# Stories from the Steppes



## Plane Sailing (Mar 4, 2003)

This isn't actually my storyhour, but is the storyhour of a friend of mine who has just started DM'ing for us again, and writing up the tales of our adventures.

There are seven players, and I'll not tell you which character I play - you'll have to guess!

Guido is a better storyteller than I am, I hope you'll give his story a read!

Cheers


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## Plane Sailing (Mar 4, 2003)

*The cast...*

*Katarn* was becoming bored with the halflings at Vjelpamiri. Was this damned snow ever going to melt? He’d learned all the songs that the happy little folk had to offer, and the adulation of the young ladies was wearing thin. This was not what he’d been looking for when he set off from the Eternal Forest over 5 months before. The journey here had been dangerous and exciting enough and he’d learned a few tricks on the way, but he itched for more. Would Springthaw bring an opportunity? Rhythmic hammering knocked at the edge of his attention and he turned to see what this tall fellow was nailing up for the halflings’ attention.

*Dariol*, gazed out at the snowscape, the eagle perched on his arm and his fine elven features focussed on the tree line. He whistled once more, and furrowed his brow thoughtfully until there, at last emerged Fang. Amiably ruffling the hair of one of the ever-present gang of halfling children he strode forth to meet his companion wolf away so long in the woods over Wintertide. Fang seemed thinner, and hungry despite his sojourn with his own kind. The Halfling child had bolted in sudden fear as the wolf trotted forward. Dariol smiled, yes, perhaps time to go now he thought. Striding through the slushy streets between the little humped houses, he espied one of his Elf kin, the Bard, reading a newly nailed poster. Hmmm………?

*Alavarielle* beamed her widest smile at the Sun as its light poked through the watery light filtering over the distant mountain peaks, warming her closed eyelids gently in the chill air. She sighed and began the morning ritual of blessing required by her faith. May Corellan bring fortune and wonder this day as all days, and perhaps a curious worshipper from the small ones? Opening her eyes she saw that her only companion again was a mouse foraging at the edge of a hedgerow. Spring at last, Corellan be praised, now perhaps these men might stir into some kind of action and leave the confines of their hilltop bastion in search of adventure. She was determined to be with them. She dawdled over the ritual, revelling in the words as they rolled forth in beauteous adoration of Corellan’s wonder, and still mildly entranced nearly missed the poster as it blew along the ground at her feet. Frowning over the blocky mannish Northron script it became clear, aha, they move…

*Drucilla* stroked her bat thoughtfully and gazed through the haze of weed-smoke from the pipes of the morning customers in the bleak quarter stew that passed for a tavern. Oh well, the smoke masked the stench of the strewn herbs that had long lost their therapeutic aura and turned to matted mush over a particularly long and drawn out winter. She narrowed her eyes, imagining each of the patrons as a walking corpse. Ah, to witness time’s steady march accelerated, to watch the flesh peel from the bodies layer by layer, the muscles twitching off to reveal cartilage and bone beneath, jaws dropping as the ligaments frayed and parted, fascinating. She jerked her head up suddenly, nearly dropped off there. Must get out of this place. She stood and ducked under the doorway into the street, latching quickly onto the tail of a passing runner who, laden with a great underarm of rolled posters seemed intent on nailing them as decoration on every wooden surface to hand. Snatching one down from it’s perch she scanned the words. That ambitious adventurer Vladimar was planning an early exit this Spring and was hiring on. Huzzah for fools who rush to death for they shall bless us with gifts of fortune.

*Beyoncay* muttered a quiet blessing to Olidammara and slid out of her hiding place as the guard finally left his post at the gate to pass muttering, inside the gatehouse seeking his ever late replacement. Slipping silently out of the courtyard she dived into the early morning streets, still wet with dew, and away to the hovel on the edge of town that passed for home. A petty haul again, some bread, a few cheap trinkets, thin pickings. As she passed inside, she noticed that the roof that had held all Winter was leaking now as the snow melted. A final hint from the tricksy God of rogues to move on. But where to go? Oh well, off to the Green Griffon to pawn these baubles.

*Clint* was frustrated. Another damned letter from the Reeve demanding payment on the loan against his lands. Didn’t these fools know that he was ruined? How in Sirra-penta did they truly expect him to come up with that kind of cash. He cursed his errant Father for the gambling ways that had got the family into this state in the first place, and the separation from his family necessary from his inability to support them. Hmmm……..where to go? Perhaps his merchant drinking partner Vladimar might have some suggestions, and he could do with a beer to get his brain going at this early hour. He crunched the demand in his clenched fist and tossed it contemptuously into the empty fire grate. The Green Griffon then, where they’d have a fire and still honoured his credit, ha! The fools.

*Fareena* crooned at her lantern, pressing her face close to the little hinged door. Swinging it open she bathed her face in the heat, revelling in the infinite wavering patterns of light, breathing in the heady smell of combustion, her spine tingling with each little crackle of flame. Ah……….friendly fire, come to Fareena. She jumped suddenly at the barked order from old Madje ‘stop dreaming and get on with baking the bread’. She rounded on the flabby martinet. Enough! For a moment she contemplated her tormentor with a steely gaze, her red tresses floating around her head dancing in the zephyrs of heat from the big fire grate. With one flick of her wrist... no. That was not the way, but this would be the last day in this pit of despair, for tomorrow the wagonners would be seeking service for their journeys across the plain, and they liked a hearty dinner those fellows. Always room for a good cook amongst the waggoners, and Fareena had a talent with fires.


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## Plane Sailing (Mar 5, 2003)

The green Griffon buzzed with activity, a crowd gathering round a table prominently placed before the entrance to the back room, hastily covered with carpet and scattered about with papers. Behind the table sat Mischa, Priest of Fharlanghn, right hand man and long time friend to Vladimar Rokan, merchant adventurer. Mischa looked irritable, testily urging people to back away from the table so he could see to write. ‘Name, trade and experience’ he called out, I don’t want your lineage or the deeds of your old uncle, I want to know about you, now stand back, you. Inside’. He gestured another of the applicants through the door behind him with his thumb. Two sturdy soldiers framed the portal, beyond which sat Vladimar himself, interviewing one by one, the motley assembly drawn by his invitation to join him on caravan across the plains.

Two days pass, and the caravan is finally assembled. Five huge wagons each drawn by six thick muscled oxen, spare oxen for each, 20 mules, wagonners, mule hands, soldiers on horseback, a coffle of spare horses, and a slew of mercenaries form a tightly packed and steaming column in the narrow streets and cold morning air. At it’s head, Vladimar Rokan, frowning as ever but with a smile for the first time in days playing at the edge of his thin mouth. At last, with a wave and a cheer, the heavy caravan heaves into motion, oxen straining briefly before the slab sided wagons finally ease forward. With a great rumbling of wheels and clatter of hooves the train passes down the Street of Smells, across Vjel Square with it’s fine bronze of the hero and founder, out of the South gate and into the hills.

Two days of travel is little enough time to break down the barriers between the company, the waggoners and muleteers keeping much to themselves while the more skilled hirelings ride on wagon top or horseback during the day. In the evenings, the circular laager has a more conducive environment for fraternisation. Katarn’s plaintive Elven songs and cavorting cheer all present, and even the sardonic Vladimar seems more at ease as he frets round the camp checking the wagons with their precious loads locked away, the keys jangling at his waist.

Day three, mid morning and one of the soldier outriders gives a shout. Dismounting quickly from his horse he starts scraping at the ground. Dariol and Katarn ride swiftly up while Clint flips nimbly to the ground despite being 12 feet up on a wagon top, and darts into the mist that roils around them. It appears a trap has been laid, big enough that a wagon wheel would collapse through. ‘Ground sounded funny’ mutters the soldier. Vladimar arrives and inspects.

Clint steals through the mist and spots an orc hiding behind a stunted bush. In a few seconds another appears and Clint observes their grunted conversation before they leave together. It seems their trap has been discovered and the ambush has been called off. He follows them silently until they stop in a hollow, waiting. Soon there are more until Clint counts 8 orcs and an ogre. Enough, he sneaks back to the caravan to report.

Vladimar gazes down at the wheel trap now revealed beneath the thin soil covering. Yes, they can tackle the orcs as they like, he’ll lead the caravan further to the left and meet them later.


The party sets off, Dariol and Clint in the lead. They pass through the hollow, and Fang takes up the scent, tracking the now moving orcs. Armour jingles as the party pound after the tireless wolf, and there’s no surprise on either side as they blunders into the orcs halfway up a slope and about 60 feet away.

A hail of arrows meets the orcs as they turn, most aimed at the ogre and several striking true, but he stands firm and bellows an order. The orcs charge and battle is joined as the party spread out into a line to receive them. Fang and the eagle poise themselves to intercept anything that threatens Dariol. Clint ducks thankfully under the ogre’s mighty swing and his blade bites deep into the monster in return. The orcs’ charge is wild and they do little damage. Fang and the Eagle pounce forward to block a furious orc charging down on Dariol. Fang lives up to his name but the eagle is smashed to oblivion with one swing of a great axe. One sneaky fellow seems to be trying to outflank the party. Thing are looking desperate as the non-fighters contemplate toe-to-toe contact with these ferocious barbarians. Quick thinking and some swiftly cast sleep spells from Katarn and Drucilla suddenly take down a slew of orcs and the ogre! The tide has turned in seconds and the few shocked orcs that remain standing are quickly cut down. The weasel on the flank grunts in surprise and disappears into the mist as fast as his bow-legs can carry him.


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## Jodo Kast (Mar 5, 2003)

Nice start, the orcs v. caravan scenario is a classic opener.  Strong cast of characters.  I'm looking forward to seeing where this one takes us.


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## Plane Sailing (Mar 6, 2003)

All the characters started at just over 3rd level, and with quite a wide brief available to us. Perhaps in reaction to my game where there are no elves, this party is packed full of them!


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## Plane Sailing (Mar 6, 2003)

Sweating despite the cold the party bandage wounds, Alavarielle plying her healing trade with skill while Dariol gazes mournfully at the ruin that was his bonded eagle. The sleeping orcs are butchered by common consent, the Elves reverting to type with their elegant knives. There is little treasure but a single gem on the ogre’s body.

Dariol sniffs the wind and points out a way back to the caravan by a short route despite the mist. Vladimar is impressed by the encounter, a wise choice then this odd mix of companions.

Later that night as various people stand guard, Alavarielle’s keen eyes pick out a strange shadow under one of the wagons. Calling for assistance a light-enhanced crossbow bolt is shot into the side of the wagon, casting deeper shadows beneath. An alarm is raised as one shadow detaches and disappears into the night. Drucilla is quick off the mark and her bat streaks after the fleeing form, bouncing into it despite the darkness. The touch spell fails to still the creature, and it is lost in the darkness as the bat thankfully navigates safely back to hang again on Drucilla’s ear. The soldier inspects the underside of the wagon, and notices that one of the axles has been carefully sawn. One hard jolt on a rock and this would probably break. Sabotage!

They are all on their guard the following day, but there is little to distract the caravan as it descends finally from the hills onto the plains. Although the ground still undulates, the horizon grows steadily father away. The thin scrub and rocks slowly turn into tall grass and stunted bushes, and although there are still occasional rocky scarps and sudden rifts, the number of turns diminishes until they can travel in a straight line for miles at a time.

Day 7 and the morning sun leaks over the horizon, the peace suddenly shattered by a scream. One of the soldiers stands in shock, gazing down at the corpse of his compatriot, still in bed and to all intents asleep except for a red rent torn across his throat. Murder! There is a general furore, and Vladimar appears swiftly. Muttering curses he gazes into the eyes of all present. Did anyone see or hear anything? There are no witnesses, but Fang is sniffing at the blood inquisitively. ‘Follow that scent boy’ commands Dariol and Fang is away with a vengeance clearly tracking well. In moments his nose ends up at the hip of one of the soldiers stopped halfway through packing his horse. Dariol checks with Fang whose simple animal certainty is based on an inability to lie.  ‘Explain yourself man’, commands Vladimar as the party advance. The fellow looks mystified and wrings his hands nervously, ‘I know nothing my lord’, and disappears in an instant. Rapidly the space where he stood is cut through with many blades to no avail, and focussed detection spells fail to find him. Fang however still has the scent and is off in pursuit, Katarn and Drucilla close behind. Meanwhile Clint has clocked the fellow’s horse and prods the saddlebags from outside with a stilleto. It meets with an audible ‘clink’, so he rummages within with care.

The pursuit trails off to nothing as Fang circles, confused by the sudden disappearance of the scent. Dariol, Katarn and Drucilla muse over the magic necessary to achieve this feat when there is an audible explosion back in the camp.

Clint dives nimbly out of the way, his body twisting instinctively from the great sheet of flame that flashes forth from the saddle bags as the trap he failed to spot is triggered. Alchemical flame engulfs the area and the horse dies instantly. Dusting himself down Clint shrugs as Alavarielle speculates about the fact that the other saddlebag now under the horse didn’t explode on impact with the ground. Many hands haul the smoking bulk over, and Clint and Alavarielle fumble about in the ruins.  They sense broken pottery, and a slimy substance that Clint quickly determines is probably inert, certainly not magical, but it could be PLAGUE!

The space around the two of them is suddenly huge, and Vladimar passes them a flagon of vinegar hung on a spear point to wash themselves with. Before long they reek from head to toe, to the relief of all present. The horse corpse is piled with faggots of wood and the whole area set ablaze. The camp is packed at double speed and almost ready to roll by the time the others have returned empty handed.

Morale is especially low now, and the Muleteers and wagonners are surly, muttering about cursed caravans under their breath. Vladimar seems especially glum and Mischa’s lighthearted reassurances ineffective.

Day 8 and the country has become deceptive, long inclines forming the ground into gentle swells. A rider returns from picket to report something large lying in the grass, and Clint and Dariol ride forth to investigate. Careful approaches reveal the thing to be a newly dead male adult centaur, slain by multiple archery wounds. It’s baggage has been torn roughly from the body leaving the straps behind. A baying noise attracts them to a rise, from the grass clad crest of which they can see three horse barbarians circling about 100 yards away. They are arching at something in the long grass and after a few more circles a young centaur breaks cover and bolts towards the crest. It is a hopeless endeavour as the nimble riders run it down and finish it with swift shots to the back of the torso. The half grown form slumps into the grass, and the Barbarians lean down from their mounts to pluck it’s baggage before riding off across the slope laughing.

Far off to the left of the caravan a string of horse barbarians can be seen, trailing numerous travois, clearly a largish tribal group. Amazingly, Katarn spurs his horse forward from the cover of the caravan, and rides towards the tribe showing open palms as a sign of peace. The company stare at his receding form incredulously, giving scant credence to Alavarielle’s vaguely recalled explanation that Katarn wanted to learn something of the Harper history tradition among these people. By now it is too late, five riders from the tribe have already intercepted him, and he has disappeared among them in the distance.


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## Plane Sailing (Mar 7, 2003)

Vladimar shrugs, the caravan cannot stop for this moment of madness and the errant elf will have to take his own chances. The night passes undisturbed, and they set off as normal the next day, confused and upset by the loss of this popular companion. By mid morning the elf has not returned and things are looking truly bleak when quite suddenly he emerges over a rise behind them perfectly hale, mounted on his own horse and with a steppe pony in trail. As he rejoins the group they can see that in truth he sways overmuch in the saddle, looks inordinately pale and is sweating unnaturally. Scanning for wounds or signs of abuse it becomes rapidly clear that he is simply massively hungover and their sympathy fades to amusement.

By his own no doubt embellished version of events Katarn has ridden bold-faced into the horsemen’s camp and blurted out in their own gnollish tongue that he wants to learn something from their Harper. This is so bizarre that the tribe apparently forget their natural urge to make sport with this strange and alien character and introduce him instead to their Harper. The two are left to commune during the day as the Tribe travels North away from the caravan, but in the evening, things rapidly become competitive as the Harper and Katarn build increasingly complex variations around each other’s music. The final performance is of such staggering wonder and strangeness that the very gods must have heard it. Although the Harper has been bested by this interloper the competition is so close and incredible that Katarn is forgiven (and anyway, it does a Harper good from time-to-time to be taken down a peg or two, and even better by someone they’ll never see again). It is truly a party to remember. If only he hadn’t drunk so much of that fermented milk perhaps he would remember more of it. In the morning Katarn is sent on his way by a bemused but certainly entertained tribe who gift him with a pony in return for his gift of music. Despite the splitting headache he is smiling at this achievement of one of his life goals.

It is now 10 days since they set out, and they are due to stop to meet another of Vladimar’s compatriots with another three wagons. There are two more caravans yet to rendezvous with on this campaign, and this is the first in a sequence that should see a caravan of some 15 great wagons and 200 beasts roll into Chupek. But for now there is no sign of the others and patrols are sent in all directions to see if they have passed each other by mistake in the misleading terrain. Fareena sees that Vladimar is about to ride off so she approaches him quickly, with her normal imperious manner. She wants to do more than just cook for this group. She has skills, could she be a ‘specialist’, get the promise of extra pay that these others are getting. The distracted Vladimar cannot fathom what she is asking and devolves the decision to Mischa, who equally bemused accepts. ‘Yes my dear, whatever, now be away with the others and join those two elves on their patrol if it pleases you, but be back in time to cook this evening mark you’. Smiling at the ease with which she seems able to get her own way she mounts a horse to join the search away to the South, carrying her trusty iron frying pan, a nice sharp cleaver and a crossbow which she has just been presented with. Katarn wants to know what she “does”, she tells him she is a cook, and smiles.

Making swift time, Dariol and Clint have headed East, and finding no tracks start to circle out widdershins in increasing spirals. Where can this caravan be? By high sun they have found a track of gnolls heading North, and they follow for some distance before deciding that they must turn back if they are to reach the safety of the caravan by nightfall. Meanwhile, the less able riders that are Katarn, Drucilla and Fareena are enjoying their patrol immensely, chatting as they go. There’s something definitely odd about that Drucilla though. Creepy. Suddenly they become aware of a strange mound in the grass, and a whiff of something rotten on the chill wind. They approach carefully to see that it’s a pile mostly of ox corpses, although those of a horse and a man can also be seen. The man appears to be a horse barbarian from his foot garb so they determine to pull his body out of the pile to investigate. As Katarn holds his breath and heaves on the feet a shiny blue beetle carapace lurches forward and acid sprays all around him. He flinches back, tumbles clear and clamps his mouth shut. His longsword springs into his hand ready for battle. Two more beetles burst out of the heap of corruption, pincers gnashing and acid dribbling forth. Drucilla starts an incantation while Fareena tries to spur forward on her horse. The animal won’t budge so she unloads her readied crossbow at the nearest creatures blasting it to instant and spectacular oblivion. Katarn finally lands a blow, and Drucilla’s spell freezes one of the bugs in place. Drucilla leaps in with a punch as Fareena moves closer and with a wrench of her mind calls forth fire from her fingers. Katarn and Drucilla dance away urgently as the fire spreads and the bugs die in flames. There is no treasure to speak of, but they are able to cut away a tattoo from an ox, proving this to be a domestic rather than a wild beast.

Then it occurs to them that they are going to have to catch the horses that have bolted during the fight, and the sun is going down rapidly. Can they really have lost track of time so easily out here? They are trying to head the beasts off to little avail when riders are seen approaching from sunwards, perhaps investigating the smoke. The riders catch the horses and approach a little less wary, finally identifying themselves as Caravan guards much to everyone’s relief. The group sets off for the camp at a pace and gets lost, to the disgust of all concerned.


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## Plane Sailing (Mar 8, 2003)

The DM allowed all characters to start at 3rd level (plus a few extra xps, allowing casters to have created some magic items if they had the feats).

If I remember correctly, the character classes are as follows:

Katarn - Elven bard 3
Dariol - Elven Druid 3
Alavarielle - Elven Priestess 3
Drucilla - Human Wizard specialist (necromancer) 3
Beyoncay - Human Rogue 2/Cleric of Olidammara 1
Clint - Human Fighter 1/ Rogue 2
Fareena - Human Sorcerer 3


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## Piratecat (Mar 8, 2003)

I'll put in a vote for you playing Clint. Hey, I have a 1 in 7 chance, right?


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## Plane Sailing (Mar 9, 2003)

Hmmm, interesting guess 

I'll wait for a few more guesses before revealing the truth though...


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## Jodo Kast (Mar 9, 2003)

I'll guess Katarn (perhaps doing penance for your own game in which there are no elves).


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## Plane Sailing (Mar 10, 2003)

While waiting in case a few extra guesses come in, I'll post the next installment that Guido's got ready for us.


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## Plane Sailing (Mar 10, 2003)

Dariol and Alavarielle have returned to the camp, only to discover that half of the party is still missing. They resolve to find them and head out in the group’s original tracks. A pigeon arrives to say that Vladimar and Mischa have found the other caravan to the North East and will stay with it overnight to join them in the morning.

Clint and Beyoncay have decided to stay behind and are settling down on the roof of a wagon when a hail of enormous arrows drops out of the sky into the camp. This is followed by a deafening gnollish battle cry and the camp fire erupting as a writhing red wormlike creature appears in it’s midst. Chaos prevails as the camp occupants scatter in all directions.. Beyoncay gazes out towards the source of the shout to see a gang of gnolls loping out of the gloom straight towards her. She rips out her rapier and prepares to put up a fight. Clint carefully sights into the darkness and at the edge of his vision sees an elderly gnoll, perhaps a leader. He fires an arrow which sinks deep into the creatures belly.

Alavarielle and Dariol stare at each other in disbelief as the gnoll shout echoes across the plain behind them, and as one they whirl their mounts to charge back to the camp.  Further out, Katarn, Drucilla and Fareena also hear a distant shout off to their right, which Katarn identifies as a gnoll battle shout. With one mind they spur towards it.

The worm thing jumps out of the fire on it’s snakey tail and lays about with a spear, skewering and burning with abandon. With Vladimar and Mischa both away there is no co-ordination in the camp and the charging gnolls have a straight run at the barricades. Dariol and Alavarielle split left and right as they thunder back to the camp. Alavarielle summons up personal protection spells and readies her bow. Dariol flings an entangle spell into the deep grass around the barricade and several gnolls including their two leaders are pinioned helplessly in its grasp. Alavarielle plugs one with an arrow now she has some targets. Clint and Beyoncay’s make their stand atop the wagon as the gnolls are clambering up, launching sneak attacks against their climbing foes. The two of them cut at gnoll claws, keeping them momentarily at bay. Several gnolls have made it over the hurdles and hack their way into the camp gleefully. Dariol spies a wounded foe in the long grass just beyond the camp gesturing at him, and finds himself unable to move as magical energies freeze his limbs. – held dammit! Fang hovers at his heels guarding obediently.

Drucilla dismounts as she gets close, rolling under the side-boards of a wagon, dagger in hand. Fareena catches a glimpse of magical energy discharged on top of Annia and Stefan’s wagon and spurs her horse up to the ladder. Katarn charges up to a barricade and tumbles neatly from his saddle to land poised on the other side with rapier in hand. As Fareena climbs she sees a small movement, is there something down there by that wagon? She attempts to charm it, but the shadow darts away, a hissing humanoid face briefly visible at the edge of a cloak.

Clint and Beyoncay slash one of the gnolls down but another climbs over the Wagon top and hacks at them with feverish vigour. Alavarielle has the aim now and the helpless entangled gnolls are suffering grievous injuries from her arrows. Drucilla aims a spell at the Salamander, no effect! Katarn tumbles round the beast and lands a solid blow. Fareena clambers up on to the top of Annia’s wagon to see a small grey winged creature chewing at the girl’s neck. Annia is out cold, eyes frozen open. The creature looks up and flies at Fareena’s face. She flinches back, avoiding the wicked sprite and flames it with a spell. Below her, a retreating gnoll picks up a helpless young camp girl, clambers over the barricade and runs into the night.

Beyoncay and Clint are locked in a desperate battle on the wagon top as another gnoll clambers aboard, and the confined space is quickly slippery with the mingled blood of the combatants. Alavarielle’s arrows drop one of the entangled gnolls. Dariol stares helplessly into the dark expecting to be struck any moment and then realises his spell-casting foe must be trapped in the entangle – hah, no doubt it’s cursing the lack of remaining offensive magics or a missile weapon. We’ll see which spell runs out first he muses.

Drucilla flanks the salamander as Katarn tumbles about, striking but doing little damage. The Salamander wraps its tail around him and steps forward to pull him into its flames and Katarn screams in agony as the fire burns his flesh. He wriggles painfully but fails to escape...


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## Plane Sailing (Mar 15, 2003)

Fareena flames the grey creature again, while preparing to heft her iron frying pan. It bites at her and she feels the burning irritation of poison. Then a diminutive flame leaps out of her lantern and touches the creature, which instantly catches alight and it falls, crisped and curled at her feet. She checks Annia who is alive but paralysed, and stands again to inspect the scene below. Fire is flickering from the underside of the wagon where the shadowy shape fled.

Clint and Beyoncay fell one of the gnolls and round on the other. It bellows angrily, hacking in wide arcs, slicing deep into Beyoncay but a well-aimed sword blow from Clint tears through some vital place and the gnoll drops dead. Below, a mass of people bundle another gnoll to the ground and fists, feet and knives put and end to it. Alavarielle’s archery drops the last entangled one in the camp and the odds are improving by the second as Katarn wriggles free from a Salamander that is weaker now for a well aimed ray from Drucilla. Between them they slash the salamander to the ground in a shower of ashes and smoke. Beyoncay and Clint target their archery out into the gloom and the distant trapped gnoll stares helplessly as a fusillade of arrows pierces it through the body. Blood foams at its lips as it buckles at the knees and falls lifeless in the grass.

There is no sign of the shadowy creature that Fareena saw, and the last of the gnolls is either dead or fleeing, yet the wagon burns more fiercely. The party gathers horrified as the boards of the wagon start to crack.

People gather helplessly round the wagon and it becomes clear that there simply isn’t enough water available to douse the flames. The valuable cargo must be saved, but the conflagration is too hot. This is Fareena’s moment. She spies a burly fellow in the desperate assembly and rushes to him. With urgent reassurances she waves her hands, reciting a childs charm and weaving unbeknownst to the subject, a protective spell. The fellow, compelled by her confidence, leaps into the blazing wreck with renewed courage and starts tossing smoking bundles of goods into the waiting crowd. The wagon is soon empty. Something rather odd in the back of it catches Fareena’s eye but she can’t be sure what it was and loses sight of it in the smoke.

The group slowly disperses, each to their own thoughts, and the rest of the night passes uneventfully. In the morning they rise early, and an early outrider arrives to announce the imminent arrival of the other caravan. They wait until mid morning when it finally heaves into distant view. Viewing the carnage of the night before Vladimar inspects the burnt out wagon in some distress. A day is spent re-stowing the goods, and Vladimar spends a lot of time around the wreck sorting through the smoking ruins with Mischa.

A quiet evening is spent girding loins for the next day, and though the new caravan has brought another Elven Bard along, the two are somehow unable to get their musical styles to work together. This foppish fellow seems to have travelled as far as Tradevitch to broaden his horizons but like so many others ended up wintering over, trapped by the lack of safe movement over the hills due to the snow. The fact that gnolls were allowed to wander almost uncontrolled in the streets of this rough frontier town at Spring tide had done nothing to improve his demeanour so the prospect of a caravan travelling across the plains was too good to miss.

The night is thankfully quiet and the next day’s travel is equally uneventful, although distant figures are sighted and Vladimar comments that the tribes appear to be moving North uncommonly early this year. Perhaps it is a symptom of the unusually long winter?

Heiroday also passes away without action as the miles roll away under the rumbling wagon wheels. That night Clint has a terrible nightmare that leaves him in some pain from the force of wrenching spasms of dream-fear. Somewhat alarmed he consults with Alavarielle who simply shrugs. Mischa is just as mystified and the exhausted and short-tempered Clint retires to the campfire to pass the night in wakeful alarm.

The following day while Clint finds sleepy oblivion on a wagon top, smoke is sighted on the horizon. It appears a day or so away and of no immediate alarm. Smoke is often seen in the distance, usually from cooking fires, but this seems a little more abundant. The watch is doubled as a precaution. Just as the camp is settling down for the night a flaming arrow plunges into the guarded area from the East. Heedless of the fires, Fareena picks it up and removes the leather patch tied upon it. She can't read, so after opening it passes the message in crude Batu and an ear complete with earring to others. Several attempts to read the hieroglyphs prove ineffective until Vladimar arrives to investigate the sudden commotion. His face pales as he reads the glyphs and  inspects the ear. This is the ear of a competitor, one Nikita Teflikov. Nikita had left Vjelpamiri two days before Vladimar to some contemptuous cajoling from Vladimar’s own servants in the street. Now it appears from the message that he is a prisoner of a gang of gnolls who style themselves ‘Yell’s Fangs’.


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## Plane Sailing (Mar 17, 2003)

They are demanding 500 in gold for the return of Nikita, clearly having been convinced by Nikita himself that it would be better to barter for than slaughter him. No doubt the attraction of gold instead of heavy trade goods is compelling to them, hence the scrawled batu message.

Vladimar consults the assembled adventurers. It seems that the risk might be worth the venture. If Vladimar rescues Nikita, he will own him and his business. That could expand Vladimar’s trading claim in the town by a considerable margin. However, the gnolls have stipulated that no more than six may come forth with the money. It could be a trap, it could be a way of luring six strong fellows away from the caravan. Vladimar is keen to go as long as it’s done soon. If they can reach the location quickly they may be able to surprise the gnolls and upset any traps. He needs a party, and Troy (the new Bard), Clint, Dariol, Fareena and Alavarielle volunteer.

Vladimar passes out a range of high quality equipment and magical items to help in the mission, and they set off in rapid horseback pursuit following the track of the gnoll archer. He is nowhere to be seen and has clearly hidden from their approach in the night as they reach a decline a mile or two away from the still visible smoke column at dawns early light.

The plan is for as many as possible to stay hidden while Vladimar and Troy walk in to the gnoll camp bearing the gold in a saddle bag. They loose-tether the horses, and start out towards the smoke. Gnolls hate elves so Clint helps disguise Troy’s smell and appearance quite convincingly, although Troy is justifiably suspicious about the use of horse-urine in the process. Clint fades quickly into the long grass ahead of the party as Dariol commences a hide-from-animals spell to protect everyone else but Vladimar. Dariol’s nature sense has also placed them downwind from the gnolls to avoid detection from inquisitive noses.

Clint has approached closely enough to see three wagons in a burnt out hollow of grass. Two of the wagons are badly damaged by fire and smoking heavily, but the third is mostly intact. A pile of bodies still burns in the clearing, which is scattered with trashed trade goods. A human figure, clearly tortured into unconsciousness hangs from the wagon side, nailed through the palms and feet. A small group of gnolls sits waiting in the middle of the clearing. Clint is sure that the two damaged wagons contain gnolls, and resolves to report back to the party.

The rest of the party approach as carefully as possible until they can see the tops of the wagons in the distance. Vladimar and Troy stand up and walk towards the camp while Dariol sweeps silently through the grass to their right. Fareena and Alavarielle hunker down in the grass to await events. Dariol calls a cat from his bag, and sends it off to scout for him.

Vladimar and Troy are quickly joined by hyenas in the long grass, all of which, unable to detect the Elf focus on Vladimar. A burly female gnoll in thick furs approaches them and in it’s own tongue, orders them brusquely into the camp. The gnoll seems to have sway over the hyenas dancing around its heels as they walk towards the wagons.

Clint sneaks back towards the camp again, watching his two companions carefully. Reaching the back of one of the wagons undetected he is able to lock the main gate to one of them surreptitiously. Then he sneaks under the wagon to await events.

Vladimar and Troy are in the clearing, and Troy moves across to inspect Nikita. The fellow is in a bad way, and Troy also notices a gnoll hidden in the wagon behind the poor man, presumably ready to stab him if things go awry. His attempt to use a potion on Nikita is spoiled as an angry gnoll knocks it from his hand. Cross words are exchanged between Vladimar and another larger gnoll who is clearly the leader. This breaks out into a tussle and the big gnoll bellows an order to attack!


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## Plane Sailing (Mar 20, 2003)

At extreme range Fareena concentrates and gestures and the pile of burning bodies explodes in a massive shower of blinding fireworks. Gnolls and party members alike stagger about, and wildly swung weapons slash the air in all directions. Clint seizes his moment, targeting the gnoll leader carefully. Two arrows smash into the creature, piercing deep into its vitals. Unaffected by the spell the mortally injured foe charges the shadow that launched these vicious barbs, axe in hand.

Dariol runs towards the scene, a gabbled spell softening the soil around the gnoll leader. More gnolls burst forth from the ruined wagons, those in the one above Clint scrabbling at the exit frustratedly. The others land in the softened soil and sink up to their ankles as the loam saps their movement. Alavarielle, bow in hand lunges towards the battle but has a long way to go to reach her companions.

Vladimar, blinded by the spell, drops to the floor and rolls under the nearest wagon dragging a shortsword from a hidden scabbard for use in the confined space. Troy, also blinded, tumbles reflexively trying to hear the gnolls around him as they hack at his form half seen through stinging eyes. He draws the fine longsword loaned to him by Vladimar and prepares to make the best of it.

Two of the blinded gnolls swing out at one another, confused by their blindness.

Fareena pelts after Alavarielle, seeking to close the range now the fight has been joined. The leader bears down on Clint who backs off under the wagon, and shoots him again in the legs, finally bringing the creature down. Troy weaves about, completely throwing the flailing gnolls who hack at every shadow. The one inside the wagon clambers out to join his companions, only he isn’t blinded. Dariol sees Troy’s predicament and conjures a glowing ball of fire that rolls into one of the gnolls, burning it severely. The crazed creature spins away in blind confusion. 

Alavarielle conjures an enhancing spell for the group and unlimbers her bow. Meanwhile, a line of fire streaks forward from Fareena’s running form, laying a trail that leads to Yebli, the Female gnoll. She is locked in mutually blind combat with the hapless Vladimar, pinned now between two flailing gnolls on the other side of the wagon he had rolled under. Yebli has landed a severe blow on Vladimar when the fire streak reaches her, throwing her stroke.

Dariol is concentrating on keeping the gnolls around Troy occupied, steering his ball of fire around carefully. Fang, who has been hanging back, is suddenly attacked by a threesome of hyenas. Momentarily distracted, Dariol calms the hyenas with a spell, subduing two and bending another to his will.

Alavarielle starts arching into the still blinded gnolls in the distance, finding a mark. Clint meanwhile has emerged from under the wagon and can hear gnolls approaching from both sides as those in the wagon finally scramble over the sides into the fight.

Incredibly, Troy is still unhurt, and when his vision starts to clear, takes relish in lining up a vicious blow on a nearby still blind opponent. It goes horribly wrong as he loses his grip on Vladimar’s fine longsword which flies out of sight over his shoulder to land point down and nearly hilt deep in the soft soil behind him.

Alavarielle’s opponent also recovers from the blindness and charges directly at her, a hyena in tow, while another gnoll pounds after it intent on cutting down Fareena. Clint shoots one of Troy’s opponents in the back and moves for a better angle while Dariol’s flame sphere scorches another. Yebli meanwhile, floors Vladimar and takes a mighty cut at the little flame creature hovering at her heels, nearly destroying it instantly. Candle fades safely back into the surrounding flames.

Things are looking bad for Vladimar but everyone else suddenly has worries of their own. Clint is engaged head-on, while Troy manfully draws his rapier and thrusts at one if his opponents. Clearly something is still wrong as the weapon misses by miles and very nearly skewers the unconscious Nikita. Dariol cannot believe what he is seeing but trusts that their luck must surely change as his Flame sphere crisps one of the gnolls terminally before winking out.

Clint Takes down one foe and runs towards the last known position of Vladimar. He’s keen to protect the man with the money but is met by another gnoll running round from behind the wagon. Alavarielle steps back from her opponents to cast a spell, while Dariol neatly (and luckily) targets an entangle spell with pinpoint precision at exactly the right moment to stop them following up. Fareena is missed by her gnoll, and roasts it badly with fingers of flame. Another lucky moment and a second firey spell floors the foe, while Alavarielle plays out an archery duel with her former, now immobile opponent. 

Yebli sees her chance and fighting her instincts to behead the hated human, orders everyone to stop or she’ll kill Vladimar...

to be continued...


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## Darklone (Mar 21, 2003)

My bet is on the elven druid.


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## Plane Sailing (Mar 22, 2003)

Clint snarls at the gnoll to his front, but is laughed at for his efforts while Dariol and Troy finish the remaining gnolls in the clearing. There is a moment of silence that seems to drag forever while they wait for someone to speak. The only voice heard is Fareena’s in the distance as she breathlessly calls forth eye-blinding smoke from the fires at Yebli’s feet. The gnoll disappears in the gloom and a sickening crunch from within tells them that a hard and angry blow has been landed. Does Vladimar still live? Alavarielle fells her opponent and runs round the still trapped hyena, seeking to close the range on the smoke cloud. Everyone is heading in the same direction when Yebli emerges from the roiling choke, running full pelt for the horizon, a dripping axe in her hands.

Alavarielle stretches her fingers desperately, hurling a holding spell at the loping gnoll. The creature seems unaffected and it’s long legs take it quickly out of range as the party race to determine the fate of the hapless Vladimar. The smoke clears quickly, and Vladimar can be seen propped senseless against the wagon, a mighty cut clearly visible barely an inch above his head in the side of the wagon. Close call.

Clint shrugs and moves off to search the leader gnoll, while Troy lifts Nikita down gently and plies him with a potion. Alavarielle summons a celestial hyena to kill it’s entangled counterpart while Dariol muses over the fact that he appears to have a rather friendly one at his heels. Vladimar is restored to the conscious world while Fareena consults on her tactics. Was that pyrotechnics alright everyone? Anyone upset by the sudden blindness ? Sorry, too far away to give a meaningful warning, perhaps a code-word next time? Alavarielle detects several points of magic, including the contents of a hard to find secret panel in one of the wagons.

Clint takes an attractive black tooth necklace and a fine shortsword from the leader while Nikita helps explain the contents of the compartment. A scroll, a matching pair of rings a book, a pair of gloves and two potions are recovered. At first sight some 5000gold in trade goods appears to be salvageable. Not much from a wagon train with over 80,000gold worth on it. Nikita is mortified by the loss, but though he is now virtually owned by Vladimar, he is clearly happier to be alive, the sole survivor from his party. He kicks the inert form of the gnoll leader to vent his anger.

Vladimar is keen to pack up and leave, so he drinks one of his potions, lifts skyward and flies off to the main caravan. Outriders reinforce the group before noon, and by nightfall the caravan is leaguered several miles further on. More goods are recovered than was immediately assessed, and overall Vladimar seems quite happy, though a little humbled.


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## Plane Sailing (Mar 22, 2003)

So, anyone want to change their guesses


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## Darklone (Mar 24, 2003)

Plane Sailing said:
			
		

> *So, anyone want to change their guesses  *




Nope, I never change guessed which I rolled with my holy dice


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## Plane Sailing (Mar 24, 2003)

Darklone said:
			
		

> *
> 
> Nope, I never change guessed which I rolled with my holy dice  *




You have 7-sided dice? Holy ***!!!


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## Plane Sailing (Mar 24, 2003)

Erythday dawns grey and overcast, and the rain dampens collective spirits lower than enemy action. Deviations have to be made around areas of wet ground, and valuable time is lost. The camp is quiet, and again the Bards are unable to lift the atmosphere much. Perhaps their styles are just too different, Troy’s cultured ways too refined for the more woodsy Katarn.

Most people are long abed when the spontaneous appearance of a truly huge boar in the middle of the camp tears the night apart. The wretched squealing monster rips a soldier in twain, apparently seeing all signs of movement as a threat. Shocked and exhausted, the company yank their wits together and engage this unexpected challenge with gritted teeth Where on Sirrapenta did it come from? Never mind, the mighty flanks of the creature heave as it lunges forward with terrifying tusks. Mischa is there, but his touch spell fizzles as he punches into the rank bristly hide. Alavarielle feels the creature’s breath on her face as she gabbles off a defensive spell, throws caution to Corellan and wades in with a mace. Dariol summons a flaming sphere that raises a scorched pork smell from the vile thing’s hide, while Fareena stares wildly about trying to find a hint of the shady humanoid of previous night attacks. Her eye lights on Annia’s wagon across the camp where Annia’s hunched form can be clearly seen holding down a flailing wailing Stefan. Dariol switches to magic detection, motes of essence glowing to his eyes only on friends, the creature and atop Annia and Stefan’s wagon. Troy feels renewed vigour flow through him as Mischa’s shield-other spell takes effect. Everyone pounds at the creature, and it finally collapses from one of Clint’s arrows, neatly lodged between its mighty shoulder blades. The form dissipates in magical whisps.

Suspicious eyes glance about, and many linger at Annia’s wagon. Alavarielle approaches, clambers up the side of the wagon and peeps over. Poor old Stefan lies weeping in a tousled pallet, Annia bent over him, hugging him closely and weeping. Alavarielle’s gentle enquiry brings an impassioned rebuke, and she backs away. Arrogantly confident that his own charms will not be turned away so easily Troy swaggers up and asks if he might have a chat. Strangely, Annia seems more convinced by this overdressed elf, and bids him come aboard. Winking nonchalantly to his inadequate cohorts Troy skips up the ladder to sit by Annia’s side.

In a short while he has most of Annia’s tale, but even more interestingly much of Stefan’s too. Annia seems at times to use both the words father and grandfather in relation to Stefan. He certainly looks old enough to be her grandfather. It seems that she is a troublesome youngster, given to acts of independence and disobedience. Her patient father (?), has intervened to help her (always unwanted) on many occasions, and many have been the dread arguments that follow. The last time he stepped in though, it went horribly wrong. Annia admits that she really was in trouble this time, and her poor grandfather (?) did what he could. He’s a summoner you see, earns his keep by either calling creatures forth or sending them back again. This time she says that something got him. There’s ‘something within’ that steals poor Stefan’s senses, speaks with another voice, something awful. The best sages and priests in Vjelpamiri could not help, or at least they said they could not without risking killing Stefan in the process. Apparently however, there is a place in the Eternal Forest, a grove, where fabulous natural things grow that have supernatural powers. There is one that Annia knows only as ‘Tifflebane’ that will apparently do the trick. If she can keep Stefan subdued long enough to get him to this place then she can save him. Perhaps Troy can help, he’s an elf after all?

Troy chooses to take the tale to Fareena rather than his priest Alavarielle, wondering if the cook has magic knowledge that could shed light on the situation. Fareena claims it is not a cooking herb and Dariol the druid would probably have a better idea, but on hearing the tale Dariol seems unaware of Tifflebane. Perhaps it is known as something else in the Elven tongue. Humans never could get their tongues round the lilting Elven language.


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## Plane Sailing (Mar 25, 2003)

The next day is clearer and the caravan makes good time towards the ford over the river Nepri. Dariol espies a number of birds of prey around the caravan and calls one to him with a little magic. The animal is well disposed towards him, and soon Dariol can be seen riding out with the bird perched on his arm. It is dubbed ‘sharpeye’ by the Druid, no doubt in the hope that this will encourage the bird to be a useful scout.

As they reach the Nepri ford, it becomes clear that it is in use by a large number of horse tribesmen. Vladimar observes for a while and consults with Mischa. They agree that these folk appear to be Pechenki-Mul, much less aggressive than the notorious Pechenki-Vel. Nevertheless, they are crossing the ford much earlier than expected, and Vladimar is curious. Trusting to his previous encounters with these nomads, Vladimar rides out on his own to meet them The party wonders on this apparent rashness, but the difference between this and Katarn’s earlier behaviour is that Vladimar knows these people!

He return after nearly two hours to explain that he has agreed to let the Pechenki pass over the ford first, and the caravan will cross just before dusk to pitch camp on the South side. The time passes pleasantly as the tribesmen drift by within 200 yards. They are some 300 in number, and have a great stock of cattle, dogs, and of courses horses with them. Most of their goods appear to be pulled on travois. As Pelor’s glory kisses the horizon the caravan is organised into a column and led across the ford. Although it is quite broad in late Spring, the early campaign means a narrower passage. Nevertheless, things are progressing well, if slowly when a soldier in the distance suddenly spurs his horse forward. Dariol thought that the vague thumping he could hear was coming from someone kicking a wagon, but now he’s not so sure. He sends sharpeye aloft to scout over the soldier and tries to focus on where that sound is coming from. Others can clearly hear it too, and several of the waggoners appear to have trouble controlling their oxen.

In the distance the soldier shouts, raises his hand for the caravan to stop, and canters to a halt looking down into the grass. The thumping sound is quite loud now, coming in threes, very very low. The soldier dismounts and drawing his sword prods at something unseen in the grass. Arcane fire sparkles on his blade, up his arm and over his head momentarily and a sharp ‘snap’ sound crackles over the bass thumping. The soldier jerks once, twice, and collapses backwards out of sight. His horse bolts away to the South. Sharpeye returns to Dariol’s arm as the various party members start somewhat nervously to arm themselves and start out into the plain . Sharpeye describes a ‘shiny thing with legs, many legs, moving, making noise’. Dariol has not heard of anything like this before, but along with others can now see a trail of grass being bent over by the passage of some low thing towards them in the grass. The thumping comes again, very low, very loud. Oxen snort in discomfort, and horses lift their feet coquettishly to escape the queasy vibration through their hooves. The thing scrambles almost up to the side of a wagon, and thumps again still unseen. This time the sound is so loud that teeth buzz and stomachs flip.


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## Plane Sailing (Mar 31, 2003)

Fareena says the little charm which she uses to protect hersefl from fire each morning, but changes the wording slightly to ward off lightning. The waggoner on the lead wagon is straining at the traces to his oxen when the ground erupts like a volcano to his right. Soil, stones, and grass are hurled skywards 40 feet or more as a huge boney carapace bursts out of the ground, slams into the wagon and clamps mighty jaws into the wooden sides. The wagon teeters on two wheels and falls sideways as the waggoner jumps clear. A soil covered beast of immense but sleek proportions heaves itself onto the surface spitting pieces of shattered wood and rounding on the oxen. A shiny object spins lazily in the air for a moment before thudding back down into the grass nearby.

Clint, Alavarielle and Troy rip out weapons and charge towards the monster, eyeing it’s substantial carapace and soil tearing talons with alarm. What on earth IS this thing and why did it attack NOW? Dariol summons a flaming sphere in the grass next to the beast and scorches it’s hide. Fareena tosses her torch at the creatures feet and calls forth the familiar pyrotechnic smoke over the downed wagon, concealing the beast momentarily, while Alavarielle curses it with Corellan’s Doom. 

The beast lurches out of the smoke, all flailing claws and snapping jaws.  Too far away and wobbling on a midstream wagon, Katarn commences a battle song, boosting his companion’s spirits as they make contact. The armour is thick, but several telling blows are landed in quick succession. Drooling uncontrollably and watering mightily from it’s beady eyes, the great creature snaps and bites at these buzzing gnats, ripping through armour and tearing vicious wounds with ease. A shiny multi-legged object clatters out of the grass into the burnt out soil strewn area near Dariol, and thumps the ground loudly. A gem glows at the front of this strange thing; seemingly scanning it’s surroundings Cyclops like. Dariol calls another flame sphere into being and rolls it over the coppery spider, apparently to no effect, and Fareena’s crossbow bolt also skips harmlessly off its armour.

The landshark heaves forward with tremendous force, ripping another oxen open as it fixes it’s jaws in the side of the second wagon. It’s legs lock against the ground and this wagon too is quickly wobbling. The party redouble their efforts and weapons bite deep into the hide. Blood spurts forth but still the creature heaves. As this wagon topples, Dariol draws his scimitar and clouts the shiney construct solidly on top.  A large dent rocks the thing on it’s sprung legs and blue fire coruscates up Dariol’s blade. His electricity endurance saves him from injury, and Fareena joins in with her favourite cast iron pan, swinging it wildly like a club.

Clint is sorely hurt now and tumbles out of the fray as Vladimar arrives on horseback. He charges in as Alavarielle too steps back to heal her terrible injuries. The creature seems to regain some awareness, and springs into the air, lashing out with all four feet. Alavarielle is caught badly, as is Vladimar’s horse. The normally consummate rider is instantly unhorsed and laid prone at the Bulette’s feet, but Clint, Troy and Alavarielle re-engage with renewed vigour, and the deluge of frantic blows finally brings the monster crashing to a halt.

The construct seems only capable of self-defence, and Dariol and Fareena pound it to bits in short order, Fareena’s pan apparently breaking some delicate internal working that sends springs and wheels flying into the air. The thing sags and whirres to a stop.

Breathing hard, the party survey the carnage. Oxen lie torn and kicking in the grass, two wagons are turned over, battered and helpless like beached whales. As Katarn’s battle song echoes away across the plains Dariol and Fareena gaze at the shattered machine, then at each other and wonder, who makes THESE?


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## Plane Sailing (Apr 2, 2003)

OK, no more story until the DM writes the next installment.

Regarding my earlier "competition", I have to reveal that the winner is... nobody!

I play Fareena, the red-headed stepchild who was regularly beaten and then sold to an orphanage, and thence as a kitchen drudge. She used to make up little childrens rhyming charms to protect her from the heat of the kitchen cookfires, and as she reached her teenage years they seemed to gain some real efficiency. She also got a real knack for starting fires.

To start with, she refused to tell anyone what "class" she was, maintaining that she was "a cook". Indeed, her primary weapon for melee combat is a heavy iron frying pan (treated as a light mace in this case).

Fareena is currently a Sorcerer 3, and I plan on taking her all the way as a sorcerer given the chance. I also plan to eschew all of the traditional "must have" spells... so she has no magic missile, no mage armour or shield, no invisibility (and she won't be getting fly or haste either!). I'm centering her on spells which involve fire or charm/compulsions.

It's been great fun so far, even though one of the companions dies in the next adventure (in a maximum no-fun way).

p.s. please don't tell anyone from that fiery thread on cross-gender roll playing about this, eh?


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## Darklone (Apr 4, 2003)

Plane Sailing said:
			
		

> *It's been great fun so far, even though one of the companions dies in the next adventure (in a maximum no-fun way).
> *


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## Plane Sailing (Apr 7, 2003)

The party gazes down at the wreck of the construct in amazement. Even in its bashed-in condition it is still a thing of beauty and strangeness. A large crystal at the front slowly dims as the magical power that gave it life rapidly ebbs away. Vladimar stares at the wreckage of the two wagons knocked over like toys by the incredible strength of the landshark. Shaking his head in despair he strolls over to the small circle of musing adventurers. ‘What then do we have here’ he demands, pushing into the group. Carefully the party turn the object over, striving to find a way in. After a few minutes Troy stabs with a fine elven finger, pointing out a barely visible indentation.

Careful manipulation with fine tools of questionable functionality soon have the object open, the torn carapace lying to one side in the scorched grass. Close examination of the inner workings of the machine reveal little beyond incomprehensible complexity, although a large gem in the centre is soon extracted as a potential device for incorporation into some future project. However, the inside of the carapace shows a fine tracery of strange script which after some study is translated as gnomish for ‘here is the fine work of his eminent artisanship Grobble-nar of Gorovia’. Aha, a gnomish invention from nearby Gorovia.

Vladimar nods, knowingly, speculating that his arch-enemies in trade, the League of Gor may be behind this. The League are a powerful association of merchant nobles from the divided city of Gorovia, reputedly led by the Duke of Gorovia himself. The League has a virtual monopoly on products crafted from ore torn from the open cast mine that eats into the Black mountain looming over the city. One entire ward of the city is given over to a gnomish population, established in the city from it’s earliest history. These gnomes are tricksy, wily folk, much given to the crafting of strange devices and machines using ancient knowledge brought from places in the deep too long ago to remember. Human mining and gnomish crafting is a grievous insult to the Dwarves of the Black mountain. As a result, they refuse to treat with the people of the city, or anyone who deals with them. Vladimar and his mercantile allies see Dwarvish goods as a valuable generator of revenue, leading naturally to association with Bisigrad where the human relation with Dwarves is altogether much better. This closes his group to trade with Gorovoia and makes the powerful League of Gor an inevitable foe. The League is known to sharpen its competitive edge with direct action against trading opposition from time-to-time, using the services of a shadowy organisation known only as ‘the chain’. This group is based in the begrimed southern part of the city called Gorovia Bas, within which sit the gnomish workshops. Perhaps a team of Chain members using gnomish inventions is trying to destroy them?

As they contemplate this information, it dawns on them that this object may well have been controlled from nearby and Dariol sends Sharpeye aloft to spy out possible miscreants. His search reveals little beyond the obvious trail though the grass left by the construct as it led the innocent landshark into unwitting confrontation. Resolving to chase down the source of the machine immediately, the party wave goodbye to Vladimar who remains to manage the clean-up operation as they head into the setting sun.

Maintaining an intense pace the party trots through the descending gloom, following the infallible nose of Dariol’s wolf. The jingling of horse-harness and armour becomes hypnotic as they press on through the endless plain and pale moonlight turns the grass into a waving sea of grey stalks. In loose line-ahead the party, still led by the implacable wolf blunders straight into a circle of trodden grass with horses looming in the shadows, an unexpected camp. Crossbow bolts thud into the party from left and right as a landshark thunders out of the ground in the centre of the camp, fountaining a great gout of soil into the air...


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## Plane Sailing (Apr 8, 2003)

Fang is terrified out of his wits and flees the camp in an instant. Everyone struggles to dismount and engage unseen foes in the grass, except Alavarielle who reverses course and retreats as fast as possible to the rear, a crossbow bolt projecting from her shoulder. Dariol gabbles off an entangle spell as Drucilla takes on a foe charging from the left with sword in hand. Troy is charged from the right and tangles with his foe long enough to give Clint a chance to slam a sword viciously into the fellow’s back wounding him severely.

The Bulette heaves forward into Dariol’s horse, biting it near in half as other mounts, friends and foes alike scatter in all directions. Drucilla notes a gnome-sized mount amongst the enemies horses and knowing their predilections is convinced that the creature is an illusion, but who’s going to take that risk? Fareena ignites the grass around her for protection with burning hands, standing in a sea of flame of her own making. Drucilla’s foe is quickly paralysed by a Ghoul touch spell. Troy stares past his badly wounded opponent in horror as Clint suddenly screams, clutching at his face, arches his back violently and crashes backwards into the grass with cold staring eyes. The foe uses the moment to sink a potion that visibly seals his terrible injuries. As Drucilla and Fareena move to finish off their foe, another previously concealed enemy springs from the grass to sink a dagger viciously into Dariol who sags bleeding to the ground. The party is reeling in shock, suddenly only three standing, two of whom are weak spellcasters!

Fareena trusts to her magic and wraps the new opponent in flame with a Burning hands spell, as Troy faces his rejuvenated foe, barely scratching him with his rapier. Drucilla circles the paralysed soldier keeping a wary eye on the mysterious knife man who seems determined to kill Fareena but is kept back by the flames while keeping Drucilla in knife range. Fareena takes a chance and ducks past the knifeman to treat Dariol with her healing potion which saves his life. Dariol groans back to action from the effects of healing magic, realising that the bulette in fact IS an illusion as an arrow plunges from the sky into the ground through the creature. He rolls to his feet as the steppe wind fans Fareena’s conflagration in his direction. Fareena takes the opportunity to blast the flames into a full pyrotechnic magical effect, blinding the knifeman momentarily.

Troy fences the soldier, standing protectively over Clint’s upsettingly still and supine body. The bulette finally disappears as the illusionist levitated in the distant grass struggles with the entangling stems that hold him in place. Dariol moves towards Troy’s enemy but is wary due to his weak condition. Alavarielle cannot see that her speculative arrow has resulted in the disappearance of the illusion as conflicting flame and magical light dances in the distance. She can see Troy struggling off to her right and targets his foe as the best option. Troy is taking progressive chunks from his opponent who refuses to go down despite multiple wounds. Drucilla strikes at the knifeman, using the ghoul touched foe as cover but is stabbed back with uncanny accuracy in the swirling chaos.

It seems that Fareena’s pyrotechnics has not been as effective as normal as the knifeman dodges nimbly around the ghoul touched foe after Drucilla. Fareena’s voice croons across the space as flames crackle at her feet, enticing him to ‘join us’, a charm spell backing up the idea. Amazingly the fellow appears momentarily confused, perhaps the charm has worked despite the adverse circumstances? Fareena continues talking, to maintain his attention.

Drucilla finally slashes the throat of the ghoul touch victim moments before the magic wears off, and the knifeman stabs out at her in rage, still apparently struggling with inner conflicts. Fareena flames him anyway and he collapses in burning agony. Alavarielle is still not getting the range, although she is shooting from over 200 feet away so this is no surprise. Troy spikes through the soldier’s armour, again not enough to floor him, and the fellow decides that discretion is the better part of valour now the boss is down. Arrows plummet round him ineffectually as he flees into the night. 

The trapped illusionist appears not to have been able to target any more spells in the whirling confusion, but surrounds himself in mist to confound the searching party. Troy bends in cold anticipation to confirm that Clint is dead. Angered by this loss the party frantically grope their way into the mist until Fareena’s flaming fingers burn the vapour off in a flash. A shape freed at last from its entangling bonds collapses to the ground smouldering but still unseen due to invisibility magic. Close by, a small domed brass object on four spindly legs spins aggressively with lethal blades projecting from every edge. Another construct! It scoots towards the party who stand mesmerisied until the blades sink into flesh and bone with startling ease. Dariol collapses once more as the party pound the object with various weapons. The carapace takes some nasty dents but the blades spin redly on. Troy resolves to turn the thing over and use his new-found knowledge of constructs to turn it off, taking a terrible wound to his arms for his efforts. Finally however he succeeds, and the guts of the machine are soon exposed. The gem is wrenched rudely from its mountings and terminates the machine’s mission. Somewhat sheepishly Fang trots back into the camp to rub his head against Dariol’s forgiving hand.

The enemy’s goods are soon distributed among the party who having recovered their mounts set off disconsolately for the distant caravan with Clint’s body slung over a saddlebow.


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## Plane Sailing (Apr 15, 2003)

How grotty is that, eh? Poor old Clint, wiped out in a single round by a fourth level 2-saves-or-die spell. Not what 3rd/4th level characters like to face!


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## Plane Sailing (Apr 15, 2003)

Pre-dawn sees the group gathered in discussion of what to do about Clint. Was he a religious man? No-one seems to know. Mischa resolves to find out, and passing behind the screen that protects the corpse’s dignity from prying eyes, lays a hand upon Clint’s chest. His message reaches across the endless planes to the left hand of Death where Clint’s unbound soul awaits judgement. In a brief and unsettling conversation with the unquiet soul Mischa determines that Clint feels his purpose in life unfulfilled. He does not accept this fate and would prefer to walk the earth again. He knows that to do so he must bind his soul to Mischa’s God, Fharlanghn, and that he can only return if others are prepared to sacrifice a small part of their souls to appease Death. This deity of the distant horizon appeals to Clint’s sense of fate, and perhaps that trickery domain is strangely compelling too.

In the watery light of a distant rising sun a disparate group gathers round Clint’s corpse. The Corellonites have abstained from this show on principle and look on from a distance. Beyoncay, Vladimar, Mischa, Drucilla, Dariol, and Fareena stand in a circle, left hand resting on the shoulder of the next in the circle, right hand on Clint’s body. Mischa intones a disturbing dirge that sends a chill down the spine, and an unseen cloud passes briefly across the rim of the rising sun. A moment of inner pain and light shocks the company momentarily, leaving each of them feeling slightly empty, and Clint’s body heaves a breath. He is with them again, diminished but not defeated, bound now yet free once more. He gazes at each of his companions in turn, nods to Mischa and turns away to inner contemplation. They leave him to his thoughts.

While Clint sleeps to regain the strength lost on the long journey from death’s domain, the caravan rumbles on. Three days pass uneventfully, (other than a few mad midnight ravings from poor Old Stefan) until contact is made with a great column of beasts led by Dirkan-Var. Dirkan is another of Vladimar’s cohorts, this time out of Bisigrad, who tells of a journey plagued by strife. A spy in their group has slaughtered a number of beasts with a plague of some kind. He was discovered and chased, but managed to swallow poison before they could question him. Dirkan is a dour individual but clearly rugged and capable. His Barbarian origins are less clear from his garb which is clearly Gorovadian in style, than from his mannerisms and accent that are entirely steppe like the hardy pony he rides.

The caravan is now enormous, stretching nearly half a mile in length across the plain and comprising near two hundred beasts, ten great wagons, and over a hundred people. Groups of riders are now needed in all directions and Vladimar sends his best to the fore in the shape of the party members. As the sun rises to its apogee on Korday of Foreweek in the last stretch of Low Spring, a cloud of dust can be seen directly in the caravan’s path. The party spurs forward to investigate, Sharpeye circling high above. The keen eyed hawk reports a number of ‘daylight two legs’, some riding ‘four legs’, and in battle with ‘hard shells’.  Finally through the dust the party can see a surging swirling melee to their front, two Pechenki horsemen have lassoed an angry Ankheg, but cannot pull it from its feet. Why they’d want to capture rather than kill an Ankheg is a mystery! The spitting creature is lunging at a single unhorsed figure on the ground who flips to his feet in an instant, a scimitar springing into its hand as if by magic. This fellow’s practised swings bite hard through the creature’s carapace, flying ichor visible to the onlookers even at distance. Interesting enough, and a fair fight perhaps, until the ground erupts behind the lone figure and a swarm of Ankhegs engulf him in a cloud of dust.

What should they do?


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## Plane Sailing (Apr 22, 2003)

Just played this game last Sunday (even though I was only there for 2 hours of it). Exciting stuff, some near misses, one character death.

As soon as the Dm gets it written up, I'll start posting.

Cheers


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## Guido (Dec 8, 2003)

For those of you who have been waiting, here is the start of episode 2 and 3 of stories from the steppe. As it is a retrospective - it is seen through the memory of Katarn, an elven Bard come forth from the eternal forest to seek wonder and tales anew from the strange folk beyond the green fortress.

He's found them, and in abundance too. Such short lives they lead, and so much they do in that time these humans. Thus, Katarn has seen more in a few months than all the years in the woods, and the shock to his world view is almost too much to bear. Finding sojourn in the company of new-found wilderness friends, the tale of recent months emerges from his scarred mind. A necessary catharsis for the grieving elf, and a tale of great deeds for those who would listen...


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## Guido (Dec 9, 2003)

*Stories from the Steppe - episode 2*

*Stories from the Steppe – Episode 2:*

Katarn stares into the dulling fire and strums his finely crafted lute in a detached way, delicate and complex tones washing forth like a babbling brook to caress the ears of those around him. The moon is high in the night sky, threaded across with thin strips of cloud and limned silver by the goddess’s pale luminescence. The fresh spring night air wafts across his face in gentle zephyrs, lifting a strand or two of his fine hair and carrying with it the mixed and familiar taints of horse, mutton and leather.

Hulven prods the embers with a stick, stirring them back to flame and clears his throat to speak in gutteral gnoll. ‘You are lost within, Katarn Harper, what do you see there?’. Bodies shuffle round the fire, leaning in with interest to hear the elf’s musical voice again. Such questions had oft been the start for a song or a story and these horse folk did so love a story. 

Katarn had first met the nomads in an act of such staggeringly open naivety in the face of their justifiably fearsome reputation that they had become friends with this stranger elf. His childish delight in learning their songs and traditions had warmed them to him in an instant and now his return to their camp after a month among the city folk had both surprised and impressed them. But he has changed.  Even for an elf now he carries his years with perceptibly greater weight, like an old man.

He lifts his eyes to the moon, and a single tear runs down his cheek. He knows that these folk consider such openly emotional behaviour unseemly in a man, but he cares not, for his minds eye wanders far away in memories riven with fear, companionship and loss. They’ll not judge him hashly, after all, he is not one of them.

‘I see within a mark upon my heart that was made not by a wound from a foe, but from the bonds of companions torn from me in battle. You would not wish to hear of it for it is a story of your own time not more than one moon past when your tribe fled from a foe it could not understand and could not fight. Would you have me tear open your wounds too so newly healed?’

The ring of huddled shapes mutter and shift uneasily. Hulven grunts. ‘Your part in the ridding of that demon song is not well known leafborn, yet you were there among the heroes. You have gifted us many times with your fine stories and songs, helping us to find it in our hearts to see a better time ahead despite what has befallen us. Now you call for help, speak, and we shall lift you back into the saddle. Tell us of your deeds and ride again with pride’.

The sombre mood lingers a moment, then Omuja slaps Hulven mightily on the back, ‘hah, a pretty speech Hulven, the pointy ear will make a woman of you yet’, and laughter rings across the grassy plain. Hulven scowls, then breaks into an embarrassed guffaw, cracking is horn cup against Omuja’s leather jack tankard and sinking a draft of the bitter barbarian ale. Omuja, quaffs from his own vessel and leans in to Katarn, noisily wiping the froth from his thin moustache with the back of his hand. ‘Still little brother, girly Hulvena has a point, just what did happen up in those hills?’ Grunts of enquiring assent emerge from the flickering shadows.

Katarn waits for a perfect moment, eyes back on the flames now dancing merrily again, then lifts his head. Silence falls. The traditional start to all stories in this tribe never disappoints, and it’s familiar cadence clatters from his throat in gutteral gnollish to the delight of all around, 'Go-gesh na, go-gesh na, go-gesh na...' (‘so it goes, so it goes, so it goes…’)


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## Shockwave (Dec 9, 2003)

Guido said:
			
		

> *‘I see within a mark upon my heart that was made not by a wound from a foe, but from the bonds of companions torn from me in battle. You would not wish to hear of it for it is a story of your own time not more than one moon past when your tribe fled from a foe it could not understand and could not fight. Would you have me tear open your wounds too so newly healed?’*




Ah yes, so much to be told and seen and yet the struggle of life continues abound.


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## Plane Sailing (Dec 9, 2003)

Guido said:
			
		

> Katarn waits for a perfect moment, eyes back on the flames now dancing merrily again, then lifts his head. Silence falls. Katarn waits for a perfect moment, eyes back on the flames now dancing merrily again, then lifts his head. Silence falls.




So... two perfect moments, or a glitch in the matrix


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## Guido (Dec 11, 2003)

Plane Sailing said:
			
		

> So... two perfect moments, or a glitch in the matrix




So many keys, so many strokes, such quick fingers, quicker even than the mind...Oh weak flesh.


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## Plane Sailing (Dec 12, 2003)

As Katarn recounts the stories, would you like if I gave a Fareena-eye-view of the proceedings too? Scribblings from her little diary or something? Just askin', because I don't want to distract from Katarns poetic flow


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## Guido (Dec 13, 2003)

Plane Sailing said:
			
		

> As Katarn recounts the stories, would you like if I gave a Fareena-eye-view of the proceedings too? Scribblings from her little diary or something? Just askin', because I don't want to distract from Katarns poetic flow




Delighted old chap, always helps to have another perspective and creative source. This may be a slow project though as the main game must take precedence!


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## robberbaron (Dec 15, 2003)

I'll see if I can summon some insight from Eloramaliandariol / Droog as well.


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## robberbaron (Dec 17, 2003)

Don't know when Guido will be able to update this so..

Bumpedy-bump.


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