact, so was that where you guys got to before they moved?
> 
> Sorry to hear they left.  Bummer to lose part of a group that seemed to have loads of fun together.  If your group's sessions were half as much fun as your recounting of events here have lead us to believe, then you truely lost part of what was a great group.  Cheer up though.  For now your group has spread itself out to recruit and increase the overall gaming population.  Or, at the very least, you can try to find people close to your area to add in.  How many in your group are left btw?




We played three sessions past the current point in the SH, and I got half my TPK.  I would have got the rest of them, too, but we actually stopped playing the LoT in favor of a better (read 'even more fun') game. 

The LoT is only the three of us: Chris (Heydricus), Angie (Pris) and me (_et alii_).  I have another group that I play with, but I don't log those games.   The main reason that I think the LoT is fun to read is because the technically immoral amounts of fun we were having playing it kind of translates when the logs are read by other D&D gamers.  You read it and you get a vicarious sense of how kick ass Chris and Angie are to play with.

Stupid St. Louis.

Anyway, once I get the LoT up to date, and am forced to just leave the cliffhanger out there until my next visit with them, I'll start in posting the game that we threw the LoT over for.  It's set in the homebrew the Risen Goddess characters started in, and it's a good'n.

Here are two of the characters from that game:

Rashan, a young necromancer:









Rumric, a haunted nobleman:


----------



## weiknarf

Both of them look creepy.


----------



## shilsen

weiknarf said:
			
		

> Both of them look creepy.



 You say that like it's a bad thing


----------



## (contact)

I thought I was signing up for a happy go-lucky swashbuckling campagin a la Dumas . . . and it started out that way!   But it was run by the guy who ran the ToEE2 game.  

So you can imagine the direction it went.  When Rumric's love interest was exploded from the inside out by Mysterious Nefarious Forces, I knew where the story was going.  When two games later the bad guys shot both of Rumric's kneecaps off just to illustrate a point, my hunch was confirmed.


----------



## KidCthulhu

(contact) said:
			
		

> When two games later the bad guys shot both of Rumric's kneecaps off just to illustrate a point, my hunch was confirmed.




See I've always found that if you have to start shooting cartilagenous bits off folks, you've probably not made your point well at all.  At least not up to that point.  Violence: the last resort for bad logic.

Then again, who's gonna argue with a kneecap shooter?


----------



## Darthjaye

Yes, I would tend to agree.  The less eloquent a speaker you are, the more your apt to pop a cap in someone's posterior.  That being said, paybacks a bitch and remember, they shoot your kneecaps off, you take em off at the waist!!


----------



## Darthjaye

(contact) said:
			
		

> We played three sessions past the current point in the SH, and I got half my TPK.  I would have got the rest of them, too, but we actually stopped playing the LoT in favor of a better (read 'even more fun') game.
> 
> The LoT is only the three of us: Chris (Heydricus), Angie (Pris) and me (_et alii_).  I have another group that I play with, but I don't log those games.   The main reason that I think the LoT is fun to read is because the technically immoral amounts of fun we were having playing it kind of translates when the logs are read by other D&D gamers.  You read it and you get a vicarious sense of how kick ass Chris and Angie are to play with.
> 
> Stupid St. Louis.
> 
> Anyway, once I get the LoT up to date, and am forced to just leave the cliffhanger out there until my next visit with them, I'll start in posting the game that we threw the LoT over for.  It's set in the homebrew the Risen Goddess characters started in, and it's a good'n.




Yeah I know sorta how you feel, we pretty much carry a group of 5-6.  I say 5-6 because I tend to call our 6th chair our "floating" chair.  We've had a steady 5 for the last 12ish years, and the 6th person(s) have mostly moved away or quit gaming because of life.  Of the two guys who I started gaming with (coyote6 is one of the two) the other quit and moved to Modesto.  I had gamed with those two for about 9 years.  The most recent incarnation of our group has been at it for about 15-16 years now.  As for the 6th chair I keep mentioning, it's now filled, but temporarily.   The guy there moves sometime in the next 2-4 months to Arizona, so just as we get to know him, he's gone.  Seems to be our thing that once we reach 6, somone's gonna move or quit soon.  

If it makes you feel any better, your tales have lead to some rat bastard evil moments for our GM (the aforementioned coyote6) to use upon our unsuspecting persons.  
(Damned Polymorphed Crocs!!!  Thank god we never wasted an arrow of dragon slaying on that one!!!)  

I'm not sure I like this GM sharing program we've got going on here at EN World now that I think about it!!!


----------



## (contact)

KidCthulhu said:
			
		

> See I've always found that if you have to start shooting cartilagenous bits off folks, you've probably not made your point well at all.  At least not up to that point.  Violence: the last resort for bad logic.




Well, the villain in this case happened to be a sort of non-fraternal uncle (or what we might call a Godfather) to Rumric, so he didn't want to kill him, but he did hope to cripple him for life and, you know, use Pain as his eloquent message.

Stupid evil people.



> Then again, who's gonna argue with a kneecap shooter?




The other adventurers who were not collapsed to the ground in shock?


----------



## (contact)

Darthjaye said:
			
		

> If it makes you feel any better, your tales have lead to some rat bastard evil moments for our GM (the aforementioned coyote6) to use upon our unsuspecting persons.




You know, I was going to say that it doesn't.











But it does.


----------



## blargney the second

Yay!  thanks for the update, (contact)!  True to form, it was wonderful!


----------



## Old One

Bravo!

(contact) my lad, long time, no stop-by...

Great update...I love that Lucius (and would hate to have a PC on the wrong side of one of his knives).  Sorry to hear about the gaming group breaking up...even if it is for life-bettering opportunities...damn that RL!

Hope to see more soon!

~ OO


----------



## (contact)

Thanks Old One!  Long time no read!

I figured out the Lucius murdering orc scene-- it came from a novel by Cormac McCarthy, _Blood Meridian: Or the Evening Redness in the West_.  I'm sure it's been in movies as well, but the book is the thing that introduced it into my consciousness most recently.

If you like beautiful prose (And I do mean *gorgeous* prose) and don't mind a book that is decidedly story-second until the back half of the novel, pick it up.

A note-- The whole thing is really this gigantic love-poem to the American Southwest, but it is also a very dark book with a very bleak view of human nature.  Pick it up at your own discretion.  It is about as happy as Lucius' childhood.


----------



## Dherys Thal

(contact) said:
			
		

> I figured out the Lucius murdering orc scene-- it came from a novel by Cormac McCarthy, _Blood Meridian: Or the Evening Redness in the West_.  I'm sure it's been in movies as well, but the book is the thing that introduced it into my consciousness most recently.




So when will we meet the NPC named Toadvine?  We (my wife and I) actually nicknamed our unborn son Toadvine, and that was a huge hit with the cousins (e.g. 'WHEN IS TOADYVINE COMING?').  

Definitely a good read - much like the ongoing Liberation saga...


----------



## Zaruthustran

(contact) said:
			
		

> Maybe Joe Pesci should play Lucius in the stage adaptation of the TOEE2.  I was going to push for Matthew Broderick, but this thread has me thinking . . .




Mathew Broderick as Lucius. Oh man. Perfect. 

Got any more casting speculation?

-z, whose bosses are having casting issues of their own.


----------



## Joshua Randall

I haven't been visiting ENWorld much lately, but today I popped in and found not only a Sepulchrave II update, but also a (contact) update. *boggle*

When I read the Lucius-stabs-the-orc scene, I thought not only of _Saving Private Ryan_, but also of the recent Bruce Willis move _Hostage_. I'll put in spoiler tags as some people may still want to see it...

(spoiler)



Spoiler



There's a character in the movie who is a psychopathic killer sort. Twice, he is seen mortally wounding someone, then watching them die with calm fascination. Lucius' scene reminded me of that.


(/spoiler)

And here's another *really* random connection. Hastur's out of turn comment reminded me of a similar exchange in the old, old Navero stories (Dan Parson's "story hour" when we still had to post 'em on Usenet), in which a taciturn dwarf who never says anything makes one comment that gets the rest of the overly-talkative party upset. Actually, now that I think about it, there are quite a few similarities between the Navero PCs and the Liberators -- they bicker, they trade insults, some of them dislike each other; but in the end, they are outstanding at their chosen task: killing monsters and taking their stuff.


----------



## Tharen the Damned

(contact) is there still a link to the TRF or PDF files of Return and Liberation?


----------



## (contact)

Tharen the Damned said:
			
		

> (contact) is there still a link to the TRF or PDF files of Return and Liberation?




Yes: http://www.cklarock.com/docs/downloads/Compiled_TOEE2-LoT.rtf (1.7 MB)


----------



## Tharen the Damned

Thank you very much (contact)!


----------



## Dawn

Indeed.  Thank you for the link.  This will provide many nights of bedtime stories for the kids (and me).


----------



## (contact)

Dawn said:
			
		

> Indeed.  Thank you for the link.  This will provide many nights of bedtime stories for the kids (and me).




Do you really read these stories to your kids?  Or is that some kind of euphamism that I don't get?


----------



## Tharen the Damned

(contact) said:
			
		

> Do you really read these stories to your kids?  Or is that some kind of euphamism that I don't get?




If you think about it, Heydricus is something like a modern male little red riding hood!
It is all about the big bad wolf that gets his ass kicked for good.
With Crim playing the Grandma....

Instead of Grimm Tales we have Grim Tales.

Thats all, perfectly suitable and educating for the young, invigorating for the old and simply good and inspiring for for the middle aged*.

*see I get a lot of Ideas from Lucius what I can do with my boss if he gives me another doomed  before even started project**. 

**that was a joke, really! I don`t even have poison.


----------



## Tharen the Damned

> see I get a lot of Ideas from Lucius what I can do with my boss if he gives me another doomed before even started project




I just tried to sneak attack my boss with a ball pen.
He had no visible armor, a low Dex (íf you see him you know) and if he has a class it is Expert with maxed out ranks in knowledge(accounting).
My move silently and hide checks were good enough and I definetely hit him (My BAB +0, Str. +0, MW Ballpen* +1, Weapon Focus (Ballpen) = +2, Damage: Ballpen: tiny weapon, 1d2 piercing damage)
Did not work
Has to be an Undead or a Construct.
His stare after my attack withered me to the bone.
Opt for Undead.
Have to get a Cleric for restoration and a Paladin or Cleric to get him for good.
Will tell what happend.


* It is my good Mont Blanc, that has to be MW.


----------



## KidCthulhu

He's an accountant, so I'd vote for construct!  Save your cleric and go for a bigger weapon.


----------



## Richard Rawen

KidCthulhu said:
			
		

> He's an accountant, so I'd vote for construct!  Save your cleric and go for a bigger weapon.




 Agreed, you've been misled by that 'Withering Gaze', likely a Spell Effect, hopefully limited in uses per day, but nonetheless I second the recommendation of a bigger weapon.

 Try dropping a Volvo on him. 
 If that doesn't work, ... just RUN!


----------



## Dawn

(contact) said:
			
		

> Do you really read these stories to your kids?  Or is that some kind of euphamism that I don't get?




I really do read this to my kids.  They love it!


----------



## Joshua Randall

Dawn said:
			
		

> I really do read this to my kids. They love it!



When I was a kid, my dad read "The Hobbit" and "Lord of the Rings" to me.

Not to be outdone, my mom then read "Moby-Dick" to me and my sister. (We hated it at the time.)

Too bad (contact) hadn't written his story hours yet!


----------



## the Jester

If I was a kid, I'd _hate_ having a story hour read to me.... cuz I'd know I'd end up having to wait _months_ for an update.


----------



## (contact)

Dawn said:
			
		

> I really do read this to my kids.  They love it!




That's the coolest thing I've heard all year.  How old are they?


----------



## Tharen the Damned

> Agreed, you've been misled by that 'Withering Gaze', likely a Spell Effect, hopefully limited in uses per day, but nonetheless I second the recommendation of a bigger weapon.




To finish my little tale:

My collegues, meaning my fellow adventurers and me buffed ourselves up. Four of us got into flanking position and started stabbing away with ballpens and rulers. Another stalward fellow showered him with rubbers to break his concentration.
The first two rounds saw two of us down. We could not harm him, his DR was to high and we had no weapon that penetrated it. Then I dropped the pen and took out a Textmarker. That did the trick! My Boss could not defend against our combined assault of blue (me) and yellow textmarkers.
A few rounds more and we were victorious!


----------



## Dawn

(contact) said:
			
		

> That's the coolest thing I've heard all year.  How old are they?




Both boys and ages 8 and 13.  We’ll take turns doing the reading, usually an installment each night on the weekends I have them.  The 13 year old is inspired by the story and actually tries to use some of the ideas/tactics in his game at school - becoming quite the little DM.  Of course he wants the game we play at home to be as cool as this one or P-Kitty’s or Sagiro’s.


----------



## KidCthulhu

Tharen the Damned said:
			
		

> Another stalward fellow showered him with rubbers to break his concentration.




Just as one of those wacky "British" English vs. "American" English notes for you, to Americans rubbers are not the small pink things you use to remove pencil marks.  They are contraceptives, condoms, in fact.  Which makes this mental image WAY funnier than you intended!


----------



## Tharen the Damned

KidCthulhu said:
			
		

> Just as one of those wacky "British" English vs. "American" English notes for you, to Americans rubbers are not the small pink things you use to remove pencil marks.  They are contraceptives, condoms, in fact.  Which makes this mental image WAY funnier than you intended!




Ooops,

yeah, I can imagine this. But it would take far more "american rubbers" to kill someone than "british rubbers".
Have to consult the translator more often ;-)


----------



## Rackhir

**Ahem**


----------



## Rackhir

(contact) take your anti-depressants to get over the campaign ending and post the conclusion, it's been nearly 2 months!


----------



## Zaruthustran

I'm guessing (contact) has been silenced by agents of the Old One...

-z


----------



## Richard Rawen

*Happy 5th of July!*

so I'm late, so sue me.

I was thinking (the smoke is an indicator) that since we are in a new year for the United States, you could give it a nice update or three for it's Birthday... I mean I know 229 is a bit young for such an audacious nation, but it would mean sooooo much to the country as a whole...
Think of it as a Diplomatic gesture... you might avert some catastrophic lack-of-update- motivated-political-upheaval!


----------



## Phaedrus

If July 5 didn't work... how about August 5?

I am new to this story, having read all of ToEE and LoT over the last 2 weeks. Awesome stuff! 

One question: how do you pronounce Dabus?


----------



## (contact)

So, no more than five minutes ago, I found the LoT notes that I'd thought I'd lost in my recent cross-country move, so this story could in theory be updated . . . Joshua Randall tells me that updating this SH will have a profound positive psychological impact.  The girlfriend also wants me to update, although I believe this is in the abstract, as she has only ever read a few scenes from the logs.



			
				Phaedrus said:
			
		

> I am new to this story, having read all of ToEE and LoT over the last 2 weeks. Awesome stuff!




I'm always happy to see new people finding the story, Phaedrus!  How did you run across it?



			
				Phaedrus said:
			
		

> One question: how do you pronounce Dabus?




"dèd?"

His friends call him "Dah-BOO."


----------



## coyote6

"Cross-country move"? Where did you move to?


----------



## Schmoe

(contact) said:
			
		

> His friends call him "Dah-BOO."




I was rather fond of thinking of him as "Dobby", kind of like the house-elf.  But then, I've got Harry Potter on my brain.  My wife bought me the complete collection of books on CD, and I've been listening to them on the ride in to work for the last couple of weeks.


----------



## (contact)

coyote6 said:
			
		

> "Cross-country move"? Where did you move to?




I moved to Lawrence, Kansas!  Pris and Heydricus bailed on the Bay, and as it happened, I recieved an Offer I Couldn't Refuse shortly thereafter to do the same.



			
				Schmoe said:
			
		

> I was rather fond of thinking of him as "Dobby", kind of like the house-elf.




You make Tritherion cry when you talk like that.


----------



## coyote6

(contact) said:
			
		

> I moved to Lawrence, Kansas!  Pris and Heydricus bailed on the Bay, and as it happened, I recieved an Offer I Couldn't Refuse shortly thereafter to do the same.




Offer you Couldn't Refuse, eh? Would that be "affordable housing", maybe? 

SF to Lawrence -- how's Kansas?


----------



## Rackhir

(contact) said:
			
		

> You make Tritherion cry when you talk like that.




If that made Tritherion cry, Heydricus would plane shift to his halls and kick his ass. Anyone who who survived the Temple is not going to put up with his god being a wus like that. 

Good to hear from you again (contact). So how is life in Red State America? Are they still denouncing that newfangled moving type thing as a tool of satan?


----------



## (contact)

Shhh . . . if they see me using a computer, they're going to give me a faith-based intervention.  

I love Kansas.  Lawrence is a great place to be-- kind of a mini San-Francisco in attitude and vibe (although not in weather).  It's hot.  Damn hot, real hot.  And cheap.  Damn cheap, real cheap.

I reduced my monthly expenses (and this is no joke) to one quarter of their previous levels.  Like woah.


----------



## Zaruthustran

Why, with all that free cash you can hire a robot butler to take care of your mundane chores--thus freeing up time to conclude this story hour!

Huzzah!

-z


----------



## Phaedrus

(Contact) asked how I found this thread... from the "SH's you must read" thread on the RPG General Discussion. This is the first story hour I've read. And now I'm hooked. Working my way through Sepulchrave's at the moment. Look at all the goodness I've been missing!


----------



## Rackhir

(contact) said:
			
		

> Shhh . . . if they see me using a computer, they're going to give me a faith-based intervention.




So. Did you have an "intervention"?


----------



## Rackhir

I'm starting to have a bad feeling that (contact) is wandering around out there handing out copies of "The Watchtower".


----------



## the Jester

Hey (contact), how about the rest of it??


----------



## Joshua Randall

(contact) said:
			
		

> So, no more than five minutes ago, I found the LoT notes that I'd thought I'd lost in my recent cross-country move, so this story could in theory be updated . . . Joshua Randall tells me that updating this SH will have a profound positive psychological impact.



Clearly, my influence upon (contact)'s update schedule is a lot feebler than I thought it was.  :\


----------



## Zaruthustran

A cry in the darkness.


----------



## Rackhir

(contact) don't you like us anymore?

No Pcat, No Sep, No (contact)....

Truly this is the dark age of story hours.


----------



## Zaruthustran

Has it really been since APRIL? 

Wow.

You'd think, that in all that time, Lucius would manage to kill someone. 

-z


----------



## Rackhir

Zaruthustran said:
			
		

> Has it really been since APRIL?
> 
> Wow.
> 
> You'd think, that in all that time, Lucius would manage to kill someone.
> 
> -z




Maybe that's the problem. Perhaps he got (contact)...


----------



## Morte

* prods (contact) with stick *


----------



## the Jester

C'mon now, innit about time?


----------



## Zaruthustran

*Puts (contact)'s hand in warm water*


----------



## Tharen the Damned

Do you Think that Iuz got (Contact) in his Claws and is doing bad things to him?


----------



## Baby Mathias

It's been almost a year since I last came to this site, and I can see not much has changed.  (Contact) is like the local crack dealer.  Always making us junkies wait.


----------



## Krud

Yeah... he's probably gone to peddle his crack elsewhere, leaving us to go through a long painful detox.

I miss Lucius


----------



## Zaruthustran

This thread got a lot of traffic, and now it's just this vast, empty space.

...

Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii-colaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

-z


----------



## Rackhir

CCCCOOOOOOOONNNNNNNNNNTTTTTTTTTTAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACCCCCCCCCCTTTTTTTT!!!!!!!!!


----------



## Joshua Randall

For what it's worth, I e-mailed (contact) about a week ago, but I haven't heard back. Now, the e-mail address I have was rather old, so maybe it's dead. Or maybe... he is! Damn you, you dirty apes! Daaaaaaaaaaamnnnn yoooouuuuuuuuuuuuuu!


----------



## Lefferts

Rackhir said:
			
		

> CCCCOOOOOOOONNNNNNNNNNTTTTTTTTTTAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACCCCCCCCCCTTTTTTTT!!!!!!!!!



I think the fact that I found this hilariously funny validates my Custom User Title.


----------



## (contact)

An old Furyondian woman scuttles forward, a basket half-stuffed with wormy, pale apples hung over her right forearm, just above the commoner's Ward Against the Vengeful Dead clutched in her bony grasp.

"Apples?  Fine, fair apples, a copper a fruit, a dozen a silver."

She leans forward against you and dips into a stage-whisper, "(contact) sent me.  Told me tell you _get off the plane_ and that it's all gone inversed up there in the Tyrant's Seat, Mother 'gainst Son.  The Angel of Tritherion, he ain't no more, and some of them wizards always with the tall feller, they died too, but I ain't heard which for sure."


----------



## Rackhir

Here's wishing the Liberators the Glorious Death they deserve and a chance to spit in The Old One's Eye one last time.


----------



## Joshua Randall

Huzzah! He's *BACK*!


----------



## CrusadeDave

*Direction*

Now that Contact has given us some direction, we should stop whining and complaining.

He's given us so much entertainment, and brought us so close to the end, that we should offer to help him out.

Since those of us who were accessing his players' campaign website have an idea of what happenned, in addition to the hints that (contact) has given us on here and the rogues we all built for him in the Rogue's gallery thread, we should offer (contact) a helping hand here.

Let's just write the last chapter for him. I'm sure we can come up with enough gratuitous violence and d*ck jokes to write up (down) to his standards.

Since we're going to be writing the ending, I say we change it so the good guys win. Everyone loves a happy ending.


----------



## blargney the second

I'm Canadian - we don't go in for happy endings. 

(sounds like, fun, and I'll read it fo' sho'!)
-blarg


----------



## Rackhir

Bump! Since (contact) seems to once again be hanging around the boards...


----------



## Morte

* prods (contact) with stick again *


----------



## blargney the second

Man, he just woke up.  You're gonna drive the poor dude to drink!


----------



## Tharen the Damned

Just to BUMP this Thread and to make (contact) to finish the campaign notes. He is very active on the 4th ed Board.

So (contact) give us the rest of the story!


----------



## Schmoe

Tharen the Damned said:
			
		

> So (contact) give us the rest of the story!




Seriously.  I've been dying to find out what happened in the dungeons of Iuz.  Each gory, twisted detail.


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## Graywolf-ELM

Can it really be resurrected after so long?


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## Rackhir

Graywolf-ELM said:
			
		

> Can it really be resurrected after so long?




We're still well under the time cap for Resurection (10 yrs/lvl) since the minimum caster level would make that 130 yrs. So I don't see why not. We've even got the entire body of text, though according to the SRD we only need a portion of it.


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## CrusadeDave

I don't care if I haven't logged in for the past 12 years.

I still want the end of the story.


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