# The Fall of Civilization



## the Jester

*PROLOGUE*

The distant night sky is painted pink and orange by the burning of cities. The watchmen on the walls of Chebonnay are grim, knowing that the Six-Fingered Hand is closing upon them.

The army is at full muster; the navy’s ships are deployed. But Arawn, death knight leader of the Six-Fingered Hand has spent centuries, some say millennia, binding together the alliance that he leads. Nobody could have ever predicted that he could do it- that he could, somehow, against all odds and all instincts, force the goblins, orcs, gnolls, kobolds, lizardfolk and ogres to work together. What hold does he have over them, over their kings and chieftains? Nobody knows, but whatever hold it is, it will never relinquish its grip. 

Like a mailed fist, the Six-Fingered Hand is smashing through the Imperial defenses.

The humanoid armies are coming from the south, to invest the city as they have so many others. From the north, the Bloody Fleet is moving ever closer, with the Imperial Navy fighting for all its worth to hold them off. The outlying farms are emptying as the peasants flee towards the distant mountains or into the city, depending on their confidence in the Empire’s ability to defend Chebonnay.

Civilization is ending. This is the end, the fall of humanity, the fall of the dwarves, the fall of the halfling, of the elves and their alien cousins, the eladrin- even of that relatively new race, the dragonborn. They have made the mistake of siding with the so-called ‘civilized’ races, and now the forces of barbarism are going to knock them clean to extinction, if they have their way.

Within the city of Chebonnay, this deep in the night, people huddle together in fear. Husbands try to bury their fears in the bosoms of their wives. Wives bite their lips and try to bury their fears in the arms of their husbands. Merchants hide their coins in fear of looting when the inevitable siege comes. Even this deep in the night, the smiths still work, the clanging of their hammers and anvils marking each new blade forged, each new boss fixed to a new shield, each spur for the cavalry and arrowhead for the archers and the guards on the wall. Some of the city’s less savory characters sleep soundly, as if the Six-Fingered Hand will spare them for being petty thieves and rapists. They should know better, from the rumors that have burned through the city like wildfire. The Six-Fingered Hand spares no one. If it lets you live, it is to torture you, to enslave you, to make you walk with their forces until they are ready to eat you.

There are other people sleeping well, of course; those too oblivious to know, too tired to worry, too stupid to care. And there are others awake, working hard for the war effort. 

Or drinking hard for the war effort.

Near the docks, in the Steaming Clam, a dirty tavern run by dwarves, army and navy boys drink together, fight, make up, buy each other drinks and piss and vomit in turn. 

The cook- who everyone simply calls Cook- is a foreign dwarf, from far-off Muk Nam. He is long since in bed, passed out. It is far too deep in the night, at this point, for a sane businessman to be conscious and, shall we say, viable. So he is not.

But his clientele- a mix of enlisted men and sailors- is certainly happy to keep Cook’s assistants busy, serving cheap, watered beer and grog. They are happy to be drunk- and not to be thinking about the forthcoming fight against the Six-Fingered Hand. 

In the military, and in establishments catering to soldiers and sailors, rumors tend to travel fast fast fast. The Steaming Clam is no exception.

The Six-Fingered Hand will be here by tomorrow night, and the city’s rulers have made a deal to capitulate!

The Navy has already been crushed!

The Army surely can’t hold the enemy back, they’re just a bunch of wet-behind-the-ears kids!

The Army has more deserters than dedicated warriors!

Navy ships are leaving in the night, to escape before the Hand arrives!

Somehow, none of the rumors are very encouraging.

***

At a table in the Steaming Clam, four unlikely friends sit. 

Vann-La and Torinn are Navy; Heimall and Kratos are Army. In the past weeks, they have given each other black eyes, then bought each other drinks. They have bitched about sergeants and bosuns to each other, and all of them have complained about their officers. In short, they have become fast friends ready to die together when the attack comes.

They are all somewhere between a little and a lot drunk, and they’ve been boasting, arm wrestling, talking smack and trying to one-up one another. Vann-La is an elf, and more than that, she is a Kree: a type of elf with a blue tinge to the skin, a tendency to haughty superiority (okay, that’s an elven trait, not a Kree trait), and a fondness for hyphenated names. She is also a formidable warrior. Torinn is a dragonborn cleric of Lester, the god of adventures, associated with strong luck (good and bad), excitement and- to his detractors- bad decisions. Heimall is a human, tall, with reddish skin that betrays a bit of tiefling in his ancestry, with a vivid scar across his cheek and shoulder. Kratos is a half-elf with a stern look to him and a uniform that, somehow, remains neat no matter what he is doing. Both of the army boys are warlords and officers-in-training.

They all lean back as a minor, uninteresting brawl breaks out. None of them care to get involved; neither principle in the brawl is military, and both are (as a sailor might put it) scurvy bilge rats. But some of the conversation nearby has caught the ear of Torinn and Vann-La. 

“Navy ships, leaving before the attack comes,” Vann-La muses. “I hope that there isn’t any truth to that.”

Torinn nods. “Our ship wouldn’t do that.”

“They wouldn’t leave us behind,” Vann-La agrees. 

“They would at least try to find us first,” Torinn says. 

The barmaid brings another round for their table. They are well-behaved enough to still be served, even at this late hour, while many of the less decorous customers are politely ignored. Of course, they have Army and Navy together in a friendly but adversarial way, so no single group specifically targets them. 

Who cares? Will it matter by this time tomorrow?

“We better go check on the ship,” Vann-La says, echoing what Torinn has been thinking. 

“Hey, we need to get back to our barracks anyway,” Heimall declares. He nudges Kratos. “We’ll walk as far as the docks with you.”

“Sounds good,” replies Torinn. He stretches and stands up. “We might as well get going.”

The foursome finishes their drinks, pays their tab and departs. The walk to the docks is short; the Steaming Clam, as its name intimates, has a menu specializing in fish, and the freshest fish is, naturally, available near the sea.

Unfortunately-

“She’s gone,” breathes Torinn, as the group walks out to a pier with three fishing vessels and a small sailboat moored to it.

“Your ship?” queries Heimall.

“Yes. She’s gone.” Torinn’s draconic face is grim and drawn. 

“Are you sure we’re in the right place?” asks Kratos. 

Torinn just gives a glare, while Vann-La responds, “Yes, this is the right place. I recognize those two boats from earlier.”

“There were more boats here earlier, when we left our ship,” Torinn says slowly.

“Yeah, _including_ our ship.”

The group stands around listlessly for a while. Then Vann-La cocks her head and says, “What’s that?”

Everybody listens. _Sloosh, sloosh._ 

“It’s a boat coming in,” Vann-La answers herself, “but why doesn’t it have any running lights? No, it does, but they are shuttered. What’s going on?”

“I don’t like this,” Kratos warns. 

Then the goblins start shooting.

_*Next Time:*_ The Fall of Civilization!!


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## Mathew_Freeman

Subscribe! Subscribe! Subscribe!

Very atmospheric start, Jester - and I can guarantee you at least one excited reader. 

Can you give us any information about timelines compared to your previous game? And who is playing who?


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## the Jester

Tallarn said:


> Subscribe! Subscribe! Subscribe!
> 
> Very atmospheric start, Jester - and I can guarantee you at least one excited reader.
> 
> Can you give us any information about timelines compared to your previous game? And who is playing who?




The timeline is several thousand years post-Great Conflicts. 

As far as who is playing whom, of the pcs you've seen so far:

Kratos is played by Alcar (played Alcar);
Vann-La is played by Brain (played Inoke, JJ);
Heimall is played by seldomseen (played Drelvin, Chakar); and
Torinn is played by hippiejedi (played Gerontius).


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## Nightbreeze

Very interesting start, Jester (wonder how many of those good story hours you can manage )

But, when listing people sleeping in the city, you should have added "and there were few who slept soundly, as the next day their magic would carry them on the other side of the world, as soon as they grew bored or felt threatened"


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## the Jester

Nightbreeze said:


> But, when listing people sleeping in the city, you should have added "and there were few who slept soundly, as the next day their magic would carry them on the other side of the world, as soon as they grew bored or felt threatened"




That's so 3rd edition.


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## Nightbreeze

the Jester said:


> That's so 3rd edition.




Hmm...I see. 4th edition.

Storyhour-wise: boring. (sorry, but it's true. Can you imagine your story hours and Sep's viridity and saizhan in 4th? )


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## Mathew_Freeman

Nightbreeze said:


> Storyhour-wise: boring. (sorry, but it's true. Can you imagine your story hours and Sep's viridity and saizhan in 4th? )




Yup. In fact, I'm looking forward to seeing what the Jester's twisted imagination, and the limitless creativity of his players can do!


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## GoodKingJayIII

Nightbreeze said:


> Storyhour-wise: boring.




You seemed to like it before you knew it was 4th.   Besides, a good story is edition-neutral.

Looking forward to this one.


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## Nightbreeze

GoodKingJayIII said:


> You seemed to like it before you knew it was 4th.   Besides, a good story is edition-neutral.
> 
> Looking forward to this one.



Oh, I do still like it. I think that from the point of style, it will be better than his other story hours (if one can judge from the first post alone). But I also doubt that it will be as rich as it goes on, due to the natural fact that 4th ed. has but a tiny fraction of spell varieties that 3.x had, and they count a for a story hour.

Still, obviously going to follow it


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## the Jester

Nightbreeze said:


> ...I also doubt that it will be as rich as it goes on, due to the natural fact that 4th ed. has but a tiny fraction of spell varieties that 3.x had, and they count a for a story hour.




For the record, this won't be true for long imho. Between various supplements, third party material and homebrewed stuff, I think the breadth of stuff available will increase pretty drastically inside of a year.

And don't underestimate the power of exception based design!


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## the Jester

“What happened next?” the sergeant asks. 

“The goblins opened fire with bows. We were caught almost completely off-guard. But we returned fire and soon turned the tide, managing to board their ship and kill their marines.”

“Damn navy pukes. That ship should never have made it so close to shore. But what could one ship of goblins accomplish?”

Kratos frowns. “Well, sergeant, it wasn’t just goblins.”

“Eh?”

“There were kobolds in the galley, rowers chained to their oars. But it was in the belly of the ship that we found the evidence of what they were up to.”

“Out with it! What did you find?”

“The hold was packed full of barrels of sunpowder,” Kratos replies gravely.

The sergeant whistles. “Damn, no wonder. They just wanted to blow up the docks!”

Kratos nods. “That’s how we read it, too, sir.”

“So what did you do?”

“One of the sailors lit the kegs, we kicked the kobolds in the galley into high gear- telling them to row away- and we cleared off the deck.”

“Then, that explosion in the harbor last night...”

Kratos nods. 

“Well, well. So the only reason you were there in the first place was the fact that their ship had already abandoned the port. Damned no-balls navy.” The sergeant pauses for a few seconds, chewing his lower lip. Then he barks, “Dismissed!”

***

The forces of the Six-Fingered Hand are closing in. The bloody morning sky shows them in the distance, a seething mass covering the land, destroying the farms, killing those fools foolish enough to remain outside of the city walls. The stream of refugees pouring into the city thickens, as does the stream of refugees leaving, fleeing for some imagined safety.

“Hell,” Vann-La mutters. She is in a foul mood. The soup is thin, the grog is watery and her head aches. He wounds from the battle of the night before have faded to mere aches and pains. _What the hell do I do now?_ she wonders. She glances at her friend Torinn, across the table. He, too, looks at a loss.

The Steaming Clam’s cook, a stubby, scarred dwarf from the Far East, bustles over to their table. The cook likes to befriend his more well-behaved military patrons, and- as they are sailors who have been drinking together with soldiers- Vann-La and Torinn have qualified. The cook smiles broadly at them as he approaches. “Oi, how you doin, my friends?”

“Hey Cook,” the dragonborn says listlessly.

“What da news?” Cook asks.

“Our ship seems to have left without us,” Torinn grumbles. 

“Oi, very bad, very bad,” Cook sighs. “Bad luck all over. And da Hand come soon. You have nother drink on da house.”

As the dwarf hustles away to bring their beverages over, Vann-La sighs. _What the hell do we do now?_ she wonders again.

“Well, at least it’s an adventure,” Torinn says. 

***

That night, Torinn and Vann-La are joined by Nixie, another of their crewmates who has been left behind. She is an elf- to Vann-La’s eyes, an inferior cousin- and a warlock. Sailors were always chasing after her, but she was quite capable of keeping them at a distance with her unnerving abilities and the whispered rumors of her dealing with demons and worse to gain her powers.

Right now, she’s just worried. No ship, no way out of this city- the Hand is closing in from all directions- and the Hand fleet is moving in as well, to cut off escape from the harbor. The Imperial Navy floats, miles out to sea, ready to intercept and engage them. The battle is in fact probably already happening. Surely the Hand cannot punch through the navy’s lines. Surely the humanoids cannot defeat the Empire, even with orcish sunpowder cannon. 

Yet cities are aflame in the distance, and a carpet of swarming figures covers the ground in the distance. They are closing in.

Kratos joins them again, with another eladrin from his platoon with him. This is Sta’Ligir, who is a conscript whose natural talents lean more towards wizardry that to weaponry. In these desperate and chaotic times, however, he has been pressed into service as a soldier. He is clearly less than eager to fight the hordes of the Six-Fingered Hand in a few days, and when the sailors tell him that their boat has already abandoned the city, Sta’Ligir nods. “Yeah, our musters keep getting smaller and smaller, too.”

The next morning it is worse.

Heimall, Sta’Ligir, Kratos, and two other young conscripts are all that muster when the bugle sounds in the morning. Looking around at the empty ranks, Kratos’ thoughts are bleak. _Cowards,_ he thinks. 

When the sergeant arrives, he blanches. There are no officers in evidence. Kratos’ fists clenched. _So, they have abandoned us enlisted men to our fate,_ he thinks bitterly.

The sergeant seems to come to a decision. “You men stay here while I find an officer,” he barks. And he turns and begins to hurry away.

_He’s not coming back._ Aloud, Kratos snaps, “You are a coward.”

The sergeant stiffens and stops. He turns back to face the ranks. “What did you say?” he growls.

“You heard me! You are abandoning us. You know it and we know it.” He turns to face the others and spreads his arms. “You men are all going to die if you keep following this coward. Warriors, stand by me, and we will survive and then triumph!”

The sergeant is flabbergasted. Kratos turns back to face him and sends him a withering glare. “Go on, coward! Flee! We will survive this, and fight to regain the glory you cowards are losing us!”

“I’m no coward!” the sergeant cries, backing away a few steps. He bites his lip. “I- I am getting an officer, and you’re going to be arrested!” He whirls and flees out of the courtyard where the group is assembled.

“Screw this!” one of the conscripts cries. He throws down his helmet and spear and runs after the sergeant. 

The other one hesitates, as do Heimall and Sta’Ligir.

“What do you suggest, then?” Sta’Ligir demands.

“You know they can hang you for that, right?” Heimall says to Kratos, shaking his head.

“Nobody’s hanging anyone now. Look at this place. There’s nobody left. The officers headed out of here as soon as things got hot. We need to get the hell out of here. Follow me, and we’ll live to fight another day.”

“What do you want to do?” Sta’Ligir asks again.

“We’ll get a boat and get the hell out of here.” 

“We don’t know how to sail,” Sta’Ligir points out. 

“We have some sailor friends who are in a very similar position to us. They can help us sail out of here before the Six-Fingered Hand’s ships get here.”

“What makes you think the navy won’t hold?” asks Heimall. 

“Are you kidding? Their ships are abandoning us, too. Their morale is probably as low as that of the army. The lines won’t hold.” Kratos shakes his head.

Heimall nods reluctantly. “Either way, we’ll be besieged by this evening. And there are a lot of forces coming our way. Mostly goblins, but there are supposed to be plenty of orcs and gnolls.” He shudders. 

“What about you?” Kratos asks the remaining conscript. “Will you follow me?”

The conscript is a boy of sixteen years named Nedyoiv. Doe-eyed, he nods. _I want to live!_ is writ large on his face. 

Sta’Ligir sighs, exasperated. “There doesn’t seem to be much choice, does there? We need to find a way out of here.”

“Let’s go,” Heimall says.

***

Meanwhile, at the Steaming Clam, Vann-La, Nixie and Torinn have roused themselves and come to a similar determination. “We have to get out of here,” Nixie says. 

“We can’t do that without our boat,” Torinn points out.

“We can’t do it without _a_ boat,” Vann-La corrects him.

Hurriedly, they gather their gear and prepare to depart. The cook stops them.

“Where you all goin?”

“We’re leaving,” Vann-La says. “Hey, we could use a cook. You should come with us.”

“Leaving how? Army all around, too late to go.”

“We’re taking a boat.”

“Let me grab some important thing.”

The cook gathers a few pots and pans, some cutlery, a few bags of meager foodstuffs, and a few coins. Then the group hurries out- and runs into their army buddies coming down the street.

“Oh, good,” calls Heimall. “We were looking for you.”

The two groups quickly discuss their plans, which prove to be quite well-aligned with each other. The conclusion is obvious: join forces. Together, they make their way to the docks. Most of the boats are gone, though there are some fishing boats and similar things tied up to the pier. 

“Let’s take a few minutes to look for something fast,” Nixie suggests. “It might be worth it at this point.”

“We can’t spend too much time,” Torinn replies. “Look!”

Black specks are starting to become visible in the distant ocean. Ships, ships of the Six-Fingered Hand that have thrust through the now-shattered lines of the Imperial Navy. Behind them, the sharks are feasting. 

“It won’t take long at all,” says Nixie. “Over there- that pleasure craft!” The others follow her gaze to a sleek, quick-looking boat. They hurry towards it, and as they come closer, they can see that there are several guards in front of it. It is emblazoned with the coat of arms of the daVoi family- a notoriously decadent line known for corruption and political power.

“That’s close enough,” one of the guards says with surly authority.

“We’re confiscating that vessel,” Kratos says, walking towards them. “Get out of the way.” And he draws his sword as he advances. As the guards attempt to draw and attack him, he strikes, and the battle is on! Heimall uses a _commander’s strike_ to allow Kratos to take another attack, while the cook hurls a small kitchen skewer into the guard that Kratos has been attacking. Sta’Ligir throws a _sleep_ spell, and Torinn hits the same fellow with a _righteous brand,_ and then the guard strikes back, slicing Kratos across the leg. The warlord grunts and ripostes- and the first guard falls!

The other guard tries to fall back. “Boss!” he shouts. “Trouble!” And then he falls asleep thanks to the wizardry of Sta’Ligir. Quickly, Vann-La moves up and kills the unconscious fellow. 

On the boat’s deck, the cabin door opens a crack and a fat head pokes partway out. “What’s going on out there? Ahh!” he shouts in surprise. 

“Surrender!” calls Kratos. “We mean you no harm, but we _will_ have your vessel! Come down or we will be forced to take you by force!”

Seeing no alternative, the fat head emerges the rest of the way, followed by a fat daVoi body, draped in silk clothing. 

“I’m surprised you haven’t left yet,” Vann-La comments. “I’d have figured you for the kind of rat that would have left hours or days ago.”

”I was waiting for a... lady friend,” the noble sighs.

The party leaves him behind on the dock as they board his vessel and cast off. ”But what about me?” he cries. 

”Good luck with your lady friend,” Nixie yells back as the party begins to sail their new ship out into the harbor. She turns her attention to the sails. _If only we can catch a favorable wind and get out of here before the noose tightens,_ she thinks. 

The ships on the water are clear now, and closing fast.

Next Time: Can the party get out of the harbor in time? Escape from Chebonnay!


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## GoodKingJayIII

Well... certainly not the outcome I expected!  Your heroes did some very non-heroic things this time around:  deserting the military, attacking soldiers, leaving the noble behind.  It's very Darwinian.

Not the impression I got of them in the first post, but it sounds like self-preservation is the name of the game right now!


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## Mathew_Freeman

Murky morals in a time of war! Loving it.


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## the Jester

_Get out fast._

The sun is sinking towards the west; it is late afternoon. Soon the western seas will swallow it as it continues its great journey through the waters, under and back out, thousands of miles to the east. As it crosses them, it throws the shapes of the Six-Fingered Hand’s ships in stark relief. 

Chebonnay is on the south side of the harbor. A few miles further north, two great spurs of land offer some shelter to the city’s docks, but they also serve as a choke point. Any naval attack must come through this point- as must any waterborne escape from the city. 

The daVoi pleasure craft that our heroes have stolen is sleek, with racing sails and lines for speed. The navy folk on board (Vann-La, Nixie and Torinn) are all experienced sailors, and they begin to plot their course for the harbor’s exit. The ships of the Six-Fingered Hand are riding the tide for that same spot. 

“Oo, are we gonna make it?” the dwarven cook asks. Nobody answers. The navy personnel rush from one sail to another, doing mysterious naval things. The army soldiers (Kratos, Nedyoiv, Heimall and Sta’Ligir) do their best to help, but they don’t even know the terminology, much less the skills that they need.

The spurs of land that will allow or cut off escape grow closer. The bottom of the sun’s disc is now touching the far off water. The sky is glowing with pink and orange. Behind them, in the city, the fleeing party can hear the sounds of the Six-Fingered Hand’s army. The investment of Chebonnay has begun. “There’s no going back now,” Sta’Ligir says. “Not that I wanted to,” he adds in a mutter. “Damn army. I’m not even supposed to be here- I should be studying.”

“Shut up and tie that line, Stalinger!” Torinn gestures.

“It’s Sta’Ligir.”

“Staliger?”

With a sigh, Sta’Ligir answer, “Just call me Iggy.”

The boat races across the water. The spurs of land are now probably only half a mile away.

“We aren’t going to make it,” Vann-La announces. “There are some small advance craft that will beat us to it- they’ll intercept us inside the harbor.”

“How small?” asks Torinn.

“About the same size as this boat, but probably not quite as fast. But also probably with a lot more soldiers than we have.”

Nixie suggests, “Let’s try to get past it. We’re in a pretty fast, maneuverable boat.”

“We don’t have much choice, I guess,” Vann-La nods.

The enemy does indeed reach the straits first, and there are multiple small boats coming ahead, with a huge fleet behind them. Some of them show signs of damage from the battle fought with the Imperial Navy, but it is clear that this fleet is in the throes of victory.

The party tries to dodge the first enemy vessel to approach. As they come closer, the goblins on the enemy ship start firing bows, while our heroes toss and fire a few ranged weapons of their own. Vann-La desperately swings the wheel of the daVoi craft, but she cannot evade the enemy completely, and the two boats scrape against each other, each badly damaging the other before deflecting apart. 

“We’re taking on water!” Nixie screams.

“They are too, at least,” Heimall notes with satisfaction. Indeed, it seems as though the Six-Fingered Hand’s vessel is sinking at a precipitous rate. 

“We may be able to at least reach the mud flats before this thing sinks,” Vann-La says desperately. The other sailors rush to help her and they limp the vessel, slowly sinking, towards the western edge of the land, which ends in broad mud flats. Behind them, a few goblins manage to cling to debris, but most seem to drown.

The boat grows more and more sluggish as it gains more and more water. Nixie looks frantically for a bilge pump, but to no avail. Finally, just when it seems that they might have to abandon ship, the vessel runs aground in a thick bar of mud.

“We made it!” cries Sta’Ligir.

“This far, anyway,” Kratos retorts. “Let us move on out of these mud flats.”

“But where are we going?” asks Nixie. “I mean, really- where are we going?” She gestures. “It’s too late to escape to sea. We can probably still flee our way to the west before the Hand completely cuts off our escape, but where are we going? Where is safe?”

“A good question,” nods Heimall. “And for that matter, is ‘safe’ what we are after, or are we looking for somewhere that we can make a difference?”

“For now, we need to focus on getting to safety,” Iggy opines. “We can figure out the rest later.”

The party agrees that this makes sense, so they slog from the daVoi wreck towards dryer land. Slowly, the hip-deep water that seems average changes to knee-deep, then to areas of muddy land interspersed with ankle- to knee-deep pools and trenches. The sun finishes sinking beneath the waves and Night lays her cloak over the party as they slog through. Behind them, they can hear the roar of the siege that has begun. Their only light is a feeble magic glow conjured by Sta’Ligir.

“If we don’t hurry,” Heimall declares, “the Hand will close off our escape route.”

But they can only move so fast while moving through the mud. Even in the areas of more solid ground, they sink ankle deep when they step forward. Their progress is agonizingly slow, but detectable, as they advance into an area of scattered cat tail reeds and tall marsh grasses. 

Things seem to be going too well, and just as Vann-La is starting to think that they might escape without any trouble, she hears a wet squelching sound before the party. _What’s that?_ she wonders. Then her keen elven eyes widen as they catch a strange sight.

The mud itself seems to be rising...

“LOOK OUT!!” Vann-La shouts.

Strange, humanoid shapes have risen from the mud. Before anyone can react, they begin hurling globs of mud at the party! One strikes Heimall. “Agh!” he cries, slowed by the mud. 

“Stop those things, whatever they are!” Sta’Ligir cries. He fires a _magic missile_ at one of them. The spell blasts some of the mud away, but the strange thing keeps on coming.

The rest of the party begins to slog towards the mud-men. Then, suddenly, from a nearby thicket of swamp grass, a group of kobolds and lizard men rise up and begin firing missiles as well.

Instantly, Kratos recognizes that the mixture of the two species can only mean one thing: the Hand has found them! 

The kobolds begin slinging pots of flaming tar at the party. Vann-La takes a shot to the chest and gives a cry of pain. Then, gritting her teeth, she charges at the nearest lizard man and engages him. Behind her, Heimall struggles with the mud that encrusts him; it hardens, immobilizing him completely! He manages to shake his arms free- he can still fight- but his body is held fast. Torinn, too, begins to struggle with the mud coating him; the mudmen are still flinging more globs of wet muck at the party.

_Lester’s arm,_ Torinn curses to himself. _I won’t be killed by mud!_ With all his might, he shakes his body, and the mud flies from him! He staggers for a moment, then catches his balance and speaks a _healing word_ to help Vann-La, who is on fire and in trouble.

He isn’t the only one. Vann-La is pressing the lizard man nearest her, smacking him with her sword and cleaving onto a nearby kobold. Neither one falls, but both of them redouble their attempts to bring the elven warrior down. She tries to shake out the fire, but she’s still on fire! The other lizard man thrusts his spear at Nixie, stabbing her in the calf. She grits her teeth and curses him, then gestures at him and fires an _eldritch blast,_ but the lizard man dodges it.

The enemy presses the party very hard. Another quick exchange, and Nixie falls; Sta’Ligir drops to the same lizard man a moment later, but by then Vann-La has taken out one of the kobolds. Heimall cries out, “On your feet, soldier! We need you!!” His _inspiring words_ bring Nixie around, while Torinn uses holy power to restore some vitality to Iggy. 

Finally, the party’s attacks begin to find their way home. One by one, the enemies start to fall. Cook dances his way into flanking on one of the mudmen and manages to slay it with his kitchen cleaver; then he whips out an iron pan which he begins to swing like a hammer. 

As Sta’Ligir gets to his feet, the lizard man hulking over him stabs him in the chest, dropping him again immediately! Heimall curses, still immobilized, but before he can use his _inspiring word_ again, the remaining mudman smacks him in the head and renders him unconscious. 

Torinn and Vann-La together tear through several of the kobolds. Thunder booms as Torinn unleashes his god’s powers. Meanwhile, Nixie lays one of the lizard men low with an _eldritch blast._ Finally, the tide turns. The morale of the remaining kobold and lizard man breaks as Cook slays the second mud man, and they try to run. Nixie isn’t having that; she hits the lizard man with _witchfire,_ killing it. Vann-La, meanwhile, kills the last kobold. 

Quickly, Torinn squelches over to where Heimall lies bleeding in the mud and begins binding his wounds. Shortly, using the divine powers of Lester that are his to command, he manages to bring the soldier around. They rest for a few moments, then loot. They find a few coins and a potion. Then they march on through the night.

“Where are we going, anyway?” asks Sta’Ligir, who has also been healed and revived. 

Kratos shakes his head. “Anywhere but here, to start,” he says.

“The wizard is right.” Nixie looks at the others. “We do need more of a plan than we have. We could just run into a Hand army the way we’re going about this. We certainly don’t have the manpower to fight a large enemy contingent. Where can we go that is safe?” 

“You boys are the landlubbers,” Torinn tells the soldiers. “You probably have a better idea of the geography than we do.”

Kratos takes up a stick and begins drawing in the mud. “This is where Chebonnay was,” he says. “Down here is The Mindil Wood. There are some cities in the forest interior we could go to, but they’ll be small. On the other hand- no pun intended- there is a range of mountains here, to the west. There’s a tunnel that leads through a xvart city and out the other side, where there’s a city that probably hasn’t been hit by the Hand yet.”

“Fandelose,” Heimall nods. “Decent-sized, a reasonably strong military presence, good walls... I learned about it during leadership training.”

“Sound good to me,” agrees the cook.

“Then let’s move on.” 

The party does so, marching all through the night and late into the next day. They finally take cover and rest in the late afternoon, exhausted. But they still set watches, with Torinn taking the first one.

About fifteen minutes after everyone else is asleep, he suddenly wonders, _What the hell is a xvart?_

_*Next Time:*_ Our heroes travel towards the xvart tunnels!


----------



## the Jester

The sun rises through bloody clouds. Smoke ascends to the sky in all directions. Behind the party, Chebonnay is besieged. The sounds of battle at the walls easily reach the party, even miles away. The air stinks of distant smoke and death. 

In the bleak light of dawn, the party examines their options again, and attempting to reach Fandelose via the xvart kingdom remains, by consensus, their best choice. And so they strike off, hoping to evade all contact with the Six-Fingered Hand and escape to a- hopefully- as yet uninvested city.

Across the fields, keeping to cover whenever possible, by burnt farms and empty farm houses, the unlikely group of friends moves as quickly as they can while remaining wary for adversaries and careful to stay fairly well hidden. Their progress is slow- they estimate a week’s travel to get to the mountains, and then however long it takes to get through the tunnel and beyond to the other side. And then... how long of a journey awaits them on the other side, before they actually reach Fandelose?

At best, they are weeks away.

But behind them is fire and death.

They sleep in trees and ditches, keeping to cover. There are enough fires in the night, everywhere, that they might be able to get away with having one without being noticed, but the party does not risk it. If a platoon of dozens of orcs came upon them in the night, the situation would be... untenable.

They meet a few refugees hiding in the woods, but have no aid to offer them. Still, Torinn tends to the wounded, while Heimall and Kratos give pep talks to encourage them to keep their chins up.

_Keep your chins up while the world burns._ Right.

The party moves on for several days, traveling hard and fast, eating light and moving through the most secret paths they can find. Then they stumble upon a burned-out village. It was obviously destroyed in the last day or two, and some of the huts are still smoking. The sign of the Six-Fingered Hand is hewn into surfaces everywhere. About twenty peasant corpses are strewn about the village, and there are no survivors in sight. There are a few intact buildings, and from the size of the village, our heroes estimate that probably 70-80 people lived here before the sack. 

“That means fifty or sixty of them got away,” Nixie says.

“Or were enslaved,” Kratos responds.

“Damned Six-Fingered Hand,” growls Vann-La. She spits.

“We should be the _One-_Fingered Hand,” Torinn quips.

“Oo, look, a store. Let’s see if there are any supply we could use,” the cook suggests.

The party goes to the remains of the town’s general store. Cook sets about scavenging what he can- he spies a couple of large sacks of rice almost immediately- while Nixie walks across the street, where another intact store remains. 

Suddenly, two drakes rush out at her. “Ah!” she cries in surprise.

An orc steps out after them, and hurls a murderous flurry of two hand axes at Nixie. She ducks, and both go over her head. Vann-La steps up and cuts at the orc with her sword, and opens a red line across his cheek.

The orc chuckles. “I’ll add you to my collection of dead!” he taunts, speaking in Common.

“Murderer!” cries Nedyoiv. “We will avenge these people!” He charges in to flanking with his spear- and hits! The orc grimaces, but then grins again. He seems to relish the pain.

The melee swirls. The two drakes stick close together, functioning very well as a pair. The orcish murderer wields his axes with aplomb; his skill is deadly. Vann-La first slays one of the drakes, then whirls and begins dueling with the orc, sword to axe. and the others pour their attacks on him as well. Vann-La tries to trap him against a building, pushing him with a tide of iron. “Don’t let him get away!” she cries. “He has to pay for what he’s done here!”

The orc sneers. “I have no intention of ‘getting away,’” he mocks them. “I told you- I’m adding you all to my collection!”

“Even without your little doggies?” Nixie replies sweetly, dropping the other drake with an _eldritch blast._ “Now it’s just you and us!”

Still, the orc manages to hold his own for a few moments. “I am enough,” he sneers. “More than enough, for the likes of you!” 

“We’ll see,” Vann-La retorts, punctuating her remark with her sword. She stabs him in the chest, and the orc groans, but he keeps fighting!

At least, for a moment. He is unaware of the dwarven cook sneaking up behind him, and then- _bong!_- Cook bashes him over the head with a frying pan, rendering him unconscious.

Vann-La trips and falls forward, but manages to catch herself on her sword, burying the tip of it in the orc’s chest to do so. “Oops,” she says dryly.

“Ooo, why you do that?” Cook asks. “We could have had good intelligence from him!”

“What do we really need to know?” Vann-La returns.

***

They continue their journey for several days, passing through a battlefield strewn with bodies. Kratos pushes the party onward. After another day, the mountains come within view. Two days after that, the party reaches them at last! And yet- the expected tunnel is nowhere to be found.

“The tunnel should be fairly prominent,” muses Heimall, “yet there’s no sign of it. We must be too far north or south.”

“We’ll have to guess which way to go and hope for the best,” nods Torinn. 

“Well, for now let’s find a place to hole up,” Sta’Ligir suggests. “I’m exhausted, and I’m sure I’m not the only one.” 

The others agree that this is a sound plan and begin searching for an adequate place to rest. Before long, they find a narrow canyon that looks promising- but as they move into it, they find that it already has inhabitants. 

More drakes!

A swarm of small, cat-sized drakes, with teeth like finger-length knives, boils forward at the party. Above, on a ledge, another drake hisses out and spits a blob of acidic spittle at Nixie. She gives a surprised, pained cry.

Our heroes respond quickly, with most of the party engaging the swarm of drakes. Vann-La begins climbing the cliff wall towards the ledge that the spitting drake is lurking on. As she gets up to the top, she glances down. The party is making short work of the swarm, and it seems as though they have slain most of the small drakes making it up already. 

Unfortunately, from her new perspective, the Kree elf can see more trouble coming. Entering the back end of the canyon are a group of humanoids- plainly, Six-Fingered Hand! “Watch out!” she cries down to his friends, “There’s more trouble coming!” 

Heimall, who has moved over to the wall in order to join the attack on the spitting drake, instead points back at the dragonborn, who is smashing into the swarm, and shouts, “Torinn- smash our enemies! *GIT!!*”

Motivated by the warlord’s command, Torinn whirls his mace into the swarm, knocking several away. The remaining needletooth drakes flee, dispersing- just in time, as the Hand arrives! About half a dozen goblins, led by an orc, dressed in the livery of the Six-Fingered Hand, pour into the canyon. Some of the goblins hold back and fire arrows while the others rush forward and throw themselves into the fray. The spitting drake keeps splattering various members of the party with acid until Vann-La manages to bull rush it off the edge of the cliff, and it falls with a loud squawk. There is a loud snap as its neck breaks, and though it gurgles for a few more seconds, it is clearly out of the fight.

Then it is heroes versus Hand, Empire versus savages. The battle is quick and brutal and merciless, and although Torinn is laid low by a goblin’s blade, Heimall is able to quickly get him up with an _inspiring word._ The last goblin falls to a _magic missile,_ and the party stops to catch their breath for a few minutes.

“We running low on food,” Cook points out. “I check them for rations.” He begins rummaging through the dead, muttering to himself. He shakes his head. “No good,” he reports. “They have food- but bad food. Made of people! We not eat.” Then he grins. “But I find this!” Clutched in his grubby thick hand, he holds a map.

The party clusters around. It shows every indication of having been a map of the areas this unit of the Hand had recently explored- and, clearly marked on it a few miles away, is the tunnel our heroes are seeking.

“Let’s move!” exclaims Nixie.

*Next Time:* Into the Tunnels!


----------



## jensun

Just popping in to subscribe.  Its looking good so far.


----------



## the Jester

The sky is streaked with plumes of smoke rising from the burning villages in the distance. Vann-La almost fancies that she can hear the screams in the distance with her fine elven hearing. She knows it must be her imagination, but still... the evidence is in the sky. It is unthinkable, but true. The Six-Fingered Hand is winning- crushing the empire.

_We have to make a stand somewhere,_ she thinks. _Maybe on the other side of the mountains._ 

But she can’t help but wonder- will the stand _always_ be on ‘the other side of the mountains,’ so to speak? Will they _ever_ be able to fight back? The strength of the Hand is merciless, ruthless, crushing. The evidence is in the sky, indeed- and in the glowing fires visible in the distance at night, in all directions not blocked by the mountains. 

“Why are they called the Six-Fingered Hand?” Nixie suddenly asks.

“Because there are six different races joined together,” Heimall replies. “Orcs, goblins, kobolds, lizardfolk, gnolls and ogres.”

“How do they all work together? What’s the glue that hold them together?” wonders Vann-La.

“Arawn,” Kratos says. “He’s their head. He is said to be a death knight of immense power and fantastic evil. He keeps them working together through sheer presence and force- any who cross him are horribly destroyed.”

“Wow,” Nixie sighs. “He sounds like a pretty bad guy.”

The smoke in the sky agrees with her. 

***

They reach the cave entrance at last! It is a wide, dark passage. The party enters, and the passage gradually slopes downward but remains mostly level. Fortunately, Sta’Ligir can create a magical light, and the party has a number of lanterns, torchers and sunrods among them. After almost a mile of this shallow descent, the slope increases abruptly to about forty degrees. Our heroes move down a crumbling zone of scree that leads to another passage that is almost level.

It has taken them almost four hours to get this far. 

They catch their breath for a moment and eat a light snack, then resume their journey. They have no desire to linger, and every bit of this trek is much more difficult- and therefore slower- than their previous travels across open ground had been.

Then, from above, the dangers of the Underdark make their first appearance. Strange creatures, until now masquerading as stalactites, drop down at the party. One of them creates a cloud of inky darkness, and confusion runs rampant. Someone shouts, “Darkmantles! They’re darkmantles! Like piercers, only better!” Nobody knows what a piercer is, either, so it doesn’t help much. 

Several of the party stagger out of the darkness, and fortunately, Sta’’Ligir is one of them, so- thanks to his _light_- they can see. The darkness dissipates, and a general melee breaks out, becoming more confused when a pair of giant lizards climb up to the tunnel from the bottom of a cliff at the rear end of the cave, attracted by the noise and ready for a meal.  

The darkmantles fly all over, trying to grab the intruders and crush them. It’s a pretty painful strategy when it works, but fortunately, our heroes are able to avoid it most of the time, either by avoiding being hit or by escaping the darkmantle’s grasp before it can get a good crush in. The lizards have a pretty brutal bite, but with a cleric and two warlords in the party to keep our heroes going, it’s only a matter of time before they annihilate all their foes. 

Afterwards, the party examines the cliff that the lizards climbed up. It is about 20’ down, and the passage widens to about 30’ across.

“Well,” Sta’Ligir says after a moment, “let’s go.” 

With a little effort, the party makes it down to the bottom of the cliff. Down there they find the lizards’ nest; nearby are the remains of a wagon and the bones of several small, humanoid creatures. The consensus amongst those in the party knowledgeable in such things is that the various remains are at least five years old. Within the cart is an old, rusty chest that (once smashed open) proves to hold 187 gp and 200 sp.

Beyond the lair of the lizards, the 30’ wide passage continues, narrowing and beginning to drop in stages. The party makes it through this area fairly easily, albeit slowly. Several of the passages are very narrow and require them to crouch or even crawl through them. 

“Okay, this is officially not cool,” Sta’Ligir mentions, more than once. 

After about an hour of this, the passage widens again, into a 20’ wide, 10’ tall zone that splits into two 15’ wide passages that fork apart. 

And, coming down one of the passages- kobolds!

_*Next Time:*_ And hot on the heels of the kobolds- xvarts!


----------



## Nightbreeze

and after the xvarts, wyverns, trolls and giant bees. Gee, this is starting to sound like Rappan Athuk (only if it was, there would have been already 3-4 deaths )

Six fingered hand, eh? hmmm.....


----------



## the Jester

Nightbreeze said:


> and after the xvarts, wyverns, trolls and giant bees. Gee, this is starting to sound like Rappan Athuk (only if it was, there would have been already 3-4 deaths )





I have never read or played it, but I've heard it's fantastic. Does it actually have xvarts in it??


----------



## Nightbreeze

Not that I remember of, but if there were, they would have probably been paragon fighter/wizard/eldritch knight xvarts of doom . Nah, kidding, but the standard goblin in Rappan Athuk is at least 5th level rogue.

If you like Rappan Athuk goodines, check the story hour in my sign: if you have the time to read it, it's wonderful.


----------



## Quartz

I love it!


----------



## the Jester

The kobolds rush towards our heroes. In response, the party roars collectively and (mostly) charges forward to meet them. 

Kobolds running _towards_ a fight? Ridiculous, bad judgment- and, as our heroes are convinced they’ll see in just a moment, lethal. Sta’Ligir- who did _not_ move to meet the advancing dog-lizard-men- takes a deep breath and chants the words to a spell. An instant later, a _scorching burst_ explodes in the midst of the kobolds. Two of them fall instantly. The third one squeals and keeps running, passing through and past the party with the best speed it can muster.

Cook whacks it with a frying pan on the way past, and although it stumbles, it keeps moving- and swiftly escapes back the way the party came. Sta’Ligir sends a _magic missile_ after it, but to no avail.

“Well, that was easy,” remarks Torinn. 

Nixie replies, “If kobolds were all the Hand had to offer, we wouldn’t be having anywhere near this kind of trouble.”

Kratos nods. “Unfortunately, they do have a lot of other resources as well.”

“These kobolds aren’t Six-Fingered Hand, anyway,” Heimall announces, squatting next to the bodies of the burnt kobolds. “Look- no uniforms. Very crude weapons- these spears are improvised, without metal or even stone tips. And collars around there necks- look here, this one even has part of a chain hanging from it.” He stands up and turns around to face his friends. “I think these are escaped slaves.”

Just then, a high-pitched voice cries out from further down. _“Sventi oi vrogahast! Axafarhl sventul taxjack!”_

“Ooi, what was that?” exclaims the Cook, as small blue-skinned humanoids begin to charge up the hall into sight towards our heroes. If only any of our heroes could speak a smattering of the Xvart language, they might catch the gist of the newcomer’s words: _Hey, those guys are killing our slaves! That’s our property- they owe us replacement slaves!_

The leading xvart pulls a pair of manacles out of his belt and whirls them over his head. With a wild cry, he whips them forward at Vann-La. The binders wrap firmly around her waist and legs, leaving her unable to move! “Hey!” she cries. Meanwhile, a small horde of rats runs towards the party. Sta’Ligir slows their progress with a _scorching burst_- one of the rats catches fire and dies in a greasy flash and a loud squeal- but the rest move up on Vann-La, who lays about her with her warhammer as she struggles to escape the manacle-bola holding her. 

There are four xvarts. Three of them throw their manacles at the party and then move in, snaring Cook, but the other one stays back. This one is covered in rats. They climb all over the small blue figure with sickening familiarity. The xvart raises a hand and points at Kratos, and a wriggling horde of filthy vermin rushes from the blue figure towards Kratos. The warlord cries out as they crawl all over him, biting and tearing at his skin!

The xvarts that have moved into combat, meanwhile, prove annoyingly elusive. They make cowardly strikes and then dance away, while Vann-La and Cook are both still caught in the manacles. The dwarf whips his frying pan down onto another of the rats, and its head cracks and bursts. “Ooi, save that one for later, he’s juicy!” the cook exclaims with a laugh. Then he hurls a meat cleaver at the xvart ratkeeper with a sly flourish. The ratkeeper tries to dodge, but the cleaver still slices a bloody line on his leg. With a snarl, he shakes himself, and a huge mass of rats pours off of his body and rushes all about, pouring all across the ground and making movement difficult. 

Kratos grits his teeth. “I’m not going down like this!” he declares, madly brushing the rats (which are still biting him) off of his body. “I can take this!”* Then his eyes widen as he sees one of the xvart slavers smack Torinn in the head, stunning the dragonborn! He staggers back, and the ratkeeper directs a group of rats to attack him. They tear at him and pull him down! “No, Torinn!” Kratos yells. “Don’t let them take you down! You can stand against them- you must!”** Torinn’s eyes flutter open. With a groan, the dragonborn shakes off the effects of the xvart slaver’s blow. 

Cook, meanwhile, has finally managed to wiggle out of the manacles entrapping his legs. He reaches into a pocket inside his shabby coat and pulls out a handful of shuriken. With a single motion, he throws them all at a handful of xvarts nearby in a blinding barrage, and the attack sinks shuriken into two of them right above the eyes!

However, this seems to trigger a particularly cowardly reaction in the wounded xvarts, and they both begin to withdraw!

This seems to be enough to turn the tide. The rats are all gone by now, and Sta’Ligir blasts another of the xvarts with an _acid arrow_. It squeaks and begins to retreat as well. Vann-La, still trapped by the manacles, has taken quite a beating by now; she takes a moment to get her second wind, and then slams into another of the xvarts like a tide of iron. Even though she can’t follow them, she can certainly push them around!

Meanwhile, the retreating xvart slavers seem to have run into some kind of complication. They’re out of the light, but the party can hear some kind of further engagement down there. Sta’Ligir decides to help light this situation up magically, and once he does, it becomes apparent that there is a tiefling down there, blocking the xvart retreat! He is armed and equipped, but a broken chain dangles from a collar around his neck. Clearly, he is another escaped slave- and thanks to him, the xvarts are flanked. 

The ratkeeper snarls and unleashes a squeaking horde, which rushes all over Kratos, Vann-La, Torinn, Cook and Sta’Ligir, biting and crawling all over them all. Torinn heals himself as he tries to slay some of the rats covering him, but he is badly wounded. Sta’Ligir, too, is barely standing, even after using his second wind. A moment later, he collapses, with rats still chewing on him! Vann-La, too, goes down. 

The ratkeeper grins, but then falters as Cook and Kratos begin moving towards him. Giving them all a dirty look, he turns to flee.

The stranger has taken care of one of the escaping xvart slavers, though the other two slipped past him. Now, as the ratkeeper attempts to slip past him, he tries to stop the ratkeeper in turn, and manages to wound him! But the ratkeeper is beating a hasty retreat, and-

_“Git!”_ cries Kratos to the stranger.

The stranger hurls a shuriken at the escaping ratkeeper, and it sinks into the xvart’s blue throat. Without a word, the rat-covered villain falls. 

Those who are still standing work quickly to clear the rats from those that are not, and to stop them from bleeding to death. It is only after they have successfully ensured all of their companions’ survival that they turn to the newcomer.

”Who are you?” Kratos demands. 

“My name,” says the newcomer, “is Nowhere Jones. Thanks for helping me kill these guys- they were slavers, and they’d taken me prisoner. Some of their other slaves escaped, so they parked their wagon while they pursued them. I managed to get free while they were looking for the kobolds, and I wanted to get back to the surface and escape this area.”

“Where did they take you prisoner?” asks the warlord. “What were you doing down here?”

“I was part of a band of adventurers. We were exploring the passage under the mountain- we’d heard there’s often a lot of treasure to be found down here. The xvarts came on us, and most of us got slain. They stunned me, though, and put me in chains.” 

“They’re slippery,” Cook comments. 

“Yes, once they are badly wounded it seems that their cowardice kicks into high gear,” Kratos agrees. “What do you know about their city?”

“Not much. I was only taken recently- I think we were on our way to their city, but when the kobolds got away, they changed direction.”

“Probably safer together,” Cook says. 

Kratos nods. “You helped us fight the xvarts; I see no reason why we couldn’t join together, at least for now.”

“Where are you headed? What are _you_ doing down here?”

“The Six-Fingered Hand is assaulting the east,” Kratos says. “We are trying to get word to Fandelose before they, too, come under attack. We plan to pass through Xvaangensleff, as it is the most direct route.”

“All right,” Nowhere Jones pronounces. “I’m in.”

_And I sure wouldn’t mind getting my revenge on the xvarts while I’m in their city._

_*Next Time:*_ Our heroes traverse a dangerous zone and find a dark lake!


*This was an _inspiring word,_ naturally. 

**This was another _inspiring word,_ of course.


----------



## Knightfall

Interesting...


----------



## the Jester

Oops! 

One of my players pointed out to me that I misidentified Nowhere Jones; he is actually a tiefling. Fixed above, but I ought to point it out to those that have already read my msidentification.


----------



## the Jester

Nowhere Jones leads the rest of the party deeper into the caves. “The xvarts had a wagon,” he explains. “It’s back here.”

“And you don’t know where the xvart city is?” Sta’Ligir asks.

Nowhere Jones shrugs. “They hadn’t gotten me there yet. I imagine it was in the direction we were headed, but I can’t know for sure.” The passage opens up on a huge cavern. To either side a stone path stretches into the darkness. Directly ahead of them is a vast, quiet underground lake. 

“Whoa,” says Nixie. “That looks big.” 

“Let’s not go for a swim,” suggests Vann-La. 

“This way.” Nowhere Jones turns to the right and begins down the path. The others follow him uneasily. In only about a minute, the wagon comes into view: two linked carts, with a pair of great beetles harnessed before them. The lead wagon is more comfortable; the rear wagon has benches and rungs set into the floor. “That’s where the slaves rode,” Nowhere Jones nods at it. “We were chained to those rungs by our necks.”

“How did you get out?” asks Heimall.

“Once the xvarts left to pursue the kobolds, I managed to do a combination of squirming and breaking my way out, as well as picking the lock with some improvised tools.”

“Well done,” nods Nixie. “And thank you for your help.”

The group inspects the wagon and the beetles. They decide to detach the slave wagon; it will only slow them down, since they can all fit in the front car and have no plans on taking slaves. The cook carefully inspects it for anything that seems like a mark of ownership that might give away its origin, but finds nothing. Thus, drawn by a pair of slow but steady beetles, the party begins a more luxurious stage of their journey. At last they are able to get off of their feet, for the first extended time in days for most of them. It is a joy to simply _ride._

After a time, they come to a wide area, big enough to park the wagon and comfortably camp out. They are all tired, and soon they have set a watch and most of them are drifting off to sleep. Each of them takes his or her turn on watch, keeping an eye out for trouble. Most of them do it in pitch blackness.

Sta’Ligir, however, has the means to make light. His magical skills are not yet as powerful as they could be- as they _will_ be, he tells himself- but they are powerful enough to give him a little illumination. As his companions snore around him, he keeps looking for any signs of trouble or anything to be concerned about.

_Anything to be concerned about? We’re underground! That’s certainly cause for concern._ He scowls to himself. _At least we have a goal. This city, Fandelose- if we can reach it, warn it, perhaps it can stop the Hand.

What’s that?_ He peers out across the surface of the dark lake. He heard something in the lake- but what was it? 

Something in the water moves. 

Sta’Ligir puts a _magic missile_ into it. “Hey! Wake up! I think we have trouble!” he shouts. The others wake and begin to scramble up. 

Three crabs crawl out of the water, swiftly moving to engage the party. _Clack!_ Their huge claws snap together. They are about three feet across, and stand about two and a half feet tall. 

Sta’Ligir drops a _scorching burst_ in the middle of them. There is a sizzle-BOOM! and the smell of burning crab. Two of them squeal and advance, but the wizard backs away. Heimall, who by now has managed to get to his feet and pull out his glaive, stabs at the lead crab, but his weapon rebounds ineffectually from its shell.

The two crabs that were moving on Sta’Ligir now scuttle in on Torinn, who is still on the ground. “Wha?” the dragonborn says, and then the crabs fall upon him, slicing him up badly. The dragonborn gives a scream of pain. Blood flies everywhere. His screams stop, but the crabs don’t look like they are going to.

The others try to come to Torinn’s rescue. Vann-La charges in, while Nixie fires off her _eldritch blast_; each draws one of the crabs off of the downed cleric, at least for the moment. Sta’Ligir, meanwhile, blasts the unwounded crab with an _acid arrow_. It ignores the wizard, continuing its assault on Heimall, who struggles to defend himself as a claw almost breaks his thigh and leaves his leg raw and bleeding profusely. _These things deal serious damage,_ he thinks, grimacing through the pain and attempting to use the famous White Raven onslaught technique. The pain prevents him, however, and the blood all over his arm and hand makes his blade nearly slip from his hand. It is all that he can do to keep his feet.*

Sta’Ligir casts another _scorching burst_. He is trying to keep a careful distance- close enough to cast his spells at the enemy, but far enough away not to be an easy target for the crabs. Then, suddenly, something incredibly bright happens, and Sta’Ligir can’t see anything at all. “Hey!” he screams. “There’s something else out there!” 

_What was that?_ wonders Heimall. He looks out across the water. For a moment, a beam of brilliant light had pierced the darkness, shooting right into Iggy’s eyes. Now he doesn’t see any sign of its source, but- there had to be something!

Nixie, meanwhile, has passed her crab on to Vann-La, who seems _unstoppable._ Then she drags Torinn back out of the fray. Torinn abruptly groans and shakes his head, then stands up. “You bastards!” he cries, and whips his spiked chain around over his head, then brings it down towards one of the crabs. It almost seems to burn with a white-hot flame as it comes down- and the crab scuttles aside and snaps its claw at Torinn’s side, taking a chunk of flesh out. The dragonborn shouts in pain, and though he almost collapses, he remains standing. 

“Keep it up, Torinn!” shouts Heimall. “Don’t let this beast take you down!” 

The dragonborn grits his teeth as the crabs tear into Heimall. “Lester, heal this adventurer companion of mine!” he intones, and his _healing word_ keeps Heimall on his feet. 

Another brilliant shaft of light stabs out and blinds Sta’Ligir. The wizard screams out a series of Elvish obscenities. This time, Nixie manages to see its rough location- enough to fire an _eldritch blast_ in its general direction, but not enough to hit it.

At this point the party is holding their own- giving as good as they are getting, and with both Torinn and Heimall in the fight, they are able to keep enough of a stream of healing going that the party can take the outlandish amounts of damage the crabs can deal. The only question is, what will run out first- the party’s healing, or the crabs’ ability to sustain damage?

Vann-La proves to be the answer to that question when she finally brings down one of the crabs. Sta’Ligir is flailing about blindly, however, much to his chagrin. “Damn it!” he shouts. “What is this damn thing?” As his vision clears, he notes the direction and distance to a series of columns, and immediately heads for them. _Come and get me, you bastard,_ he thinks as he ducks behind them.

A moment later, it does: a small, frog-like humanoid, with big yellow eyes. It leaps forward and bites Sta’Ligir; then its eyes fire a shaft of brilliant light. 

But Iggy is ready for it. He ducks and squints and manages to avoid being blinded!

Nixie hits the frog-thing with _curse of the dark dream,_ and it staggers around drunkenly for a moment, reeling away from Sta’Ligir. The wizard doesn’t waste an instant; he pursues and _magic missiles_ it. Suddenly it is the frog-thing that is in retreat, and then both he and Nixie bracket it, firing arcane energies at it! It blinds Nixie momentarily and darts around a column, just as Sta’Ligir did, to gain a momentary bit of cover. The wizard glances over his shoulder; seeing an opportunity, he fires another _scorching burst_ at the crabs, and flames lick out over the two remaining ones again. 

But both of them are up on Vann-La, and though she pauses in her assault on them long enough to gain her second wind, the crabs are unrelenting. Both of them claw the Kree defender, and she collapses in a bloody heap. One of the crabs veers away, snapping its great claws at Heimall, who fends it off and backs up, his hands sweaty on the haft of his glaive. 

“Damn it!” curses Nixie. “Where’d that frog thing go?”

_There!_ thinks Sta’Ligir, and fires another _magic missile_ at it. “It’s trying to get back into the water!” shouts Iggy. “Stop it!!” Desperately, he focuses his mind on his Art, and manages to cast another missile at it before it reaches the water’s edge.** This one blasts it right in the center of the back, and it is momentarily transfixed- and then it collapses.

“Nice going!” Nixie grins enthusiastically. 

Vann-La, on the ground, cracks an eye. The blow that took her down- that seemed almost lethal- turns out to be milder than it looked; she grimaces, but she’s still in the fight!*** One of the crabs is directly above her, and it has already taken a morsel-sized bite out of her side. “Hey, a little help here!” she cries.

Heimall, still defending himself desperately, nonetheless grins. “Vann-La, destroy our enemies!” he cries. _“Git!”_

Vann-La lashes out, cracking her warhammer against the crab atop her. She knocks it back and then leaps to her feet. _Smash!_ Again, her hammer falls- and this time, so does the crab!

This leaves only one, and now that our heroes can do so, they fall upon it en masse. Its shell is tough, but it cannot withstand all the blows that our heroes deliver. 

Then it’s over. 

“Good gods!” exclaims Vann-La. “Those things were tough!” The others nod agreement.

“Now we take meat,” says the cook. “These things, good eating! And legs from frog thing!” 

“I don’t know,” Heimall replies dubiously. “They could be diseased, or poisonous...”

“Nah, we be okay. I show you,” the dwarf responds. “Come on, help!” He starts cracking crab shells. With a shrug, Vann-La chips in, and soon the party has managed to pull out a good amount of crab meat. The party draws the line at the strange, frog-like creature, however. Examining it reveals that its huge eyes have a second inner eyelid, and even now the eyeballs emanate a dim- and fading- light. 

Nixie yawns. “Interesting, but weren’t we resting?” 

***

The rest of the party’s rest is undisturbed. When they rise, the eyes of the frog-creature no longer have any glow whatsoever. “Who knows?” shrugs Nixie. The party moves along, heading deeper and deeper into the tunnels beneath the mountain. Soon enough, the group move into an area thick with strange growths. At first only a few grey fans of fungus and strange wet things on the floor, but before long the area is replete with fungus and stranger things. Toadstools high as a man’s waist and the color of old bone; warty, hairy blue things shaped like an elephant’s ear; something squat and globular, that oozes and pops sickening white pus; things that look like root systems clinging to bare rock, giving off a strange brimstone stink. The place is weird and grotesque, though wondrous in a bizarre way. But before long, Vann-La calls out a warning. 

“Hold up, this looks dangerous ahead.”

“What do you mean?” asks Nowhere Jones.

“Some of those liquids oozing from the fungi up there. The rocks are discolored- almost as if those fluids were changing or damaging them. And some of those things are probably toxic if we touch them.”

The party proceeds very carefully. Torinn uses some of the fungus on the walls, as well as some materials in his healing kit, to create an ointment to help protect the heroes from any ill effects. Sta’Ligir uses his knowledge of the dungeon environment to help Vann-La pick the best path through the dangerous zone, with Heimall using his glaive to destroy particularly foul-looking stuff before the group approaches it. Soon the party is through the zone, and the amount of fungi in evidence decreases to a sparse scattering of occasional clusters of a few mushrooms. 

Then Vann-La tenses. “Hold on, guys,” she says.

“What do you see?” asks Heimall. 

“There’s some kind of building ahead.”

*Next Time:* The hermit! More frog things! And- Chagmat!


*Rolled a 1. Shrug. Happens. It’s a shame, though; White Raven Onslaught is one of the best powers evar imho.

**Action point, in other words. 

***Natural 20 on a death save. Which, no doubt, really helped- the party was in very rough shape at the end of this fight, with 3 pcs at 1 hit point. Incidentally, Heimall didn’t hit once this entire encounter. So far, each pc has had at least one session with terrible dice luck.


----------



## the Jester

The hut is made of large slabs of hard fungal material. It’s about 15’ square, with a door shorter than most of our heroes could comfortably fit through. Just about the right size for a xvart. Behind the hut is a garden of strange underground growths- fungi and lightless plants. Sta’Ligir glances over the garden, and then gasps. “Be careful,” he tells his companions, “there are some assassin vines in the garden.”

“What’s an assassin vine?” asks Nowhere Jones.

“It’s a vine that assassinates you,” Heimall replies. “Let’s just be careful.”

“Are we trying to befriend whatever is in the hut?” asks Nixie. “Or are we going in weapons drawn?”

“If we have to go through a city of xvarts, we have to deal with them sometime. I say we take a peaceful approach,” the warlord answers.

The others agree, though Nowhere Jones is plainly not happy with the idea of spending any more time around the xvarts than he must. _I’ll be glad to cut every one of their blue throats, though,_ he thinks, rubbing the still-chafed spot where the slave collar had rested around his neck. 

Heimall calls out to the hut. “Hello? Is there anyone in there?” 

There is no answer, but the more perceptive members of the party can hear something moving inside. After a moment, Torinn shrugs and walks up to the little door. He lifts a hand to knock, but the door opens before he can, and a cantankerous-looking old xvart, covered in wiry white hair, peers suspiciously at them from within. Rats crawl everywhere in the hut behind him. A crude table, with some kind of letter open on it, is behind him. “Svarti kefl hoof javaselflehl,” the xvart says, and launches into a brief, babbling, questioning-sounding rant. 

The party tries their collective languages, but nobody can make themselves understood by him. The xvart starts to grow foul-tempered, spouting off more hostile sounding noises, until Nixie pulls out some travel biscuits and begins breaking off bits to feed to the rats. This catches Svarti’s eye (not that anyone knows his name is Svarti, but hey), and he seems somewhat appeased. Heimall follows suit, and Svarti seems more mollified. He makes shooing gestures, but at least he doesn’t attack.

The party moves on, having made friendly contact with their first xvart. 

As they walk on, Kratos mutters under his breath, trying to figure out what bits of the Xvart tongue that he can.*

***

The party travels on, the dark lake to their left. After about an hour, a beam of light in the darkness alerts the party to another blindheim nearby. They prepare for battle, and sure enough, before long an attack comes. This time the blindheims are accompanied by giant poisonous frogs, which seem almost like pets to them. The battle rages, and before long a group of darkmantles joins the fray, attracted by the noise! By the end of it, a bat swarm has been spooked into action by the bright lights of the blindheims, and they swirl about, blinding Torinn and flapping about confusedly; but our heroes manage to fight off all of their opponents, disperse the bats and win the day without any losses to their party.

They continue onward, traveling along the lake’s edge, for about two hours. Then they stumble upon what seems to be a campsite of some kind. “Looks like xvarts to me,” Nowhere Jones says. “Everything’s pretty small, and pretty messy. Look, there’s garbage everywhere.” 

“I hear something,” Vann-La interrupts him. “Fighting ahead.”

“Want me to go check it out?” Jones asks. “I can be pretty stealthy.”

“All right,” says Sta’Ligir.

“But we’ll be right behind you,” adds Vann-La.

***

Nowhere Jones creeps forward, sticking to the shadows. He can hear the sounds of fighting up ahead now himself, and before long, a scene comes into view, lit by flickering torches that are discarded on the ground. A band of xvarts is in combat with a strange group of enemies- weird, spider-like beings, most with two shields and two swords in hand. There are several dead xvarts on the ground already. The whole dance seems to be taking place in front of a large cave mouth.

_Boy, do I hate xvarts,_ thinks Nowhere Jones, and he pulls out a shuriken and throws it at one of them. He misses, but this results in the xvart whirling and hurling a javelin at him. And then the frenzy of battle takes over, as the party charges into the fray and a swirling, chaotic, three-way mess develops. One by one, xvarts and spider-folk drop, but the xvarts definitely drop faster. And the spider-folk show no sign of taking it easy on the adventurers; as they squeal with joy and try to take all the warm-blooded creatures down, our heroes get the creepy feeling that the spider-folk simply view them as food. 

However, our heroes are no easy pickings. Already damaged from the xvart attacks, the spider-folk are soon slain, and the party stands triumphant. “What were those things, I wonder?” muses Torinn.

“Chagmat,” replies Sta’Ligir.

”Bless you,” says Torinn.

“No- those things are called chagmat.” The wizard pokes one of the corpses with his foot. “They sometimes war on surface folk, trying to take us as food. They’re a pretty gruesome kind of folk, from what I’ve read.”

Everyone looks at the cave mouth.

“Let’s check it out,” suggests Vann-La.

_*Next Time:*_ Against the Chagmat!


*He took Linguist as his feat at 2nd level, and Xvart was his first new language.


----------



## the Jester

This is a short update, because it ends at a particularly dramatic moment.  I hope to post a followup tonight or tomorrow or, at the least, before too long. 

***

Some of our heroes- Kratos, Vann-La, Nowhere Jones and Torinn- advance into the cave, weapons drawn.* The mouth of the passage is about 20’ wide; as they move forward, our heroes quickly come upon more xvart bodies, lying before a pair of barricades. A chagmat corpse is sprawled near one wall as well. Clearly, the battle that the party came upon was just one skirmish in a larger conflict. The chamber is obviously a guard chamber. A narrow path is open between the two barricades; behind the barricades are a long, narrow table surrounded by a host of stools, some of which have fallen over. Behind that, you can see that there is a drop-off or descent of some kind. Meanwhile, on the east side of the easternmost barricade is another tunnel that snakes away.

The party starts to check the corpses for loot, but Vann-La’s keen ears prick up. She frowns, and gazes up at the ceiling.

“LOOK OUT!” she shouts, her sword coming free from its scabbard with a rasp. 

Two spiders the size of a human are up on the roof, and they begin scuttling forward. 

“Yuck!” exclaims Nowhere Jones, and hurls a shuriken. But he is still recovering from the surprise, and he misses. 

The spiders leap. Death hurtles in at our heroes from above. One of them lands squarely on Torinn, knocking the dragonborn prone and sinking hairy fangs into his shoulder. He gives a shout of distress as poison pumps into him, and his arm begins to throb. He struggles to his feet and pulls his spiked chain; he aims a blow at the spider but misses. It springs aside as he focuses all his might on a second swing, and he misses it again!**

The other spider comes down square on Nowhere Jones, knocking him from his feet. The tiefling tries to scramble away, but fangs sink into his buttocks. “Aargh!” he screams, as poison taints his blood. He whirls around, bringing his dagger across the spider’s head, and springs back away. Meanwhile Vann-La steps up and gets in the spider’s way, preventing it from effectively pursuing. The first spider bites Torinn again, hitting him in the chest, right over his heart. The dragonborn wails in pain.***

The party tries to rally and focus their attacks. Torinn staggers and almost drops, but takes a moment to catch his breath and get his second wind. Kratos steps up with a furious smash, a guarding strike, but he just can’t seem to connect. The spiders are too cagey- dodging one way and then the other, leaping over the party’s attacks, returning to the ceilings... they are quick and dangerous, and their poison leaves our heroes unable to move quickly. Many of the party are suffering from it as the spiders leap back into the room beyond the barriers. Both spiders are wounded, and one of them is wounded badly, but neither one is ready to flee.

Vann-La takes a deep breath and focuses her mind. _I am unstoppable,_ she tells herself, and charges forward through the barriers.

Right into a trap.

She hears a ‘click’ as her foot hits a pressure plate between the barriers. _Uh-oh,_ she thinks, as a thick boulder on a long strand of webbing drops pendulum-like from the ceiling, plowing into her with crushing force and knocking her back and from her feet. It smashes into Torinn, as well, rendering the already badly wounded cleric almost unconscious.

It also makes a hell of a racket- a terrifically loud grinding noise.

She sees stars for a moment, and when her vision clears, Vann-La can see the pendulum boulder swinging rapidly through the passage between the barriers.

“We can go over the barriers!” shouts Kratos. 

Indeed. Kratos and Vann-La start climbing up and over, and the spiders scuttle around the ceiling menacingly. But Torinn and Nowhere Jones keep up a flurry of missile fire that prevents the spiders from fully taking advantage of the situation. The more badly wounded spider attempts to escape them, but Kratos and Vann-La both hit it as it flees, and it drops from the cave ceiling, curling its legs up in the classic pose of a dead spider. 

“Let’s go!” cries Torinn. “Up and over and in!” He and Nowhere Jones clamber over the barricades, joining the melee, and deliver a torturous strike and a righteous brand to the spider- and both blows are perfect, catching it in the head and the guts! The spider is cut into a mess of pieces!****

“Whew,” Torinn gasps. “Those things sucked! We should rest for a few minutes and-”

Two chagmat rush into the room from the downward sloping passage, making weird, moist, sucking sounds from their spider mouths.

“Lester’s arm!” shouts Torinn. “More of them!” 

The party turns and begins to engage the chagmat. Behind them, cutting off easy escape, the pendulum still swings. Each chagmat wields two swords and bears two shields, and puts up a flurry of offense and defense. The first one wounds Kratos, and the second one stabs Torinn in the chest. It’s a terrific wound, and the dragonborn gasps, transfixed, and then collapses to the ground. 

“Oh crap!” cries Nowhere Jones. He dances in to flank one of the chagmat with Vann-La, but his dagger is covered with spider ichor. It slips in his hand, and he misses. 

“There’s only two of them,” Kratos roars. “We can take them!”

“No there aren’t,” says Vann-La grimly.

Indeed, two more chagmat enter the fight from the other passage. 

Suddenly the fight is looking uglier. When one of the chagmat hacks Vann-La down with a pair of cuts, it starts to look even worse. Torinn manages to stabilize Vann-La before she dies, but while he is doing so, one of the chagmat double hits Nowhere Jones and knocks him unconscious as well! Then it is three to two- somehow, our heroes have managed to slay one of their attackers- and then, as Torinn falls, three to one. 

And it’s over. 

_*Next Time:*_ What about the rest of the party?


*We had less players present than usual that night. 

**That was an action point that, sadly, didn’t do much.

***That was a critical hit.

****Both were crits. This was a wonderful finish to a combat in which the pcs had frustratingly bad dice luck almost completely.


----------



## the Jester

“I wonder what’s taking them so long?” sighs Nixie. 

“Oi, they have to investigate!” the cook says. “They look all around, all around. Sneaky, very quiet! Take time.”

Suddenly a tremendous, loud grinding noise starts to rumble from within the cavern.

“Uh-oh,” says Heimall. He readies his glaive. “It sounds like trouble. We had best see what is going on in there. The others might need our help.”

The three of them tromp forward. They halt upon sighting the xvart bodies scattered before the barricades, with the immense pendulum boulder swinging to block easy entrance into the room beyond. 

“We could climb over the barricades,” suggests Heimall. He sets to it immediately, while Nixie looks dubious.

“Climbing? I don’t know about that...”

Cook scrambles up and over. “Okay, you go through rock trap,” the dwarf answers with a grin. Nixie sighs and does her best to get over. She manages, though it is an awkward process for her. She grumbles as she rights herself within the room- and then gasps. 

There are dead monsters everywhere- the xvarts, some chagmat, some spiders all curled up on the ground. And blood- blood all over. 

Spiders and chagmat don’t bleed; they ooze ichor. Nixie’s blood runs cold at the implication.

“Look,” says Cook. “Drag marks.” _Bloody_ drag marks, leading from the room. “Ohh, no! Our friends! We have to try to rescue!” 

The marks lead out the more level of the two exits from the chamber. The party follows as quietly as Heimall’s armor will allow. The passage curves to the right and then splits in a Y. The party stops to listen, and Cook points in one direction. “I hear hissing noise,” he whispers.

”These guys are stupid,” Nixie grumbles. 

Three chagmat hove into view, two of them already wounded. Heimall springs forward, jabbing his glaive into one of them, and the three chagmat draw weapons and begin an attack of their own! Fortunately for him, Heimall’s armor turns most of the initial thrusts and cuts, and he parries one with the shaft of his glaive.

Then Cook darts to the front and unleashes a blinding barrage of shuriken, catching two of the chagmat in the eyes and leaving them momentarily unable to see! Nixie takes advantage of the moment to curse the most badly wounded chagmat and hurl an _eldritch blast_ at it. She misses, but a moment later, Heimall slashes into its neck and slays it. Nixie sniffs in disdain at the chagmat and curses the other pre-wounded one. The party presses their advantage; when Nixie blasts the cursed one with _witchfire_ and it dies, she turns to a stream of mist and flows to a position that is further from the chagmat but with a better angle of attack. 

The chagmat that remains is now wounded, but still standing. It turns to flee, but Heimall wounds it, and a terrific blow from the dwarven cook finishes it off. 

Quickly, the party backtracks the chagmat. They halt as they enter a chamber with a number of webbing cocoons of various sizes and shapes in it, stuck to the floor, ceiling and walls.

“It’s a larder,” Nixie realizes, feeling slightly queasy.

“Let’s hope our friends are in some of these cocoons,” says Heimall. Cook is already starting to cut some of the webbing open. In a few moments, they have opened up all the cocoons, and though most of the inhabitants are dead corpses sucked dry of their vital fluids, the rest of the party is still alive!

Heimall grasps Torinn by the shoulders. “Torinn,” he says. “Torinn! You can’t go down like this, soldier! You have to get up! Get up and help your companions!”

Torinn groans. His eyelids flutter, and slowly they open. “What?” he croaks. His friends help him to his feet. “I thought we were dead,” he groans. “I can barely move. They injected us with some kind of paralytic poison.”  He slowly starts to shake out his tingling limbs, and together, he and Heimall start working to revive the other wounded and paralyzed heroes. Meanwhile, Nixie (and the others, as they come around and are able to move and help) starts looting the corpses in the other cocoons. When all is said and done, the party has found 140 gold pieces, three packets of some kind of white, chalky substance and a pact blade. This goes to Nixie once the party has identified it- she is their only warlock, so there isn’t much debate.

Finally, once everyone feels ready to go on, the party assesses their options. The chagmat larder has another exit out of it, and the passage that led to it continues beyond the chamber as well. They decide to head that way first, since the other exit leads back in the direction that they came from- perhaps, they speculate, to the other branch of the Y. 

Forward it is, lit by a sunrod, through the natural caverns that the chagmat have claimed as their own. After only about 20’, the passageway ends abruptly at a precipitous drop. A bridge of thick strands of webbing leads away across the chasm. It is narrow enough that passing by one another on the bridge would be tricky. The chasm is 30’ deep and about 50’ across, and at the bottom the adventurers can see the discarded husks of creatures sucked dry of their fluids by these spider-like monsters, along with a few pieces of trash and debris. At the far end of the cave, across the web bridge, is another passageway.

“Well, what do you guys think?” asks Vann-La after a moment. 

“This place looks like an ambush to me,” replies Nixie.

“Well, if it’s a trap, we’d better spring it,” says Torinn. 

“Oi, I look it over for traps first,” Cook interrupts him, stepping in the way. “Hold on.” Torinn moves back, and Nixie moves up to help examine the bridge. It looks sturdy, doesn’t seem sticky, doesn’t seem trapped...

And then a hairy spider the size of a desk crawls up from underneath it. Before they have a chance to move, it sprays a blast of venom at Cook and Nixie. The two of them scream in pain, but Torinn has already invoked _divine aid_ to help Nixie, and Cook, as a dwarf, is highly resistant to toxins. The party attacks, pressing the spider, but two chagmat warriors emerge from the passage on the far side of the bridge and begin to make their way forward. One of them stops long enough to make gross, wet, hissing noises back in the direction from which it came.

”Great,” grumbles Vann-La, “we’re gonna have more of these things coming soon!”

The party and the spider-folk clash, but when the spider itself manages to bite Vann-La, things get weird. Suddenly the Kree, with gritted teeth, begins to dance madly. “I can’t stop!” she yells. “Help!”

Kratos rushes forward and tries, but there doesn’t seem to be much he can do. Meanwhile, the cook duels one of the chagmat, while Heimall and Torinn deal with the other. In a few moments, Heimall’s glaive takes that one own, while the spider keeps trying to bite the dancing elf, whose erratic movements don’t much help her defend herself. Poison is burning in her body, ravaging her; “Help!” she cries again. 

Cook finally finishes the second chagmat warrior with a sly flourish, but the spider scurries back to the far side of the bridge. And another chagmat emerges. 

This one looks different, however; he is dressed in armor made from spider hide studded with stone and bone. A weird headdress in upon his head. A strange symbol that Torinn recognizes as being the unholy symbol of the spider god Chag-Ma, a bloodthirsty god of captivity, helplessness and horror is clutched in his hand. As he appears, he gestures and utters a hissing prayer to his dark god- and a mass of poisonous webbing explodes all over the heroes!

Vann-La struggles valiantly against the web as the spider dashes forward to bite her again. Meanwhile, her limbs keep jerking about uncontrollably. The spider scampers back out of reach again, just as she finally manages to throw off the poison dance! With a mighty effort, the Kree warrior heaves her way free of the web and charges forward. The chagmat priest turns and flees back into the tunnel, with the deadly spider following on its heels. 

Our heroes break through the poison web and push further in, following Vann-La who is herself in hot pursuit of the chagmat. She catches up long enough to cleave on the two, but they continue to flee. Then Torinn and Nixie rush past Vann-La.

Deeper in the cave, the chagmat priest chitters gleefully. As Nixie and Torinn run after him, they get a look at the monstrous, spider-like idol before him. 

Its eyes suddenly blaze with a sullen, sickly glow. And both Nixie and Torinn are blown back and off the edge of the cliff, into the chasm.

_*Next Time:*_ The final battle against the servants of Chag-Ma!


----------



## the Jester

For a long, terrible moment as he falls, arms and legs flailing, through the empty air, Torinn thinks he is about to die. He has no idea whatsoever how long the fall is. The moment seems to stretch, stretch, streeeetch until it feels like he must have been falling for _seconds,_ for _minutes_, for _ever_-

And then he hits bottom with a bone-jarring impact that is only partially cushioned by a filthy mass of webbing, the shells of great beetles and other bugs sucked dry by the spider that lurks under the bridge. A few feet away, Nixie groans and rises on shaky legs.

“The idol!” shouts Torinn to his companions, who he can still here fighting above. “Watch out for the idol! It can... zap you, scare you over the edge of the cliff!”

***

Up above, the situation continues to develop. Vann-La, finally completely freed of the dancing venom (whatever the hell _that_ was), manages to smite the freakish spider and bring it down; and, warned by the shouts of her friends at the bottom of the chasm (or at least, one of them), she steels herself for whatever terrors the great spider-god idol might be able to inflict. 

At the rear of the party, meanwhile, Cook and Sta’Ligir still struggle to extract themselves from the poison web that the chagmat priest cast. Cursing, Sta’Ligir even tries to burn it with a _scorching burst,_ but to no avail. Finally, grunting and ripping out a substantial amount of his hair in the process, the Cook tears loose. Gasping, he staggers forward to the edge of the chasm- and halts, looking down in terror.

It’s a long way down. Torinn and Nixie are already at the bottom, scrabbling uselessly for purchase. Cook gulps. Across the way, now illuminated by the glare of a sunrod that has been dropped on the web bridge, the spider idol is now visible. It looms over Vann-La like an onrushing monster about to devour her.

Heimall rushes up next to the statue. Ignoring the chagmat priest, the warlord loops a rope around the statue; the other end is tied to his waist. “Rope up!” he cries. “That way it can’t knock you off the bridge!”

Hissing angrily at this sacrilege, the chagmat scurries forward to intercede. Unfortunately for it, Vann-La is too fast. She lunges forward and swings her warhammer with chitin-cracking force, and the last chagmat falls!

The idol’s eyes flash red, but now that Heimall is tied to it- and our heroes can emulate him quickly enough- the gig is up. It takes Cook, Nixie and Torinn a few moments, working together, to disable/desecrate the statue. And then the battle is won.

If ever they have needed rest more, our heroes can’t think of when. So- setting a careful guard- they rest in the most secure place they can find that is not littered with blood and death. And, as soon as they have rested enough to travel, they leave the now-lifeless chagmat cave behind them as quickly as they can, resuming their journey through the Underdark.

And, in less than an hour, much to their surprise, the party encounters another small band of travelers. These strangers are dwarves, and they turn out to be four members of the Hammersell clan. They sell arms and armor, and are happy to offer their wares for sale to our heroes. 

A few minutes of conversation reveals that the dwarves are from a clan that mostly dwells and trades underground. They help our heroes with some basic landmarks to guide them towards the xvart city, and they offer the party some advice, as well. When asked how the dwarves would approach Xvaangensleff, one of the Hammersells says flatly, “I wouldn’t. At least, not without a significant bodyguard. You need to look tough to deal with xvarts. You want them to take you seriously- if you look weak, they will try to take what you have by force.” 

“Why would you want to go to Xvaangensleff, anyway?” asks Thorin Hammersell. 

“We don’t, really,” replies Nixie.

Kratos elaborates, “We are going under the mountain in an attempt to reach Fandelose before the armies of the Six-Fingered Hand. They are on the march... and they are overrunning the east.”

But these dwarves, having never seen the sun, don’t even know who the Six-Fingered Hand is. Cook shakes his head. _Different worlds,_ he thinks, mindful of just how different his homeland, Muk Nam, is from the Empire. 

“There might be another option for you, though,” Thorin muses. 

Darrel Hammersell speaks gruffly. “There’s a tunnel, but it’s not safe.”

“What do you mean?” asks Sta’Ligir.

Zurin speaks up. “That tunnel is cursed. There used to be a terrible dragon that lived in it, Voxis by name. She dripped venom from her maw that smoked and burned the stone beneath her. For a century she reigned over that tunnel, until a group of dwarves went in and finally rooted out her evil. With her last breath she cursed the area, and now, often as not, travelers in there vanish. That was, oh, a decade ago.

“Now, we’ll be glad to show you to it, but I think you might want some of our wares first.”

The dwarves offer to sell the pcs weapons crafted with special dwarven lore. “They are more resistant to wear and damage than most weapons are,” explains Zurin Hammersell. Additionally, the dwarves have a small cache of magic weapons for sale; Kratos buys a magical warhammer. It is of the basest magical nature, but that’s okay. He grins as he hefts it. It will help him do the job better. 

Meanwhile, Vann-La and Sta’Ligir try to get more details on the tunnel. The dwarves explain that one of the travelers lost in the tunnel in question was their uncle Klavis. He was in possession of one of the clan’s most prized hammers- a smith’s hammer. The dwarven elders have forbidden any more of the Hammersells to enter the tunnel, but if the pcs could go in, retrieve the hammer and return it, the dwarves would happily trade any one of the magic weapons for it. 

“I think we should do it,” Kratos says immediately. “It could shorten our journey considerably.”

The party talks it over for a few moments, with Sta’Ligir arguing for continuing on the route they already know about. But in the end, the party decides to check out Voxis’ old tunnel. 

And her curse. 

_*Next Time:*_ The Curse of Voxis!


----------



## the Jester

The party creeps forward into a large, dank passage. The walls are spotted with weird underground fungi and stained with strange sheets of growth. Stalactites point downward from above, while stalagmites squat grotesquely on the cave floor. This is the path of Voxis. The dwarves of the Hammersell clan had explained to our heroes that the tunnel passes through the old lair of Voxis and then to an underground waterway (another one!) that leads, eventually, out to the sea in another corner of the world. 

_We could get away from all of this... the Six-Fingered Hand, this mad war, everything,_ thinks Nixie.

It is tempting; yet they all feel some sense of obligation to the people of the Empire, to their comrades in the army and navy, to their home cities and villages. Should they not try to help if they can? If Fandelose can be defended, aren’t they obligated to try?

It is a question that they wrestle with as they proceed through the tunnel. Eventually, here and there, there start to be phosphorescent gleams from certain of the stranger growths on the walls. After about three hours, the passage widens into a larger cavern, with the ruins of several old wagons strewn about and old corpses lying amongst them.

“We must be getting close to where they killed the dragon,” Torinn says in a hushed voice. 

They creep forward, but a sudden noise halts them: a rattling, scrabbling sound. And then, the corpses in the cavern begin to stir, rising up in a mass of undead! Skeletons and zombies rush forward; two hang back, throwing hunks of corrupt, necrotic flesh torn from their own bodies at our heroes. 

An intense battle breaks out. Kratos hammers his maul into one of the zombies, shattering its head in a single blow; then he, Vann-La and Torinn form a line of defense, while Sta’Ligir* commences with some blowing up of the enemy from the back rank. The undead are tough and dangerous; but the party uses excellent teamwork, and before long they stand triumphant over the ruin of the undead. 

Grimly, warily, the group moves forward again. 

And then, suddenly, darkness falls on the group. 

“What-?” 

*ROAR!!!!*

“Argh!!” Vann-La screams as something tears into her. 

Confusion- movement all over, and a great flapping of wings- 

Torinn stumbles from the darkness and looks wildly around. _Whoosh._ It swoops past him. 

“Dragon!” the cleric cries. 

It laughs a malevolent laugh as it flies in for another pass, and Torinn ducks behind his shield. The dragon smashes into his shield with its shoulder and bites the dragonborn on the shoulder, delivering a terrible wound. Then, as it passes over the cloud, it vomits a gout of acid that splashes amongst the others. 

Confusion takes over as the party scatters, several of them screaming in agony from the acid searing them. Kratos misses with his _eldritch blast_ as the dragon swoops in again. The dragon screams, “In the name of my mother, Voxis, I will slay you all and eat your hearts!” And then it lands and belches another gout of acid, this one directly at Kratos. The warlord takes it full in the chest and gives a shout of pain. And then he hurls himself forward, smashing his maul mightily into the dragon’s head. It screeches, and the party rallies; if it can be _hurt,_ it can be _killed!_

They pour it on. 

The battle is exhausting and vicious, with no holds barred and everyone giving it their all. It goes to the wire; the dragon deals out immense punishment, but Torinn and Kratos keep inspiring and healing its victims as they return the damage to the dragon. Meanwhile it has nobody healing it, and slowly- slowly- the party wins the day- and soon, the son of Voxis is slain.**

Panting and bleeding, the party spends a few minutes resting and binding their wounds. Both Kratos and Torinn are skilled with healing, and before long the party is back to near full strength. They search around through the debris, especially in the area that Voxis’ son had been lurking, and quickly turn up some money, as well as the Hammersell clan’s lost hammer. 

“Perfect!” exclaims Kratos proudly. “Let’s go return this to them.”

The group heads back out.

***

The Hammersells are overjoyed at the return of their forge hammer. They thank the party effusively and say that they will spread the word that the party members are _duran khazad,_ dwarf-friends. 

With Kratos holding a new magic warhammer that he bought from the Hammersells, the party discusses what to do next, consulting the dwarves with their questions.

“What about this other corner of the world thing?” asks Nixie. 

“So we would sail down this waterway, or what?” asks Vann-La.

The dwarves confirm this, but then explain that the party will have to fashion a raft from fungus. This takes them to a waterfall, and that will eventually lead them out.

“I don’t know about that,” says Vann-La. “It sounds like an easy way to have things go terribly awry...”

“There’s a bigger issue,” Heimall declares. “What about our people? The Six-Fingered Hand aren’t going to leave Fandelose alone if we aren’t there. I think we need to make a stand, if we can find a place where it’s viable. Even if Fandelose isn’t that place, it’s our best place to start looking for that place. At the very least, we can warn them that the Hand is coming, and let them know just how bad it looks.”

“He’s right,” sighs Nixie. “We can’t just run forever.”

“And this fungus boat waterfall trip sounds like a bad idea,” reiterates Vann-La. 

“It sounds like we’re agreed, then,” says Nowhere Jones. “We’ll keep going the way we were headed- through the xvart city.” _And if I’m lucky, maybe I can burn the whole damn place down on our way out._

“I was thinking about that,” Kratos speaks up. “The dwarves here told us that we need to put on a strong front if we want to pass through the xvart city unmolested, right? Well, we just killed a dragon. Let’s mount its head on our wagon!”

The party agrees that this is a great idea. They return to the battle site, this time taking the wagon with them, and put as many ominous-looking dragon parts as they can in it. Then they return to the dwarves again, and they make a collective camp. 

In the morning, the party moves on towards the xvart city of Xvaangensleff. 

_*Next Time:*_ Agents of the Six-Fingered Hand- ahead of our heroes!

*I just discovered last night that I’ve been misspelling this all along; it should be Sta L’igir. But, as I always do when things of this nature come up, I’ll just explain it away as using the Common spelling, versus the Elven. (Sort of like how Frank is Francois.)

**This was an awesome, epic, knock-down, drag-out fight. It was not one of those “got really boring” fights I keep hearing about.


----------



## Mathew_Freeman

I have a question:

Did you use the 2nd level Corruption Corpses, or the 4th level ones from the MM? I threw a couple of them at my group recently and they struggled quite badly against them with the _weakened_ state they add on, and I was wondering how your group found them.

Good to hear your Dragon fight went well - I haven't had one myself yet but I'm looking forward to unleashing 



Spoiler



the Green one in Thunderspire Labyrinth.


----------



## the Jester

Tallarn said:


> I have a question:
> 
> Did you use the 2nd level Corruption Corpses, or the 4th level ones from the MM? I threw a couple of them at my group recently and they struggled quite badly against them with the _weakened_ state they add on, and I was wondering how your group found them.




Yep, they were quite a chore to fight- I used the 4th level ones in the MM. The weakened condition that they throw on enemies is certainly a chore- but by this time, at least one of the party leaders had taken a "give ally a save" power, so that really helped. (I want to say Kratos with Shake It Off?)


----------



## Knightfall

I just finished catching up with this story hour. It's been a fun read even if I don't understand all the 4e-isms.

Good stuff.


----------



## the Jester

This is prolly well past due...

*PARTY ROLL CALL*
Nixie- eladrin fey warlock 2
Kratos Aurainn- half-elf warlord 2
Torinn Dzekrasode- dragonborn cleric 3
Vann-La- (Kree) elf fighter 3
Sta'Ligir- eladrin wizard 3
Cook- dwarf rogue 2
Heimall Heinrickson- human warlord 2
Nowhere Jones- tiefling rogue 2


----------



## Tony Vargas

That's a big party - or two small parties.  Ours is 7, and big parties definitely change 4e a little.  What's your experience dealing with 8 PCs?

Is one warlord inspiring and the other tactical?  
Action points must really be something...


----------



## Baron Opal

the Jester said:


> Torinn Dzekrasode- dragonborn cleric 3




Heh.


----------



## the Jester

Tony Vargas said:


> That's a big party - or two small parties.  Ours is 7, and big parties definitely change 4e a little.  What's your experience dealing with 8 PCs?
> 
> Is one warlord inspiring and the other tactical?
> Action points must really be something...




Yes to the warlord question.

My experience is, it makes fights take longer if you account for it when building encounters, and you really need to. My notes are filled with things like "this is a level 5 encounter for five pcs, a level 6 encounter for four pcs and a level 4 encounter for 6-7 pcs..." 

I have a long tradition of parties with nicknames like "the adventuring 30" and stuff. My game pretty much always has mad numbers of players in it, and I have a bunch of other people who would love to get into it, as well. Although, with a number of my players having moved away or gotten newborn children in the last year, it's cut down on the press a little bit.

When we play with a smaller party, things move a little faster, but we're pretty quick at full strength, too. We're almost always missing at least one person at any given time, though. A quorum is the dm (me) and three players. "The game goes on" is an important principle to maintain with a large group. While a smaller group can afford an "everyone has to be here to play" philosophy, it's simply hard to get 9 grown up people with lives together to play a game for six to eight hours once a week. We all have other, outside things going on sometimes; if we waited for everyone to be free, we'd have to cut a couple hours off the front and back of the game due to work schedules and we'd miss six out of seven weeks. Screw that! The game goes on. 

Another good thing to remember with a large group is, I can't predict the party. I mean, I have a pretty good idea of what the pcs are going to do in the next session- but I could be wrong. Moreover, usually there's a debate in the party at major forks as to which one to choose; and if they make a decision at the end of the game, that decision could change if a different group of players is present at the start of the next game. This has led to hours of wasted prep in the past... I had about a game's worth of stuff done up for when they were going to take the alternative route out through the dragon's tunnel and make rafts, but they changed their minds at the start of the next game and went back towards the xvart city, cleverly avoiding my cool "build a fungus raft" skill test, as well as the cool "ride a fungus raft down the rapids and an Underdark waterfall" skill test. 

Big groups kick ass, though. Lots of awesome personalities lead to lots of awesome roleplaying leads to lots of awesome plot hooks and adventures. I've had small groups, too, and those are cool, too; but massive groups- damn, but I love them.


----------



## the Jester

After they finish resting, the party presses on. It does not take long at all for them to run into trouble- trouble in the form of a group of mixed orcs, kobolds and goblins. 

The Six-Fingered Hand!

The party falls upon them, engaging them with a vengeance. They have a lot of frustration and anger at the Hand, and this is one of their first opportunities to vent it. The orcs pull out sunpowder pistols and open fire, filling parts of the battlefield with ephemeral clouds of smoke and sending balls of lead at the heroes, but the party quickly overwhelms them, slaying the orcs and kobold (who seems to be the leader, strangely) and capturing the goblins (whom they tentatively plan to pretend to have as slaves while they travel through the xvart city, adding legitimacy to their presence). Torinn is dubious about the entire slave idea, as is Heimall. They turn to Nowhere Jones for support, but he just shrugs. “They’re goblins.”

“We can always let them go on the other side of the city,” says Nixie.

“Let them go?” exclaims Vann-La. “We’re at war with them. We should kill them.”

The party argues for a time, and finally decides to keep the goblins alive, as slaves, or at least as presumptive slaves, for the moment. Nixie names the goblins Iris, Daisy, Posy, Sodomy, Snapdragon, Laura and Chrysanthemum.

***

The party continues moving slowly through the Underdark beneath the mountains. Finally, they rest again, setting a careful watch and ensuring that the goblins are kept securely bound or chained.

During the night, the party is assailed by a collection of Underdark reptiles, beginning with several crocodiles from the dark waterway that our heroes are traveling beside. Towards the middle of the battle, more lizards come from down the hall; these prove to be blue shocker lizards. The battle is neither quick nor easy, as the attackers try to eat the beetles hauling the party’s wagon. Nixie effects a quick rescue of it, mounting up and flicking the reins; and the party manages to slay the hungry lizards and crocodiles before anything worse than a few wounds happens. 

The party finishes their rest and then moves on.

***

Meanwhile, behind a cleverly-constructed fake section of wall, small grey eyes watch the party. Dry, leathery lips purse. The viewer moves aside, and another takes his place, peering out to observe the group as they move out. 

Silently, the first taps on the second’s arm, his fingers making complex rhythms and patterns. An interrogative. _Marks?_

The second figure nods and taps back: _The Twists._

***

Vann-La cocks her head. “Hey,” she calls out. “Hold on, do you hear that?”

Everyone stops and listens intently. “Is that- music?” asks Torinn. 

Heimall frowns. “What would music be doing down here?”

“Oi, could be anyone,” says the cook. “Dwarf, gnome, goblin, giant- everyone needs music. Drumming travel long way in Underdark, long range communication. Music very common.”

“Who cares?” Kratos barks. “We’re not here for music. You’re letting yourself get distracted. Let’s go.”

“He’s right,” agrees Nixie. The others murmur assent and the party continues on its way. But about ten minutes later, they happen upon something even stranger: a glimmering, shimmering curtain of light. 

“Now what do you suppose that is?” wonders Nixie. 

Sta’Ligir hops off the wagon and strides over. “Let me see.” He studies it, then shrugs. “Some kind of fey magic, looks like.” 

Torinn whistles. “Hey, I can see through it. There’s some kind of passage...” Experimentally, the dragonborn pokes his hand through the shimmering field. No harm seems to come to him, and he is able to pull his hand back free easily. With a shrug, he steps through the gossamer curtain. “You should check this out,” he calls out. Movement in the corner of his eye catches his attention, but when he turns his head, nobody is there. He frowns. Slowly, he moves in the direction in which he thought the movement might have been going. 

And the floor drops out from under him.

For a moment, Torinn wheel in the air before landing on a steep ramp; and a moment after that, he spills out onto a great pile of sand. 

_Zing!_ A shortbow arrow whizzes past him arm, barely missing.

Almost half a dozen xvarts begin to fire their weapons at Torinn.

“Hey guys, you should come down here!” he yelps in pain. There is a noticeable hint of panic in his voice. “This is fun!”

The xvarts rush in towards him.

***

From behind a wall, Zelcair the svirf watches through a peek hole as his xvart allies quickly bring the dragonborn intruder down. He lets out a long breath and then hurries off to his right, following the secret passage behind the wall of the Twists of Zelcair towards the entry from which he can go to, and examine, the intruder that his xvart allies have taken. 

The Twists are only augmented and enhanced by his, and his folks’, talent for illusion. When the party had advanced beyond the first lure, he had been surprised. When the dragonborn had fallen into the second, he had been gratified. It had been a while since the last time he had met someone new. Someone who wouldn’t suspect Zelcair’s cruel jokes. Zelcair smiles a ghastly smile. Oh, yes; he has a few interesting pranks to try out. To refine. Let’s see if the dragonborn can puzzle his way out of the Bear Trap!

As long as he is quick, he can spirit the dragonborn away before his friends have a chance to rescue him. As long as they aren’t moving quickly- and when last seen, they seemed more prone to move on a little and let Torinn catch up later. 

***

They were indeed. The wagon is slow but steady; the party lets it move forward, driven by Kratos, while Torinn investigates the passage. His first cry makes the others exchange a few glances amongst themselves. The following sudden scream of pain from below is all the summons that the rest of our heroes need. They move in to the passage that Torinn had entered a moment before and find the pit trap; below, they can see that it hits a steep slide.

Heimall brings out a rope and starts to tie it off. Vann-La readies her shield and hammer and simply jumps into the pit and onto the slide. She shoots downward and shoots off into a great pile of sand, landing on a xvart and knocking him down. 

“Xvarts!” she shouts. “They’ve already gotten Torinn! You’ll land in a sand pile!” She struggles to her feet before the xvart by using him to push herself up. Then she pounds her hammer into him, then staggers around and smashes another of the blue-skinned little humanoids!

The xvarts crowd around Vann-La. The one that she knocked prone stabs her deeply; she twists away and manages to fend off the attacks of the other two already on her. 

Then Heimall shoots down into the room, dropping down the rope very quickly, and bowls another xvart over!

The party starts to drop in in force, and Kratos manages to immediately slay one of the wounded ones. Iggy, in the middle of things, fires _magic missiles_ to cover Heimall, as he shouts, “ON YOUR FEET, SOLDIER!” Torinn groans as the warlord roughly pulls him up and shakes him. “You can’t give up! The Empire needs you!!” Torinn’s eyes open and his jaw sets. 

“Thank you,” he gasps, taking inspiration from Heimall’s words. He stands firm, whipping his spiked chain about.

Now that the party has come to his rescue, the battle swiftly turns one-sided. It’s a slaughter. 

Nobody sees Zelcair slip away in the shadows.

***

“Now what?” asks Nixie.

“We could explore...” Torinn begins, but Kratos cuts him off.

“This isn’t helping us achieve our goals.”

There is a general consensus that he is right. Using the rope, our heroes escape the xvart trap (actually, though they don’t know it, a svirf trap) and continue on their way.

_*Next Time:*_ Our heroes navigate the Crystal Gallery and to Xvaangensleff at last!


----------



## the Jester

*Into Xvaangensleff!*

After leaving the Twists of Zelcair behind (albeit never knowing what a gnome-strewn mess they almost strayed into), the party continues along. However, they are confronted by a mystery.

Two of the goblin slaves have been murdered. 

“Well, it’s no great loss,” reasons Nowhere Jones. “They’re just goblins.”

“But we might need them to get through the xvart city,” Sta’Ligir hisses in frustration. “And the last thing we need is a murderer among us!”

“It’s not murder if they’re goblins,” Jones maintains stubbornly.

Nixie only shrugs. “Who cares? Let’s just get out of this underground hole.”

“Remember,” Torinn points out, “we only have so much food, and we can’t just starve them.”

Vann-La nods. “Half rations for them, then. They won’t starve- but it will help keep them too weak to try anything.”

***

Deeper under the mountain the group goes, the steadily-plodding wagon moving slowly but able to navigate most terrain obstacles that they come into. Finally, after three days, the long, narrow passageway that they have been following for what feels like forever opens up in a highly reflective, chilly cave lined with ice.

The Crystal Gallery. 

As they move through the Gallery, they pass along a long corridor where vague shapes seem trapped deep within the ice. Peering at them, Vann-La thinks that at least some of the forms are humanoid. She shudders, imagining a slow, freezing death, trapped in a block of ice. Large crystalline “flowers” of ice dot the floor, sharp and jagged as caltrops. Areas of the floor are raised or lowered from the main level of the path.

Uneasily, the party continues along. The dark forms in the ice hang immobile, but everyone is very nervous about them. Some of the rises and ice flower fields look dangerous to the wagon, so Sta’Ligir decides to use a series of _scorching bursts_ to melt a clear path. However, after the first one, the sound of cracking ice resonates all around, and some chunks of ice and water slough from the ceiling. 

“Hmm,” muses Sta’Ligir, “not much structural integrity...”

“Oi, I got a bad feeling about this,” Cook mutters.

“I got a bad feeling about that chili you made,” retorts Iggy. “But I think we’d best avoid any further fire in the ice cave.”

Carefully, the group picks its way forward. The beetle hauling the wagon seems confused by the ice flowers, but gradually feels its way around them. The tension is high, and the dark figures still loom on either side, but gradually, the party proceeds towards Xvaangensleff. 

“Wait!” says the cook suddenly. “Look! Listen!”

There is a low sound, like ice cracking from within. Our heroes stare, aghast, as the walls of ice surrounding them begin to show the cracks that they can hear. 

And in an explosion of frosty shards, the dead burst from the wall.

Rimed with ice, the bones of almost a dozen humanoids tear their way free and begin to lurch towards the party. For a moment, everyone stares rigidly and slack-jawed at the undead forms coming through.

Then they spring into action.

Sta’Ligir bites back the words to his _scorching burst_ spell, and instead begins casting _magic missiles_ about. Torinn whips his spiked chain around him, smashing into undead form after undead form as he seeks the middle of their group. One of them describes a long, shallow cut on his arm. Heimall, seemingly intimidated by the skeletons breaking free of their icy prisons, retreats, hands shaking on the haft of his glaive. It slips in his grip, and he cannot seem to launch an effective attack. Gritting his teeth, he firms up his grip and tries again, this time smashing a skeleton’s skull in and knocking the unliving horror to the ground. Kratos charges in, missing, while Vann-La lays about her with sweeping blows, keeping her foes from effectively attacking her allies. Nowhere Jones and the party’s dwarven cook lay about them with daggers and frying pan, striking down skeletons with lethal skill. 

Then Torinn raises one hand high, his symbol of Lester clutched in his fist, and turns undead. 

There is an explosion of holy energy. Radiance bursts out, emanating from the symbol and from Torinn himself, and all around him, skeletons are blasted apart. Those that survive are transfixed, and Kratos, Nowhere Jones and Vann-La quickly finish them off.

Just in time, for the sound of tittering laughter comes to our heroes. Two more forms- small humanoids made of ice, with large noses and cruel expressions, are coming down towards the party. They chatter in strange, tinkling voices. They stop some distance from our heroes, making little taunting noises and obscene gestures at them.

“Screw these guys,” Kratos growls. The party begins to move up, but as they get within about 30’, the ice creatures create fields of snow before them, making it difficult to advance. Torinn almost loses his footing as he moves across it. Vann-La raises her shield just in time as the two things breathe little blasts of frost at her. Sta’Ligir frowns, hanging back behind the snow packs, and keeps blasting at the creatures with _magic missiles._

“What are these things?” wonders Nowhere Jones.

“They’re mephits!” Torinn replies. “I’ve read about them in the Chronicles of Lester! They’re elemental creatures, but not very powerful ones.”

“Not for long,” Vann-La snarls. She leaps forward off the patch of powdery, impeding snow, and swings her hammer with telling force, annihilating the lower part of the first mephit’s head. It collapses in a pile of jaggedly-broken ice.

The other mephit squeals in fear. It starts to back away, but Heimall charges, his glaive crashing into the frozen chest of the ice mephit. The creature’s torso explodes like an ice cube thrown against a wall. 

Our heroes check themselves. Though they have a few bruises and cuts, they are in pretty good shape. They take a few minutes to catch their breaths and search, and they find that one of the skeletons wears a suit of chain mail that is in good shape. They take it as spoils and move on. 

***

The far side of the Crystal Gallery is only a few minutes from the scene of their most recent battle. It ends at a narrow stairway that descends. Their wagon will fit, but only just. They proceed cautiously, descending for several hundred stairs before they spill out on a wide ledge on the edge of a huge cavern.

A small amount of illumination reaches them from innumerable patches of phosphorescent fungi scattered about. More light comes from the city itself. The cave is immense enough to hold the entire city of Xvaangensleff- and more. It is literally miles across. The party is on what they first take for a ledge, but slowly realize is actually a terrace. The entire near side of the cavern has been shaped to cultivate immense fields of edible fungi. Near the party is a milling herd of shaggy, bison-like creatures that are called rothe (at least, that’s what Cook calls them). There are about six more terraces before the bottom of the cavern, but a section of the wall has been converted to a road leading into the city. Near the top of the far side is a cavernous exit- heading upwards still. 

The city- it is _huge._ There must be a couple of thousand inhabitants.

Our heroes stare at the walled Underdark city in wonder for a few minutes before getting down to business. The far side of the cave is a long, shallow slope heading back up, and the city adorns it like a skirt.

“Before we go in there, we need to have our story straight,” Vann-La says firmly. 

The others nod, and the party starts to put their tale together. Remembering what they were told by the Hammersell dwarves that they met, they know that they must appear tough and ruthless if they do not wish to be hassled. They decide to pose as slavers, selling the goblins, and to simply pass through the city. Again, an argument breaks out over the merits of selling the goblins into slavery, but it ends inconclusively. They touch up the dragon parts on the wagon, re-mounting the head and wings so that they look as fearsome as possible, and then they head in.

A cluster of squalor is around the exterior of the city walls. A collection of all kinds of creatures of the Underdark, including gnomes, goblinoids, dwarves, kobolds, orcs and, of course, the blue-skinned xvarts swarm throughout the slum, transacting business and performing nefarious acts upon one another in a desperate struggle to crawl their stations in life into the city proper. As the party passes through the slum, they can see many different businesses being run. Everything from slave gear (though not slaves, at least as far as our heroes see) to excavation tools to beetles is available. They hurry past, wanting very badly to get out of this place as quickly as possible. 

Entry into Xvaangensleff itself is through a large purple gate. At the gate, they join a line of creatures entering the city. 

“They’re paying to get in,” Nixie says. “I hope it’s not too much...”

When they get to the front of the line, a foul-tempered cluster of xvarts at the gate house demands their business.

“We’re here to sell these goblin slaves,” says Kratos. “And maybe buy some other slaves.”

“Very well. Bring your slaves forth.”

The party is assessed an entry tax of 1 gold piece per free individual and 1 silver per slave. The slaves are then tagged with a locking, non-removable earring. The xvarts explain that this helps to make slaves easily identifiable and to help prevent fraud as to who is a slave and who is not for the purpose of various fees and tariffs. Furthermore, the party is informed that _leaving_ the city costs 1 gold piece per free individual and _five gold pieces_ per slave. This, they surmise, is how the xvart city ensures that it gets its cut of the slave traffic.

They enter Xvaangensleff through the wide stone gate. On the other side they find a street some 15’ wide, crowded on either side with buildings. Many xvarts are walking about on it, and most of them are attended by one or more goblin or kobold slaves. As the party’s wagon rolls in, many of the passersby stare at them. Obviously, almost everyone in here is either a xvart or a slave, and the party is a most unusual collection of individuals for this place. They see a few other non-xvart creatures- a dwarf, a pair of hobgoblins, a duergar- walking freely as well; they, too, have slaves. Along the sides of the roads are period hitching posts; a few of these have slaves chained to them, presumably while their masters conduct business within one of the buildings. Refuse is scattered everywhere, but thickest along the edges of the road. The place stinks of piss and smoke.

The buildings near the gate seem to be predominantly businesses. Our heroes spy an inn, whose sign seems to be some kind of drunken mushroom; a place that plainly sells weaponry and armor next to it; an open-air business that seems to specialize in branding slaves and property; a blacksmith- a hobgoblin, by the looks of him- whose shop is hung with manacles and chains; and many more. The street seems to open into a plaza further down, crowded with xvarts. 

The city slopes gradually up ahead, and many areas are lit, so the party can see a great distance. There is a large palace in the densest section of the city, splendid with light and crawling with xvarts. A great monument- a statue of a xvart some 50’ high- is in another section of the city; it looks like the head is being renovated. 

The party moves along the streets as quickly as their beetle allows. Vann-La glares around, kicking garbage aside from her path, hand constantly on her hammer. Kratos listens intently; he has already begun to pick up the Xvart tongue, and he’s trying to learn more as he goes. Groups of xvarts stare at the party, assessing them; when they come to the dragon head mounted atop the wagon, most of them quickly lose interest. 

The party moves into the city’s central plaza. It is obviously a slave market, and several stages are currently hosting slave auctions.

Vann-La stops suddenly, her eyes widening.

There is an _elf_ in one of those cages.

He sees her, and the rest of the party, and reaches an arm out through the cage he is caught in. “Please,” he cries, “you have to help me!”

Vann-La is speechless. The others hear the elf and turn, spotting him as well.

“Please- I have information vital to the Empire. Free me!!”

_*Next Time:*_ Can our heroes free the elf? Will they escape Xvaangensleff? Find out- next time!


----------



## the Jester

*Xvaangensleff*

With an angry growl, the xvarts nearest the cage holding the elf smack the bars threateningly with heavy clubs. The elf cringes back. Still holding Vann-La’s eyes, he silently mouths, _Please._

“We have to help him,” Vann-La mutters.

The party looks around. There are hundreds of creatures thronging the slave market. Obviously, to simply attack would be tantamount to suicide. “Maybe we can buy him,” suggests Nixie. The others nod. It’s worth a try. Vann-La nods slowly to the elf and raises a finger to her lips. 

The party spends some time watching the action, figuring out how the system works. Kratos, who has been concentrating on picking up snatches of the Xvart language, manages to act as a rough translator.* It seems as though there is a slaver’s guild, and any transactions must go through them. There are long lines in front of the guild’s kiosks, but they move fairly briskly. Business is obviously transacted with both regularity and efficiency; the xvarts know what they’re doing, when it comes to the slave trade.

The party negotiates with the xvarts at the elf’s cage. The xvarts don’t really seem to care why the pcs want the elf, as long as they pay good money. Our heroes bargain with the goblins, and after waiting in line, make their transaction, pay the guild its fees and walk away with a shackled elf. They mutter to him that he must act the part of a slave until they exit the city, and move on as quickly as their beetle can trundle. 

The elf’s name is Rathagos. “Thank you so much,” he murmurs. “I have nothing, but I promise you, if you can take me to the city of Fandelose, out of the western side of these damned tunnels, you will be rewarded for saving me!”

“We’re going there anyway,” Heimall says grimly. “How long have you been down here?”

“A few weeks... we were trying to reach the city via the tunnels, when the xvarts fell upon my squadron. The killed or captured us, and I feared that the information I have would never reach Fandelose!”

Vann-La and Torinn exchange a glance. “What information?” asks the dragonborn.

“A ritual, to help defend the city,” the elf says. “The Six-Fingered Hand is not far from striking them, and this will help to strengthen the city’s walls and battlements.”

“You should teach it to us, if we can learn it,” Sta’Ligir suggests.

But the elf shakes his head. “I don’t actually know it. It was... _planted_ in my head. I am no ritualist, I am just carrying it.”

Iggy nods. _There must be another ritual,_ he realizes, _to put a ritual into someone’s mind like that. And perhaps yet another, to extract it again. So much to learn..._

***

Speaking of rituals, as the party moves through the garbage-filled streets of Xvaangensleff, Sta’Ligir spies a ritualist’s shop. The party debates whether or not to stop. Kratos points out, quite rightly, that if they get into much trouble, they could end up enslaved. But Sta’Ligir and Torinn are insistent: without components, the rituals they do know are fairly useless, but given the material to enact their rituals, there are many advantages the party might be able to employ. “Like speaking to things when we don’t know their language,” Iggy grumbles.

Kratos snorts. “We can learn their language. _I_ can learn their language.”

“What if you aren’t around?” 

“I agree with Iggy,” says Torinn, and the party grinds to a halt. They move quickly, buying some supplies and a few books to learn new rituals, including both _enchant magic item_ and _transfer enchantment_.

The group keeps moving. Piles of refuse, some of them burning, slow the beetle, but it plods over or around them relentlessly. Finally, they come to the Yellow Gate allowing them to exit the city. They pay their tolls- Rathagos has one of the slave earrings on, so he costs extra- and then they are outside the city, in the slums surrounding it on the far side. The exit tunnel looms ahead and above, and they are now ascending the curving slope of the wall of the gargantuan cavern. Iggy uses a _light_ cantrip, and Kratos cracks a sun rod; they are leaving the city lights behind them. 

The slums here are thin; it is not level enough for easy living. The party leaves them behind in less than ten minutes. Cave formations and fungal growths replace the shabby huts and sheds that they have been passing through.

“I wonder how much longer to get out to other side of tunnel,” Cook muses. 

“Hold on,” Vann-La says sharply. “Over there...” She points, and the others look. Half-hidden behind some mineral growths are a pile of bodies. 

“What do you suppose that’s all about?” Heimall scratches his beard. None of our heroes have shaved or bathed in almost two weeks, since abandoning Chebonnay. 

“I don’t know,” she answers. 

The party examines the bodies for a few moments. They are uniformed xvarts, killed by blade and arrow and club. They are puzzling over the dead when a sudden hue and cry alerts them to a party of live xvarts and rats- and the xvarts are wearing similar uniforms to the dead. 

An obvious misunderstanding develops. The xvarts sic their rats on the party, and then charge to the attack themselves. Our heroes deal devastating blows, cutting down most of the enemy in a few short moments without any real harm to themselves. 

“Let’s get out of here,” Kratos insists. “Let’s go. We’re almost out of here. No stopping, no searching, let’s _git._”

The party marches up into the exit cavern, leaving xvarts behind them. Nixie manages to disengage the slave earring from Rathagos, and they give him one of the xvart shortbows, as well as a set of clothes. He examines their uniforms and announces that he was in the army as an irregular and scout. He thanks them again, and assures them that, upon reaching Fandelose, General Argos will reward them for bringing him to the city.

What he does not know, of course, is that at that moment, General Argos is being arrested. Within an hour he will be in the infamous Black Tower. Things in Fandelose are, unfortunately, a little more complicated than would be ideal. But our heroes will find out all about that soon enough. 

The passage out of the huge cavern does not, of course, lead directly to the surface, but it slopes so noticeably upwards that it cannot help but be heading in the right direction. The party clambers up an ever-increasing slope for hours. Finally, at the fourth hour, they encounter a crossroads. They pause, gasping, to rest and eat. No signs point the way, but one passage heads clearly upwards. It is this tunnel that our heroes take, hoping that it will lead them to the surface at last. Except for their dwarven cook, who is quite happy underground, all of our heroes crave the sun; it has been a week since they have seen it. Fresh air. Green plants.

Into a rubble and boulder strewn chamber they go; up and up, but leveling off here, where there is so much scree. And as they traverse it, they are attacked, suddenly, from the darkness, by howling, ursine humanoids wielding primitive stone axes. They hack and hurl them, and attack in a mass, stupidly. 

Our heroes use tactics. Nowhere Jones and the Cook move to flank; Vann-La tangles the mass of the enemy up, while Nixie takes the beetle and wagon to safety, then starts firing _eldritch blasts._ 

The creatures, once bloodied, become savage, frenzied. Their blows increase in ferocity. But that just means that our heroes start hitting _hard_ as the enemy gets badly wounded. Soon, the last furred humanoid falls.

”What are those things?” wonders Sta’Ligir.

“Oi, they called quaggoths,” Cook answers. “Mean, Underdark bear-man. Very bad.”

“Well, apparently, we’re badder,” puffs Kratos. 

A long, ululating howl echoes down the cave.

“They come in waves,” Cook continues. “Strong against poison.”

“Waves, eh?” Heimall says.

The party forms a rough circle and continues moving. The second wave comes quiclly, and this time there are more of them quaggoths. Some of them are unarmored, but they can do a terrific job of rending the heroes with their massive, strong, clawed fingers. The battle starts off looking good for the party, but rapidly progresses to a less good-looking configuration when Cook falls, smashed down by a wig-splitting blow from one of the axe-wielding quaggoths. 

“Cook!” cries Torinn. Using the power of Lester, he murmurs a _healing word_- and Cook groans back to consciousness. 

A quaggoth savages him, and he falls back into unconsciousness. Slavering, the thing howls. 

Torinn smashes its head in with his spiked chain and moves to cover Cook while he uses another _healing word_.

The quaggoths are pushed back; pushed apart; pushed to wall, then cut down. Panting, wounded, bloodied, our heroes decide to hurry on immediately, without searching or resting. “If another wave hits us here, while we’re beaten up, we’re in bad shape,” reasons Heimall. “Maybe, if we can get out of their hunting ground...”

The party moves quickly. No imminent third wave of quaggoths hits them; they hurry onward for about thirty minutes before they find an open area with what appears to be a partially collapsed, partially buried shrine. The cavern it is in is full of rubble and partially collapsed; the entire cave floor is covered in jumbled rocks and scree. A tall tower in the rear of the ruin, whose entrances from outside seem to have been buried by rubble, thrusts up through the low roof. 

The party halts. The tower thrusts up _through_ the roof of the cave. 

“It’s made of wood,” Nowhere Jones says. “It fell from above.”

“If we go in, maybe we can get out through the top,” suggests Vann-La. 

”Wait a second,” Heimall says. “We still need to catch our breath. If any quaggoths are following us, better to take them on now than when we might be fighting something else, too, at the same time.”

They pause, take a few moments to regain their breath, bind wounds, heal a little. Still no third wave of quaggoths. 

Boldly, Vann-La throws open the tower door. 

_*Next Time:*_ Return to the surface world at last!

*He took Linguist as a feat.


----------



## the Jester

Vann-La throws wide the door, and the party looks in to a half-ruined chamber. The walls show dozens of cracks, the marks of whatever terrible impact the structure felt when it fell from the surface and into its current subterranean resting place. A huge statue, holding a bowl in its hands, has fallen across the floor and creates a 20’ long obstacle. A shaggy, white-furred creature, filthy with spores and stained with slimes, rests in the back of the chamber, its tongue lolling from its mouth. It takes a moment for our heroes to realize that the creature is another quaggoth because of the mass of stuff clinging to its fur.

Slowly, its unfocused eyes train on our heroes, but before it moves, a clattering of bones sounds from all around the heroes. A mass of skeletons arises from the rubble!

“Look out!” shouts Kratos.

Something else steps from the shadows- another undead form- but this one has some withered flesh left on its bones. Torinn’s eyes widen; he recognizes it as some kind of wight. It cackles as it raises a desiccated hand and gestures at Sta’Ligir, unleashing a _grave bolt!_ The wizard writhes in momentary pain. “Watch out for that one!” he cries.

The quaggoth rouses itself, standing and swaying on its feet. It almost looks... drunk.

_That shouldn’t be,_ Cook thinks, _they’re resistant to poison._ He looks at the thick coating of spores and fungal excretions coating its fur. _But if it had a thick layer of hallucinogens on it,_ the dwarf realizes, _completely coating it, overwhelming its ability to resist them... who knows what it might do to its mind? Perhaps that is how quaggoths seek spiritual experiences- much as my folk might fast until they see visions, or the flighty elvenfolk might eat fey mushrooms or smoke their funny flowers..._

The psychotic quaggoth roars and gives a great shake. 

A huge puff of spores and other hallucinatory fungal material puffs into the air around it. Those close enough to be affected by the spores begin coughing. Their vision blurs. Things begin moving in the corners of their eyes, and strange sounds start to echo. Things distort and change, slow down, speed up. The heroes reel, dazed.

But not everyone is close enough to be caught in the hallucinogenic burst, nor does everyone close enough succumb to the effects of it. Our heroes begin to lay about them, driven by a fervent urge to escape these underground tunnels that they have been traveling for so long. The surface, they are sure, is close at hand- possibly just at the top of this tower!- and so they fight with all their hearts. Their new ally, Rathagos, proves quite capable with his bow, landing arrow after arrow in the enemy, and the skeletons fall quickly. The wight does not last long; and the psychotic quaggoth is confused to begin with, and cannot long withstand the force our heroes pour into the attack. 

Passing through the chamber, our heroes come into an old courtyard that is the site of an open-air garden; there is no roof, save the cavern ceiling. Old, dead plants and a large, extinct oak are the only things left in here. _More evidence that the place came from the surface,_ muses Nixie. _I doubt very much whether an oak could grow here without sunlight, especially to be that large._

The far side of the courtyard has a set of double doors leading out of it into the tower proper. They pass quickly through it and into another chamber, this one with a staircase leading up along the right hand wall. A single door leads out as well, and the floor has a fair amount of rubble scattered on it. Our heroes start for the stairs, only to find more undead lurking- but this time, the monsters are mere insubstantial shadows that drain their strength. Worse yet, as the party struggles with them, the door opens and three more wights join the fray. The party is pressed hard; the wights suck out their very life energy, leaving them unable to sustain much damage, while the shadows reduce their ability to deal damage. Still, Torinn is a cleric, and his ability to unleash radiant energy proves pivotal. The light sears the shadows and makes the wights fall back in pain, and the party presses their advantage. It is a tough battle, but one that our heroes win. 

Afterwards, they spend a few moments healing up and catching their collective breath, then search the area the wights came from. It turns out to be an old baracks, with several bunks in it, as well as a pair of locked chests. Nixie manages to coax these open with a little time and a set of lock picks, and the party finds 223 gold pieces and a suit of scale mail armor. Sta’Ligir and Torinn look it over, and both conclude that it is magical; after some experimentation, the group discerns that it is +1 scale mail of durability.

“Now let’s see what’s upstairs,” Kratos suggests.

The party ascends past three shattered, fallen floors and up to a final story of the tower, surrounded by earth and stone. Much of the floor has crumbled, and the rest looks relatively unstable. There is no obvious exit; the four windows open onto a mix of stone and packed earth. The ceiling is 30’ overhead. It looks like any attempt at excavation could be disastrous. It seems as though the tower fell down into the earth when a huge amount of empty space below it collapsed. A glance at the ceiling confirms the party’s hopes: it doesn’t look like the roof has sustained a lot of damage, nor does it appear to have much weight upon it. Better yet- there seems to be a very faint light filtering in from some cracks in the ceiling.

Escape at last?

Yes!

It takes some work- the party must first knock a hole in the ceiling, then manage to get even the weak climbers up the remnants of the shaft that the place dug when it broke through the surface and began its fall- but soon enough, the party emerges atop a mountain! They can see a city- presumably Fandelose- shrouded in the smoke of hundreds of fires in the distance. It looks to be about thirty miles away, and most of the terrain is mountainous; to Sta’Ligir, it looks to be about a six-day journey to the city.

“It might already be besieged,” Vann-La points out grimly. “Look at all that smoke!”

But Heimall disagrees. “I don’t think so. I bet that’s just the smoke that the city itself puts out from all its foundries, hearth fires and stuff. I think we could see the armies surrounding the city even from here if it was under siege- and the land surrounding it looks mostly green and yellow.”

“Fields,” nods Nixie, “and harvest time isn’t far off.”

“Let’s go,” Kratos says. 

***

The party travels for several days before they bottom out of the mountains. Along the way, they are attacked once by strange monsters with the head and wicked antlers of a stag, the body of a terrible bird of prey and the shadow of a man. Though they are vicious and powerful, our heroes manage to fight them off, slaying two and driving the others away. 

After that, our heroes keep an eye to the sky.

On the afternoon of their third day back on the surface, the party stumbles upon a strange scene. Within a large clearing within the wooded mountains that they are descending, the party finds a large hide, made of the skins of multiple humanoids stitched together, stretched taut between four stakes. On the center of it is a human, obviously dead for days at this point, but clearly staked out. Bones and scattered bits of the remains of other creatures litter the stitched hide.

“What the hell is this?” exclaims Nowhere Jones. 

“Creepy,” mutters Nixie.

“Over there!” exclaims Vann-La, pointing.

Across the clearing from them is a trio of strange hounds. They seem to be on fire. Foul, sulphurous smoke pours off of them. Now that the heroes have spotted them, they give up any pretensions of stealth and begin to growl as they advance.

“Hell hounds!” exclaims Sta’Ligir. 

Our heroes begin to draw weapons and scatter into an attack formation. Vann-La carefully looks around- and spies a small cottage, hidden in the brush on one side of the clearing. Kratos fires an _eldritch blast_ at one of the hell hounds as it enters range, but it only growls louder when he stings it. Rathagos begins firing arrows swiftly into the hell hounds, the string of his bow thrumming with each shot. 

The party and hounds crash into one another, struggling for supremacy. Flames gout from the hounds’ mouths, engulfing several of our heroes. There are cries of pain, but these are followed by yelps as more arrows, and then hammers and mauls, strike home. Nixie destroys a hound with _witchfire,_ and as it dies, she _misty steps_ into a better position to strike the next hound.

Suddenly, she cries out. Snakes that only she can see appear all around her and start attacking her! She cries out in fear as phantom fangs bite into her. Pain runs through her and her head feels as though it is about to split. 

“Help!” she cries. “Get these things off of me!!”

“Huh?” asks Vann-La. “What things?”

Then a new opponent becomes visible as a blast of _balefire_ shoots out from behind the cottage, catching Nixie in the chest and blasting her unconscious with a scream.

“It’s a tiefling!” shouts Kratos. 

“Oh, I got that, then,” Nowhere Jones grins, vanishing into the brush to approach.

Meanwhile, Torinn, tired of the party being locked down by the hell hounds, belches out a blast of lightning. *ZZZKKK![/i] The one that Rathagos has been focused on spasms and dies. The final hound reacts by becoming even more ferocious, savaging and burning Vann-La. The Kree warrior groans in pain and unleashes a comeback strike- but misses. “I could use some healing here!” she calls.

Unfortunately for Vann-La, Kratos is too far away to help her. He is already charging towards the tiefling. Seeing the warlord coming, the tiefling- whose name, for the record, is Zeevil- pulls out a wicked-looking, wavy-bladed dagger. 

Kratos swings his maul and smashes into the tiefling’s hip.

With a cry, the tiefling vanishes, teleporting away. He reappears, limping, in some brush, and fires balefire at Kratos, engulfing the warlord in flames.

“Bastard!” cries Kratos, rushing towards him again.

Meanwhile, Nowhere Jones is stymied by the sudden vanishing of his target, so instead of attacking the tiefling, he springs out and unleashes a torturous strike on the last of the hell hounds, slaying it. 

Zeevil cries out in rage. “My dogs!” he snarls.

Without aid, he is quickly overwhelmed. Nowhere Jones strikes the final blow as his kindred tries to flee. 

***

The cottage turns out to hold an ornate box locked with a clever puzzle lock. Nixie manages to trick it open after some work, and it proves to contain nearly 300 gold pieces! The tiefling also proves to have a pair of healing potions in his belt, so our heroes take them and add them to the party’s treasure.

They continue on, unaware that death is just around the corner for one of them.

Next Time: The great log crossing- and the first pc death in my 4e campaign!*


----------



## Mathew_Freeman

the Jester said:


> The party travels for several days before they bottom out of the mountains. Along the way, they are attacked once by strange monsters with the head and wicked antlers of a stag, the body of a terrible bird of prey and the shadow of a man. Though they are vicious and powerful, our heroes manage to fight them off, slaying two and driving the others away.




What the heck were those things, then? I assume one of your fine homebrewed creations.



			
				the Jester said:
			
		

> Meanwhile, Torinn, tired of the party being locked down by the hell hounds, belches out a blast of lightning. *ZZZKKK![/i] The one that Rathagos has been focused on spasms and dies. The final hound reacts by becoming even more ferocious, savaging and burning Vann-La. The Kree warrior groans in pain and unleashes a comeback strike- but misses. “I could use some healing here!” she calls.*



*

Picked up a formatting error here. *


----------



## the Jester

Mathew_Freeman said:


> What the heck were those things, then? I assume one of your fine homebrewed creations.




Or at least one of my conversions. 

They were perytons- awesome old school monsters. I used the 3e pic from _Monsters of Faerun_ when running the encounter. (Why on earth was the peryton consigned to a FR book??) I used two different versions- both of which are, hmm, in my 7th level? list of converted monsters (see the Monster Project- link in sig).

Hopefully we see them again in MM2 or something...




Mathew_Freeman said:


> Picked up a formatting error here.




Fixed it! Thanks for the catch!


----------



## Mathew_Freeman

the Jester said:


> Fixed it! Thanks for the catch!




No worries. It would bug me if I'd made an error in one of my posts, so I'll try and catch any of yours I spot. It's really hard to spot such a thing when you spend ages writing it, sometimes!


----------



## the Jester

Behind the scenes, there’s a traitor manipulating certain events. Making sure that the Empire’s greatest general is out of the way, so that the Hand may squeeze closed on the city of Fandelose, whose triple walls and triple gates have never been successfully overwhelmed.

General Argos rots in the Black Tower, stripped of his rank and honors, awaiting trial for attempting the murder of a Bronze Councilor. 

His abilities are unparalleled in the Empire, and probably beyond it for thousands of miles. A unique combination of a shrewd understanding of politics and human nature crossed with a hard eye for detail and an intuitive comprehension of the military implications of everything around him has made General Argos a legend in his own time. 

The traitor gloats. 

_Politics. So easy._

***

The march towards Fandelose continues. On the fourth day back on the surface, our heroes descend a long mountain slope and enter a thickly wooded area as they start the next ascent. After about a half hour in the woods, Sta’Ligir recognizes that this area has been logged in the past. 

“It looks like they practice sustainable forestry around here, anyhow,” he comments.

Soon Vann-La says, “Listen! Chopping!”, and indeed, the party can hear the sounds of lumberjacks at work. Not long after, the sounds of men singing working songs becomes audible.

It’s not long before they come into contact with some loggers. There are many groups scattered about; they are all from Fandelose or its outskirt communities. Though they are a little intimidated by Torinn- none of them have ever seen a dragonborn before- they are happy to stop and chat. After all, a chance to share a meal or a drink of Cook’s dwarven spirits with strangers is a wonderful excuse to take a break from all that hard lumberjacking work! 

Our heroes take the time to chat with these folks, and they learn quite a few interesting bits of information. It turns out that the city is about two days’ walk away. Along the way, travelers have to cross a river. There used to be a bridge, but it washed out during a monstrous storm last winter and hasn’t been repaired. The easiest way to cross is to jump across the logs that float downstream, towards the city. There is one particular place, about a mile downstream, that has banks low enough to cross for about 100’.

Being adventurers, the party asks about any monsters in the area. The lumberjacks tell them that the woods between here and Fandelose are relatively safe, though drakes lurk in the shadows and are always a threat, as do a variety of dangerous, large-sized birds, such as axe beaks, kocho and terror birds.

The Six-Fingered Hand, on the other hand, is said to be months away, on the other side of the mountains. The Empire will surely crush them before they are a threat to the Western Provinces. Yeah, they’re dangerous, but not to us, is the prevailing attitude.

“Oh, they’re a danger, all right,” Vann-La says grimly.

“Who is the military authority in Fandelose?” asks Kratos. 

One of the lumberjacks scratches his beard. “The head man is General Argos, but he’s in the Tower.” A couple of the others shake their heads. 

“What’s that mean?” asks Heimall. 

“Obviously, you’re not from around here,” one of the other lumberjacks drawls. “It’s the Black Tower. You get locked in there, you probably don’t come out. It’s usually for the worst criminals and condemned men.”

“Why is he in there?” exclaims Vann-La.

Nobody seems to know. “The city’s crazy, anyway,” one of the men opines. “That’s why I live in the woods, with my family. Too many people. The damned Bronze Council runs the place, but it seems like they are always trying to one-up the Imperials anyway.”

Rathagos frowns. “This is very disturbing,” he mutters to Torinn. “General Argos is the man we need to fight against the Six-Fingered Hand. If the city has him imprisoned, they may be dooming themselves!”

“We need to investigate the situation and see what’s actually going on,” the dragonborn says. “Let’s not jump to any conclusions yet.”

Meanwhile, Sta’Ligir is describing the true magnitude of the threat of the Six-Fingered Hand to the lumberjacks. “When the time comes,” he tells them, “gather your families and flee. Flee to the city if you can, or take refuge deep in the woods, in concealed glades and groves if you must. But be careful to be respectful of nature.”

“Thanks for the warning, elf,” one of the lumberjacks says. “If the Hand really is as big as you say, we’d best take your words seriously.”

Sta’Ligir sighs. The difference between an elf and an eladrin is clearly lost on these ignorami.

***

Fandelose specializes in lumber and worked wood items, from intricate music boxes to catapults, and bronze items of all kinds. It is a walled city with a strong militia. Its people are quite a mix- human, halfling, elf and half-elf all mingle together in large numbers, with a few folk of dwarven or tiefling descent as well. None of the loggers have ever met a dragonborn before. Fandelose can provide most of the services that any other large city can. Moreover, it is said that the city’s best ritualist, Yabin, has the best selection of books, scrolls, components and potions this side of the legendary great city of Narthox. Yabin lives in the High Quarter of the city, in the Cerulean Tower- Fandelose’s _other_ great tower, than the infamous Black Tower. 

Our heroes thank the lumberjacks, leave them a bottle of spirits and take their leave, following their directions towards the log crossing. The group walks along for almost a mile; then, the path begins to descend towards the waterway that they can hear not far off through the trees. Soon it comes into view- a wide river, choked with logs. The path descends to a wide, muddy bank, where eddies in the currents have left a number of logs drifting slowly along. Many more logs are heading downstream at a leisurely pace, sometimes smacking into one another or being twisted by an eddy in the current. 

Heimall uses his glaive to catch one end of a log and turn it so that it catches against another. Slowly, he starts a log jam, throwing the logs out of alignment and starting to back them up. “It’ll be much easier to walk across,” he points out.

But Kratos is young and brash and impatient. He starts moving across carefully. At times he has to stop and catch his balance, but all is looking fine until he is about halfway across.

Then, from their positions in ambush in their trees along the far side of the river, the forces of the Six-Fingered Hand loose arrows and fire crossbows. An arrow hits Kratos’ arm. He gives a cry of pain. Vann-La, on the other hand, takes two arrows to the breast, each piercing her perilously near her vitals!* “Need healing!” she gasps. Fortunately, Heimall is able to keep her going with his _inspiring words._

Several orcs emerge on the far side of the bank and begin to move out onto the logs to brace Kratos. 

On our heroes’ side of the river, Rathagos starts shooting at the enemy archers. Torinn starts moving across, using his spiked chain to anchor his movements. It is slow, but effective; he moves steadily without falling. Meanwhile, on the opposite sid of the river, a bunch of armored kobolds start to move out of the woods and onto the logs as well. Now there can be no doubt: kobolds, orcs and goblins are three “fingers” of the Six-Fingered Hand. The enemy is in the area. 

_How many of them are there?_ wonders Kratos, as he moves as quickly as possible across the logs. They are slippery and not entirely stable, and he does not relish the thought of being crushed between two of them. The others are starting across behind him, but he’s already most of the way there. He will have to hold against the enemy until they can get close enough to join the battle. And the logs move, too, flowing with the river; if he waits too long to get onto the bank, he will run out of bank to get on to. 

Kratos attacks the orcs. They battle across the logs. Kratos kicks and rocks the log to shake orcs loose, and still manages to maintain his grip.

Meanwhile the others are coming across the logs, but the river is wide and the logs are slippery.** It’s difficult to get close enough to attack, and they keep slipping and falling and having to get back up. A little missile fire goes back and forth, especially from Iggy, but mostly the goblin archers are able to pepper the party with relative impunity. Nixie, Vann-La and Kratos all take arrows; Nixie, especially, gets peppered, first taking two arrows, then two more a few moments later. “Need help!” she cries. 

Nowhere Jones stands still on his log for a moment. Now that the kobolds are close enough, he can hurl a dagger or two at them! He hits once, wounding a goblin archer, and then falls on his ass when he tries to move. 

It’s agonizing. 

Arrows rain down. Kratos fights valiantly, using his healing to sustain himself in the face of an onslaught of orcs and kobolds. Sta’Ligir and Nixie cast spells back in return, but _yet another_ pair of arrows strikes Nixie down, and she lies bleeding on the wide log she had been casting from.

Vann-La makes it to the far shore, but then realizes that her friend is dying. With a frustrated cry, she rushes back onto the logs and leaps as far as she can towards her friend. 

Meanwhile, Kratos, Nowhere Jones and Rathagos are finally starting to clear out a bunch of the enemies. Their morale breaks, and the remaining goblins and kobolds try to flee. Our heroes do their best to cut down the would-be escapers, and soon the bloody work is done.

Vann-La, meanwhile, reaches Nixie. Still alive! Quickly, the Kree tries to bind her wounds- but there are so many, too many...

Nixie bleeds to death in Vann-La’s arms.

_*Next Time:*_ Our heroes reach Fandelose!

*Double crits from goblin sharpshooters. Nice way for me to start an encounter.

**To be brutally honest, this encounter sucked. It didn’t go off at all like I had envisioned. The logs were too hard to cross- _too_ challenging terrain, basically- and there were way too many. If I were to run an encounter like this again (and some day I will), I’d fix it in several ways. The biggest would be to have the river only be about 8 squares across. The way we actually played this encounter, it was way too large of an area of terrain that was way too much of a pain in the ass to get through. I totally don’t mind killing pcs, but I kinda feel bad that the first pc to die in my 4e campaign died in an encounter that was poorly designed.  Also, the player left while his character was down, and left his death saves in another player’s hands, and the party couldn’t reach his character in time (again, because the terrain was too large and too much of a pain in the ass) to save it.


----------



## Technik4

Hey Jester, looks like another great story hour is starting! I feel bad for Nixie, dying in weird terrain (when you're not even present!) sucks. I think it might be time for another roll call though....this was the last:



> PARTY ROLL CALL
> Nixie- eladrin fey warlock 2
> Kratos Aurainn- half-elf warlord 2
> Torinn Dzekrasode- dragonborn cleric 3
> Vann-La- (Kree) elf fighter 3
> Sta'Ligir- eladrin wizard 3
> Cook- dwarf rogue 2
> Heimall Heinrickson- human warlord 2
> Nowhere Jones- tiefling rogue 2




Also I know that some of your older characters have new characters, like Inoke and Alcar. If you could list their names it would be cool to keep track of!

Hooray for something new to read!


----------



## Brain

Technik4 said:


> Also I know that some of your older characters have new characters, like Inoke and Alcar. If you could list their names it would be cool to keep track of!




I can help with that.  Here's the who's who compared to the old epic party:

Nixie- Lillamere
Kratos Aurainn- Alcar
Torinn Dzekrasode- Gerontius
Vann-La- Inoke/JJ
Sta'Ligir- Horbin/Blaze
Cook- Sybele
Heimall Heinrickson- Drelvin/Chakar
Nowhere Jones- wasn't there


----------



## the Jester

*Into Fandelose!*

It’s not a deep grave, but it is the best that they can do for their friend under the circumstances. They had to leave the beetle and wagon behind when ascending the fallen structure out of the quaggoth caves, and have no way to carry her corpse; it simply isn’t practical. And time is not on their side; the Six-Fingered Hand is coming, and since they have been ambushed, it is all too pressing a matter. 

A shallow, barely-marked soldier’s grave and a quick, roadside ceremony: it certainly won’t be the last one that the environs around Fandelose will see before the year is out. 

***

The road is not far from the log crossing, but the city is still two days away. Rathagos grows more and more impatient, unusual for an elf. All of our heroes are possessed of a sense of urgency. Travelers move up and down the roads, unconcerned, oblivious to the threat of the Hand. The party chats with some of these, and they hear more rumors that seem to confirm that the general they are looking for is in prison for some terrible crime or other. 

Nowhere Jones, wandering along the road, hears something more disturbing: the village of Red Bank has been destroyed, though nobody knows how. 

Our heroes can speculate.

Interestingly, Kratos hears that there is a play running in town- a play by the name of Nowhere Jones. He mentions this, bemusedly, to the others, and Nowhere Jones himself looks quite perplexed by the news. 

“I guess we’ll have to see it,” he says.

One more disturbing rumor reaches the party’s ears: a daVoi is in Fandelose.*

***

It is a long couple of days. Finally, though, the party arrives at Fandelose, passing by the Black Gorge on the way. It is a polluted, dirty city with vast swaths of barely-livable area- the slums. Massive clouds of black smoke from the multitude of fires hang in the air. The fires, rather than burning wood, burn the dwarfish resource called firestone, which is mined in the Black Gorge. The streets are cobbled, but most buildings are wooden. Everyone seems to have a plethora of pockets on their clothing. The gates into the city are huge and wide, and offer entrance to the city only after passing between no less than three sets of guard towers and walls. However, they do not seem to be fully manned. Many of the knobs, knockers, furnishings and trim in the city it leafed with bronze, though most of it, like everything else in the city, is smudged with sooty residue. Almost immediately, our heroes find that they, too, are becoming smudged with it. 

Rathagos insists the party follow him immediately to the military headquarters of the city. He hails a garen-drawn cab for them, and in only twenty minutes they arrive at an impressive, stolid-looking building. Rathagos enters and speaks quietly to an officer; a few moments later, the party is ushered into a sitting room, where a colonel named Jaxe awaits them. He immediately ushers Rathagos away for a debriefing, and calls a clerk to issue rewards to the others. Each of them is given 250 gp, and the colonel asks that to remain available to him if he requests their assistance, and offers them guest quarters- better than a room in the barracks, but not as nice as a good inn. 

Heimall speaks up. “Colonel, I hope I’m not out of line here, but what’s going on? We heard rumors that General Argos is imprisoned in the Black Tower.”

Colonel Jaxe nods. His jaw stiffens. “Correct. The new general is General Pythock.”

“How does he compare to General Argos?” 

Colonel Jaxe hesitates for a moment. Then: “General Pythock is my superior officer. As such, I fully support him.”

“I see.”

There is a moment of silence. Then, Torinn asks, “What is the general accused of?”

“Attempting to poison one of the councilors of the city.” 

“What is his record like?” Vann-La queries. 

“Exemplary,” says Jaxe emphatically. “He has countless awards and medals for honor, valor and service, he was one of the youngest men ever to achieve a generalship for the Empire- he’s practically a legend in his own time!”

“And did you know him personally?”

“I have served under him for years.”

“So you would say that it bears investigating?” Vann-La gives the colonel a measured look. 

“Of course.”

“And what about the new general? Can we see him?”

“I can put a message on his desk,” Colonel Jaxe replies, “but I don’t know when he’ll get it.”

“He isn’t receptive to the troops? He doesn’t answer messages?”

“He hasn’t been to his office yet,” Jaxe says. His voice is completely neutral, held in obvious iron control.

“Colonel, you must know that the Six-Fingered Hand is not far from here,” Torinn starts.

“Indeed, they are less than two months away.”

The party stares at him. Kratos says, “What does this General Pythock do, then?”

“I wish I could tell you.”

“At a time like this, we can’t afford to have someone like this in power!” exclaims Vann-La. “How did he become Argos’ replacement?”

“Politics,” Jaxe sneers.

***

The government of Fandelose goes back over a thousand years. It predates the Empire’s presence here by a significant amount. When the Empire swallowed up the surrounding lands, Fandelose found it easier to pay a minor tribute and accept a few minor inconvenient terms (including a garrison) than to fight the well trained Imperial Scarlet Thrushes. Their union with the Empire was peaceful, but has always allowed the Fandelosian government to maintain a significant amount of independence. 

Except in times of extreme emergency, the Bronze Council controls Fandelose. The Imperial garrison has to ask for funding from them for any needs above standard operating costs, and Fandelose’s unusual level of independence has left them somewhat reluctant to contribute. Thus, General Argos was unfortunately often in the position of having to go to the council, hat in hand, begging for the money required to (for example) upgrade the battlements of the walls.

Just a month ago, Fandelose was in relatively good shape. General Argos had gotten word that the Six-Fingered Hand was approaching and would strike inside of two months. He warned the Bronze Council and asked for more money in order to better prepare the city, but one of the councilors, Bridget Willow, protested that the army already gets billions of gold pieces a year and that the Six-Fingered Hand was moving on the east side of the mountains; surely they could not be a powerful enough force to reach all the way over here, too. 

Things got heated in council. Argos stormed out without having gained anything. Without the funds to do more, his ability to prepare the city was limited. He did manage to get the council to agree to stockpile some supplies in case of a siege. 

Later, after another council meeting when Argos pressed again for funding, there was an assassination attempt on Feevon Bronze, the head of the Bronze Council. Argos was arrested and imprisoned in the Black Tower when evidence of the same poison that had been used on Feevon Bronze was found in his bedchamber. Meanwhile, the council appointed a local noble named Dapell Pythock as the new general to appease him on some issues of land ownership and taxation. Pythock has no military experience or talent, but legally, as an aristocrat, he has a right to his new position.

“Unfortunately, he still hasn’t been in,” Colonel Jaxe says.

“Colonel, with your permission, we’ll see if we can find anything out,” says Vann-La. 

“Don’t get in trouble,” the colonel warns. “Stay out of trouble with the local law. I may be able to arrange a meeting with Argos for you, if you have any questions for him, but only once.”

_Things are much worse here than we thought,_ thinks Sta’Ligir. _It’s actually quite worrisome- these folk should be focusing all of their energy on preparing to resist the Hand, but their general is in jail, his replacement is an incompetent ass, and politics have brought things to a standstill. The only way things could be any worse would be..._

Sta’Ligir frowns.

_...if there were a spy._

***

The party begins poking around, meeting some of the other soldiers in the garrison here. Among others, they strike up a friendship with Billy Six-Fingers, perhaps the ugliest, most useless wart of an incompetent private any of them have ever seen. He is ecstatic to be able to sit with them in the mess hall, and immediately almost completely blows it by making a pass at Vann-La. When she makes it clear that his attentions are unwelcome, he makes it clear that clear isn’t clear enough, because he’s just that stupid. Poor lovestruck Billy! 

The party’s investigation will last eleven days before it is over.

***

In the Black Tower, General Argos lays on the pile of straw that serves as his crude bed and stares at the ceiling. As each day passes, he visualizes the horde of the Six-Fingered Hand creeping ever closer. Burning the outlying villages. Seizing the fields. Killing or enslaving the peasantry. 

His mind churns with plans, questions, options, ideas. If he had intelligence, he could plan a defense even from here. Even if they are going to torture and kill him, he wants to defend the city, the _people._

_They don’t realize the magnitude of the threat,_ General Argos thinks. _This isn’t some tribe of 400 goblins. They will have archers, engines and siege towers. They will have tricks that the kobolds put together carried in by brute force by ogres. They will have resources we haven’t even seen yet. But if I were free- if I had a free hand- I could still build a defense to stop them, and if I have enough time, I can push them out, back, smash them. Cut their supply lines. Destroy their command section. Eliminate the food. An army that size feeds on its belly. We might have to destroy the lands for hundreds of miles around, but so be it. The horde will fall in on itself, cannibalize and disintegrate. Then they are easy prey._

He calculates in his mind. _If I am not released for another three days, I can still do it. I can. Even if I’m not released for a week or twelve days. The wall, the city’s defenses- I can defend them, so long as I have enough men to do it with. There are catapults. The walls are good, though some funding for repairs would have been nice in the last few years. I can hold the enemy at least. I think. But I must have time- at least a couple of weeks. I need time to prepare._

The clatter of the tray of food being left for him distracts him for a moment.

_If they don’t just torture and kill me._

***

Our heroes are decorated heroes now: each awarded the Medal of Valor and promoted to Sergeant. In the case of Torinn and Vann-La, since they are technically Navy personnel and thus not subject to Army control, Colonel Jaxe establishes a attached group consisting of the two of them, with more recruits to come- and the Imperial Marines are born. This also gives Colonel Jaxe a certain amount of cover from the actions of them, since they aren’t technically under his chain of command (as they’re Navy), and ensures a certain level of autonomy for them so that politics don’t interfere with their investigation.

Cook is offered a position as an Army cook, which he immediately turns down. He is then surreptitiously offered a chance to help build a spy network, which he also turns down. “I’m a cook!” he insists, shaking his wooden spoon in the air. 

***

The party speaks to several members of the Bronze Council, starting with Bridget Willow, who was General Argos’ nemesis on the council. She seems determined to see justice done. “He’ll have a fair trial,” she insists. “I wouldn’t have thought that he’d have done something like that, but the evidence is pretty damning.”

“What was the evidence, if you don’t mind my asking?” Sta’Ligir asks.

“The same poison that was used in the assassination attempt on Feevon Bronze was found in his chamber.”

“Is there no chance that this poison could be found in more than one place in the city?”

“Fulcane is quite rare,” she replies. “Exotic, in fact.”

***

Knile Keflingorn is another of the councilors, but one that was usually more sympathetic to General Argos. It is he that has so far prevented Argos’ execution. He is in charge of the Bronze Council’s own investigation into the events surrounding the attempted murder, and so long as his investigation has not finished, Argos is in limbo. 

Heimall is very pleased that at least one of the councilors can be counted on as an ally. He hopes. 

Unfortunately, Vann-La finds another piece of interesting information: General Pythock is a cousin of the daVoi that is in town- Chiron daVoi.

“Something smells dirty already,” says Sta’Ligir.

***

Arson!

In a fire under threat of siege, there can be no worse crime. Our heroes help extinguish the blaze as it roars up in the slum, and together with a bunch of peasants, they manage to contain and then finally douse the fire. 

A fire, truth be told, set by someone in the party.

_*Next Time:*_ Arson! Investigation! Romance! Treason!


*The daVois are a corrupt line of decadent nobles in the current timeline in my campaign. In the first session of the 4e game, the pcs stole a daVoi’s boat in order to make their escape from Chebonnay, the city they started in, when the Hand closed on it.


----------



## the Jester

Current party lineup:

Vann-La, elf fighter 5
Sta'Ligir, eladrin wizard 4
Heimall, human warlord 5
Torinn, dragonborn cleric 5
Nowhere Jones, tiefling rogue 3
Cook, dwarf rogue 3
Kratos, half-elf warlord 4

The warlock's replacement is coming in another game's worth of updates; he starts as a wizard 4.


----------



## Mathew_Freeman

I note that Thrush's Empire lasted a fair while after his death, then? 

Excellent stuff as usual, Jester. I'm enjoying the shift from grim survival to politics!


----------



## the Jester

Mathew_Freeman said:


> I note that Thrush's Empire lasted a fair while after his death, then?




Hey, I didn't say that- I just _implied_ that. 



Mathew_Freeman said:


> Excellent stuff as usual, Jester. I'm enjoying the shift from grim survival to politics!




I'm glad you're liking it- this is where we had a skill challenge that took several sessions to play out (the challenge, of course, was basically "unravel the Argos affair"). Naturally, we had lots of other things going on at the same time, but the investigation into what _really_ happened with Argos was pretty much the main focus for a couple of sessions. Expect a decent amount of politics before total war comes.


----------



## Technik4

Bump!


----------



## the Jester

*The Argos Affair!*

The next night, in the Upper District of Fandelose, there is another fire. 

This time it’s much more serious; this is where the _wealthy_ live. A fire in the Slums is serious, of course, because it’s a fire in the city. But in the Upper District, people take it _seriously._ The city’s militia begins an investigation. Flyers are posted in the city’s taverns, inns and markets. 

***

Our heroes, meanwhile, work feverishly to unravel the Argos affair before the armies of the Six-Fingered Hand arrive. There isn’t much time, and General Pythock still has not even appeared in his new office. Colonel Jaxe hides his distress well and he is doing what he can with the resources he has available to him, but without a competent overall commander...

The party decides that their best course of action is to track down the source of the poison. Cook knows that fulcane- the poison in question- comes from the fulcantha plant, which grows in the distant remote east. Using his streetwise to guide him, Nowhere Jones manages to track down an importer of eastern goods. 

The shop is full of strange goods of all kinds: odd baskets, bolts of exotic silk, bundles of sweet-smelling, foreign herbs, odd plants and caged birds- altogether a riot of color, sound and scent. Styger, the importer, is a middle-aged, bearded man wearing a small hat. He nods to the party when they enter. They browse around, making some small courtesy purchases, and speak to the importer, gradually turning the conversation to the poison that they are seeking.

“So,” says Kratos, “I see that you deal in exotic herbs.”

The importer nods. “Ah, yes. I have many beautiful specimens from far places all across the seas of Cydra.”

“What about something... _else..._ that might be derived from an exotic plant?”

“Perhaps, perhaps. What do you seek?”

“Fulcane,” whispers Kratos.

“Oh, no!” exclaims the importer. “No, that would not be legal.”

The party’s courtesy purchases increase somewhat.

“Are you certain?” asks Vann-La. 

“Oh, yes. I would not do anything to get in trouble with the law hereabouts. Quite certain.”

“What about the plant that it comes from?” asks the Kree. “Fulcantha plants?”

“Well, that’s different,” Styger replies. “Of course, I could sell you a fulcantha plant. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Have you sold any recently?” 

“Well, I never discuss the purchases of my customers...” The party’s expenditures on various small imported goods continue to increase. “I did sell one, recently,” he admits finally. “To a noble, with an odd accent. Not from the city. He was a thin man.”

“Did you get his name?” asks Iggy. 

“No, he never mentioned it. I got the impression that he was a lackey, though he was dressed in finery.” He hesitates. “One more thing. It wasn’t until after he left that I realized that he dropped something. Let me see...” He searches the shelves behind the counter, then exclaims, “Aha!” and pulls out a velvet bag. He tosses it to the party. 

It’s a dice bag, embroidered with a “d” monogram. 

_Chiron daVoi,_ thinks Heimall.

***

The play _Nowhere Jones_ has been running in town for a few weeks, but the lines show no sign of dying down. When Nowhere Jones and Sta’Ligir go to try to get in, they find that it is sold out and the gates are closed. The bouncers aren’t letting anyone in, even though Nowhere Jones claims to be, well, Nowhere Jones. The playhouse is in the Slums, so the air is foul with smoke from all the firestone burning in peoples’ homes and the myriad of small businesses and food-sellers along the choked streets. 

“Let’s talk to the others and see who all is interested, and maybe we can get tickets for a performance in a day or two,” suggests Iggy. 

***

Councilman Knile Keflingorn hears the party’s evidence in his office. Then he stands, clasps his hands behind his back and stares into the fireplace for a few moments. Finally, he turns to the party. 

“Your evidence is compelling,” he says. “I think you are probably on to something here.” He pauses, then resumes: “It’s compelling, but not _conclusive._ It’s all circumstantial. If you can find some fulcane in daVoi’s possession, that would be pretty conclusive.”

“Where does he live?” asks Heimall.

“He doesn’t live here. He could be staying with a friend or relative, or renting a house somewhere. I don’t know. And be careful investigating him- he is a noble, after all.”

***

General Pythock still has not been in. The party resumes nosing about, looking for signs of where daVoi is staying. They learn of a ball that he is going to be at in the evening; that’s a good start! 

When they get to the ball, most of the party goes in the front, dressed up in their dress uniforms and decorations. They manage to bluff their way in, and then begin to circulate. The party gets their first sight of General Pythock at this point.

Pythock is a fat man who shows the worst characteristics of the decadent nobility of the Empire. He is surrounded by sycophants, chattering like birds. His face is heavily painted in makeup, leaving his lips a dark red, his cheeks rosy like a whore’s, and his eyelashes elegantly thick and dark. His dark brown hair is oiled in little ringlets. He wears a splendid uniform and sash with a plenitude of medals and decorations on it- none of which are actual military medals or decorations. His rank emblems are all done up in gold. He is the most pompous-looking person any of our heroes have ever seen. 

The cluster of people he is associating with includes Chiron daVoi, himself only half as portly and nowhere near as pompous as Pythock, but equally painted. A pale, cheerless-looking fellow in a quite fine version of daVoi livery hangs always at Chiron daVoi’s right shoulder. One of the fellows in the crowd with them, a tiefling (and thus automatically sinister-looking), is engaged in a conversation about gambling with daVoi.

“A little later on, after the ball, then?” the tiefling inquires. “Perhaps some more high stakes dice at the Gentleman’s Club?”

_Gambling,_ thinks Nowhere Jones. _The dice pouch. We have stronger connecting evidence._

“Perhaps,” daVoi replies. He waves the tiefling off, who then moves away in the general direction of Kratos.

Eyeing Kratos’ decorations, the tiefling says, “So you’re one of the war heroes from the east?”

Kratos puffs up. “Why, yes I am!” 

They strike up a conversation, with Iggy and Heimall joining in. After all, this fellow knows daVoi.

***

Meanwhile, the cook, who is not even in the military, much less a decorated war hero, comes on the scene in a rather different way: from behind. He enters through the servants’ entrance and makes his way to the kitchen, claiming to be daVoi’s personal servant. He easily bluffs his way into a tray of food and drinks, and then moves out into the ball, circulating and keeping his eyes and ears open. When he spots daVoi, he surreptitiously tries to attach himself to the throng around him.

***

The tiefling is named Hkatha Ilmixie. He is a local noble, and as the party draws him out in conversation, he confirms that he is a gambling partner with daVoi and his cronies- who, apparently, include both General Pythock, a number of other local nobles and officials, and the henchman at daVoi’s right shoulder, Millbury. 

_More and more interesting,_ thinks Vann-La. _Now we know what Pythock is doing in place of his job... he’s throwing dice!_

After feeling out his attitude about the coming assault by the Six-Fingered Hand, the party takes Hkatha aside. It’s a risk, but they tell him that they are investigating what they believe to be the framing of General Argos, and they ask for his help.

***

Other luminaries of Fandelose are present at the ball, too. Most of the Bronze Council, including Feevon Bronze, who was the victim of the assassination attempt that landed Argos in the Black Tower, and his young wife Tira. Very young, compared to him- he is an old man. Bridget Willow, along with a gaggle of young women, including Bridget’s two daughters (aged 14 and 17) and their three young lady hangers-on, is present. Councilor Willow nods at our heroes, but is clearly not very happy to see them. On the other hand, Knile Keflingorn, their strongest ally in the city outside of the military (at least so far) is there as well, along with his wife, Dara, and an attendant.

Another person of interest that the party meets is Shaylon Player, the actor portraying Nowhere Jones in the current play, who looks splendid in his finery. Many young ladies are fawning over him, and he accepts their adoration as his due. “What a jerk,” the real Nowhere Jones says snarkily.

The party overhears a testy man declaring that “something needs to be done!” This turns out to be Sathar Streetlamp, who runs most of the firestone-lamp street lights in the city, and who is having extreme difficulty getting his firestone at present. When our heroes ask why, it turns out that the dwarves that mine the firestone in the Black Gorge are having some kind of issues with their payment.

Another man is haranguing part of the crowd, but with much less response. This is High Civilizer Marron, high priest of Hamel, who seems to have come to the ball solely to try to get some donations for some kind project to save the citizens in case the worst should happen when the Hand invades. The party takes interest, and sets up a meeting with the High Civilizer for later to discuss things further. 

And then there’s Livia.

***

Livia Dierfli is a delightful young woman- handmaiden to one of the local ladies attending on Bridgett Willow. She looks down shyly when Kratos first smiles at her, but smiles back. He asks her to dance. She blushes and accepts.

He is in love by the end of their first dance.

***

When Chiron daVoi and his cluster of hangers-on push their way from the ball and head towards the Gentlemen’s Club, boisterous and drunk, they have gained an attendant. Cook follows on, still serving drinks. And Hkatha takes one.

_*Next Time:*_ Cook- alone in the daVoi mansion!


----------



## the Jester

General Argos’ hands clutch the bars of his tiny window. He stares, full of despair, as the sun sinks another time in the west. Another day draws to a close- and with every day, the troops of the enemy draw closer. With a groan, he presses his forehead against the wall. _They’re going to execute me. Or leave me to rot. Or release me when it’s too late- when the enemy is already at the gates._ He closes his eyes. _And then I won’t be able to do anything other than slow them down. I have to get out of here!_ His thoughts turn to his adjutant, loyal throughout the years. _Jaxe, if you have any strings left to pull, pull them now. There is no more time to waste!_

It cannot be real- it must be his imagination- but General Argos thinks, for a moment, that he catches a whiff of the unique smoke that comes from battle: burning wood, and sulfur, and tar; and the porcine smell of burning human flesh, too.

He shudders. _Not yet,_ he thinks. 

In his mind’s eye, he pictures orcs, goblins, kobolds rushing through the streets of Fandelose, putting people to the sword. He can see his troops, even under the command of a brilliant successor, being slaughtered by the overwhelming forces of the Six-Fingered Hand. Buildings smashed down by ogres. The tower he is in, burned, falling, killing him without ever giving him a chance to fight back. The people of Fandelose, impaled with their bellies slit open for the amusement of Heshwat the Eviscerator, master of the forces of the Six-Fingered Hand in this area. 

He shudders, and shudders, and shudders, all through his nightmares, all the way until dawn.

***

Forty miles away, the town of Lopack burns. It is too far from the Black Tower that Argos is imprisoned in for him to have scented it- but Argos _knows._ His mind contains a perfect map of the region, with all the military routes, paths, tracks and trails picked out in exquisite detail.

If the Hand is on track, he knows, they will have reached Lopack yesterday or today.

Woe to the townsfolk.

The enemy swept in, goblin worg-riders at the forefront. Their loud whoops woke and panicked the peasants. A few grabbed up pitchforks or rakes to defend themselves and their land. By the time they reached the town’s main square, several houses on the outskirts were already aflame. Before they could organize a defense, the swift worgs carried their riders into the mass of the town, snarling and snapping and slashing and stabbing. The cobblestones of the square were slick with blood, and then soon covered in a thick wet inch of it. 

Some locked themselves in their homes, only to be burned out or slaughtered when the orcs rampaged in, looking for rapine and loot. Others fled for the outskirts of the town, only to find- to their horror- that they were already surrounded.

The lucky ones were killed in the fields and streets of Lopack. The unlucky would die, too, but not a clean death. Not at all. 

***

The Gentlemen’s Club is a high-class place. Exclusive. No rabble allowed. The decor is lush but not decadent. There are nice plants growing in plots. And drinks. Lots of drinks.

Hkatha walks with all of the swagger that his station in life entitles him to- not to mention his heritage! He belongs in places like this. Despite his tiefling horns, his blood is blue. His family has a lot of money and power. He is entitled to come here, where no lesser entities are allowed. 

Chiron daVoi, as always, looks bored. He hies himself to a dice table and lays down an extravagant wager before picking up the bones and giving them an inattentive toss. General Pythock’s eyes are glued to the dice. They bounce a few times before coming to rest. 

“Eh,” daVoi says dismissively, as the house takes his bet. He puts down another. “Bring me a drink, Millbury.” daVoi’s henchman scurries off; meanwhile, he picks up the dice again and gives another toss, losing another small fortune. He shrugs. “Not my table,” he sniffs, and moves to the next. General Pythock takes his place, greedily grabbing up the dice. But Hkatha notices that his wager is significantly smaller than daVoi’s was.

The tiefling plucks a tall glass of wine from a serving girl and moves to the dice table General Pythock is at. The game changes to Bone Racing, a competitive dice game with four players. Hkatha plays, but doesn’t bet too extravagantly. He is already rather in debt from recent weeks, and doesn’t want to get in too much deeper. The family fortune is generous, but has been severely depleted in recent months.

The tiefling gambles less than is his wont and is careful not to drink too much. Most of the other gamers present don’t even notice; few associate with him outside of the Club. Even if it weren’t for his family’s peculiar reputation, the fact that he is a tiefling would be enough for most people to shun him.

Fortunately, money opens doors. And the Ilmixies have always had plenty of money, gained fair or foul. _Although,_ Hkatha muses, _I seem to be spending my way out of it pretty quickly... Well, no matter. If what my new friends tell me is accurate, there is a considerable army on the march towards Fandelose, and if the city burns to the ground, my money counts for nothing. 

And besides, daVoi has been kind enough to make me a loan or two in the last few weeks. I’m sure I can squeeze some more out of him- and maybe even use that as a pretext to keep a closer eye on him... and his cousin, General Pythock._

***

Cook watches passively, carrying a tray of drinks. When he is accosted by the Gentleman’s Club’s staff, he protests that he is “Master daVoi’s personal servant. He has very, uh, _unique_ needs, and wished to give the honor of serving them.” The dire implications of the word “unique” win the argument for him, as nobody wants to be the subject of a daVoi’s “unique needs”. Cook can almost see the thought flash in the minds of the staff: _Better this dwarf than me!_

So, carefully unobtrusive, Cook keeps a close eye on the evening’s proceedings, shielding himself from discovery behind a wall of servitude. 

The dice clatter on the tables. Cards shuffle with a loud riffing sound. Drinks are served, and snacks. Several of the gamblers leave early, one of them grinning at the fact that he has nearly doubled his fortune, the others more glumly. Not long after, General Pythock is in a deep game of cards, and the betting gets too hot for him.

_Now what will he do?_ wonders Hkatha. He watches, darkly amused, as the general approaches Chiron daVoi, only to be rebuffed in a humiliating manner. “I have already staked you too much, cousin,” daVoi waves Pythock off, and the general stalks off to the side, growling under his breath. 

Hkatha and Cook both watch with interest from their respective places as Millbury, Chiron daVoi’s henchman, quietly slides over to the wounded general. He places a hand on Pythock’s shoulder and murmurs to him, too softly for our heroes to hear; but Hkatha spies Millbury slipping a fat-looking purse to the general. 

_Very interesting,_ thinks the tiefling.

***

A couple of hours later, Pythock, Chiron daVoi and their retinues- including a dwarven servant who is remaining silent and unnoticed, at least so far- head for home. Hkatha elects to go to his own home, as he is exhausted and has done quite enough for one night. 

***

By the morning, Cook is wearing Pythock’s livery. He manages to make a surreptitious search of a few rooms within Pythock’s mansion. He finds some financial ledgers in an office. _Most interesting,_ he thinks, leafing through them. _It would seem that General Pythock is in quite some debt- to Millbury. It would also seem that he has already taken a pay advance for as much pay as he can- and he has spent that, too. And on nothing more than gambling._ Quickly, he pulls a book from the shelf in the office and opens it to the middle. Using a sharp dagger, he slices a hiding place out of some of the pages and stuffs a few key pages of the ledger into it, then hides the book in his bag, beneath some mushrooms and beetles that are starting to go.

He continues poking around. The next door that he opens is an opulent bedroom. Cook freezes.

The bed contains a tumble of people, including General Pythock. All but one are asleep.

She is staring right at him.

***

At about the same time, the others are meeting with High Civilizer Marron. He elaborates on what he had said the night before, at the ball: as the high priest of Hamel, he serves the cause of civilization. He explains that he plans on using his knowledge and powers to help the city withstand the coming attack, if he can- and if the worst should happen and the Six-Fingered Hand should conquer Fandelose, he plans to make a great door through which the people might be able to escape.

“What do you mean, a door?” asks Torinn. “To where?”

“It is hard to explain,” the High Civilizer responds. “I’m not precisely certain...”

“You mean it’s random?”

Marron hesitates. “You could say that,” he allows. 

“Isn’t that dangerous?”

“I think by the time we use it, it will already be a last resort,” Vann-La says.

The party falls silent at that. The Kree warrior has a point, and they all know it. If they are taken by the Six-Fingered Hand, they will be lucky if they wind up tortured to death.

“So what do you need help with?” asks Heimall. “Funding?”

“Of course, that always helps,” Marron replies, “but really, I need a sturdy group to retrieve something from me. There is a unique mineral. There is literally only one at a time in existence. When it is consumed, a new one grows in the same place each time. It looks somewhere between a lump of firestone and a black diamond. This is called the Caratite. I need it.”

“Where is it?” asks Sta’Ligir. 

“It’s in a shaft in the Black Gorge,” the High Civilizer tells the group. 

“Is it guarded?” wonders Iggy.

“Maybe. I don’t know. It’s a natural phenomenon, and not of great value; it just so happens to be necessary- or at least, extremely helpful- to my current work.”

Naturally, our heroes agree to seek this out. The High Civilizer provides them with a map and a warning. “The dwarves of the Black Gorge are not known for their friendliness. They look at outsiders as probable claim jumpers trying to steal resources from what they see as dwarven land.”

“We’ll be careful,” Nowhere Jones says, pricking his thumb with the point of a dagger. 

Our heroes buy tickets for the play _Nowhere Jones_ two days hence on their way out of the city.

***

The Black Gorge is where most of the firestone that lights and heats Fandelose comes from. Take away the firestone, and you take away Fandelose’s industry. Take away the firestone, and you leave Fandelose dark and cold at night. Although, truth be told, you might clean the air some, but who cares about a thing like that? There is _money at stake_ here.

The party treks to the location designated on the High Civilizer’s map. Along the way they have a rough skirmish with a group of orcs, but they don’t have any other types of humanoid with them, nor do they have uniforms or other indications that they are from the Six-Fingered Hand. Searching the bodies, Torinn finds an item that will come to be so associated with him that it is actually put into statues of him: a coonskin hat. 

“How do I look?” the dragonborn cleric asks with a grin, striking a pose. 

***

The party follows the map into a side canyon of the Gorge. Ahead, they spy a cave. 

“I wonder if this could be it,” says Kratos.

“I think he said a shaft, didn’t he?” asks Heimall, but Kratos is already walking towards it. The others follow him with a collective sigh.

Then a strange hooting sound echoes from the darkness in the cave. 

“Hello?” calls Kratos.

There is a scrambling sound; then a much louder sound, like a hoot mixed with a strange, phlegmatic roar. Kratos squints; is that movement?

And then two owlbears rush out of the cave.

_*Next Time:*_ Our heroes against a mated pair of owlbears! Plus: Is Cook caught? And: the Caratite Shaft!


----------



## the Jester

When Cook finds the woman looking straight at him, he thinks fast- as fast as he can. Glancing at the sleeping tangle of figures on the bed, he holds a fingers to his lips and steps inside brazenly, acting for all the world like he belongs here.

“Who are you?” the nude woman murmurs. “Don’t wake his lordship,” she adds.

Fortunately for Cook, he had grabbed up a tray of oils and fruits before poking around, to help hide his true intentions were he caught. Now he silently thanks his foresight as he replies in a whisper, “I am Doctor Lee. I am here to bring tea to the lord Pythock.” Seeing her dubious expression, he hastily adds, “And to give him a massage.”

Her face clears. “So it’s dwarves this month,” she mutters to herself. “You should wait until he’s awake,” she whispers. “He has a very foul temper when he is woken.”

“Oh, I would not want to invoke that!” the cook declares quietly. 

“Although, if I were to wake him in the _right way..._”

“No, no- let him sleep. Last night’s celebrations went deep into the night. Perhaps I can offer you a massage instead?”

The offer distracts her sufficiently, and soon Cook hurries out of the room, the woman having fallen back asleep and the general having never stirred. The dwarf sighs in relief; _That was a close one!_

He continues his explorations with increasing caution. There are a few servants up and about, but with the livery he is wearing, none of them question him. _The general must go through many servants, hiring and firing them quickly, or they would know that I do not belong,_ he realizes. _General Pythock must be a harsh master._

It isn’t until he is poking about in the garbage that he finds the remains of a fulcantha plant.

_This is it,_ he realizes immediately. And with a sudden insight, he realizes, _And this is the garbage from daVoi’s office. But from what we have learned, it wasn’t him- it was a scrawny lackey of his. 

Millbury._

***

The pair of owlbears bursts from the interior of the cave. One rushes up on Kratos, who is blocking the entryway, and grabs him in a furious hug, tearing at him with its beak. He screams in pain as it rips a great chunk of his shoulder open, but the blood makes him slippery and he is able to slip free of it. Then he pulls out his _terror maul_ and deals a mighty blow to the owlbear!

The second owlbear hoots in frustration, unable to get past its mate because Kratos is maintaining his position in the entryway.

“Don’t let it out! Don’t let it out!” shouts Heimall, hurrying up and firing a crossbow bolt into the lead owlbear. “You can hold it, Kratos! You must stand firm against the enemies of the Empire!!”*

The owlbear in the lead howls as Nowhere Jones tumbles in with a _setup strike_. It slashes its razor-sharp claws at Kratos, savaging him over and over.**

The party clusters at the entrance. Heimall and Torinn keep Kratos on his feet as they hammer the lead owlbear with attacks. It gives out a loud screech that stuns Torinn. Unfortunately for the owlbear, it also stuns its mate. 

Torinn, however, is now easy prey. It rips into him, bringing the dragonborn down with a series of terrific blows and bringing into its lethal hug. 

“Torinn!” cries Heimall. “NOOOOOO!!”

“Not yet,” gasps Kratos. “Not on my watch! TORINN!! STAND UP, SOLDIER!! FIGHT!!!” he roars.***

The dragonborn groans, but Kratos’ words reach him. _Can’t go down like this,_ he thinks. _Must fight back!_ With a mighty roar, he breaks free of the owlbear’s grasp. Then with a flick of his wrists, he brings his spiked chain around in a _righteous brand,_ smacking the owlbear across the arm. It howls. 

The party presses their momentary advantage, but the owlbear has other plans. Its mate is howling behind it. It grabs Kratos again, tearing into him, but he manages to twist loose and then swings his maul into the owlbear’s head! It staggers, and Nowhere Jones slips a _sly flourish_ under its guard, finally dropping the first one!

Now that only one owlbear remains, the party retreats from the entrance. Torinn utters a _healing word_ to restore some of the damage Kratos has taken. Then he prays to Lester and invokes a _bastion of hope,_ aiding all of his companions.

The other owlbear charges forth, but with all of them able to cluster around and flank it, it only takes a few moments more for the battle to end. Nowhere Jones lands the killing blow on this owlbear, too, and grins with satisfaction. “I didn’t even know how bad ass I am,” he chortles.

A search of the owlbears’ den reveals that it does not hold the shaft that the heroes are looking for, so they move on. They are not far from their goal. In less than another hour, they find it- a wide-mouthed shaft with narrow, treacherous-looking steps hewn from the edge, spiraling down. Warm, moist air, redolent with sulfurous smells, rises gently from below.

“Smells interesting,” comments Hkatha. 

_Tieflings,_ thinks Vann-La. 

The party moves down the shaft. It bottoms out in a natural series of caves that prove to be infested with fire bats and a tangler beetle. Hkatha snorts in disdain at the fire bats, and his tiefling resistance to fire proves pivotal in the battle. He is able to move about and fight almost with impunity; he immediately shows some skill with magic, which Sta’Ligir cocks an eyebrow at. The beetle is quickly wounded enough that it retreats out of sight along a high ledge; the party pursues it after dealing with the bats and finishes it off. Behind its lair, they find the Caratite- a strange thing about the size of a large tea kettle. It is dark like coal, but has a sparkle to the grain, and many small transparent crystal formations are growing within it just at or below the surface. 

The party takes it and leaves. 

***

Cook has dinner with one of the servants. He knows that the longer he remains at Pythock’s estate, the more likely he is to get caught; he also knows that he already knows too much. 

But surely, there must be more to learn...

He gets the servant blisteringly drunk on good dwarven mushroom-brew and plies him for intelligence. Chiron daVoi is not popular with the servants; and they view Millbury more as one of the bosses than as the help, with all the visceral dislike that implies. 

And the fulcantha plant? It definitely came from daVoi’s office. Not that a servant would testify to that or anything; but now Cook _knows for certain._

Deep in the night, he sneaks away and returns to the barracks. He knows too much for him to get caught at spy games now. They would no doubt kill him, and his friends would not have the evidence that he found. Besides, they might start worrying about him and do something rash if he doesn’t return soon.

***

The others return from Black Gorge. Along the way, they cross a long line of giant ants carrying little bits of flesh somewhere. They had seen it on their way into the gorge, but now they take more notice. 

”For them to still be here, there must be an awful lot of meat,” Heimall reasons. “We crossed hours ago... and there are a lot of them. Maybe we should check it out.”

The party follows the trail of ants to where they are getting the meat, and they discover a pile of massacred dwarves. “Ugh,” comments Vann-La. 

“You said it,” Sta’Ligir agrees. He looks the ants over dubiously. They are the size of small dogs, with a few even larger. “I don’t know that we want to mess with their food, here.”

“Why mess with a bunch of dead dwarves anyway?” Vann-La inquires. “Whoever killed them probably took any valuables that they had.”

“Good point,” agrees Iggy. “All right, let’s go back to the city.”

Distractions cast aside, the party turns back towards Fandelose. 

***

The High Civilizer is quite elated to see the Caratite safely delivered to him. “This will help me construct my door!” he says. He thanks the party profusely and tells them, “I haven’t much money to spare, but I do have an item that might be of use to you. I certainly don’t have a use for it.” He hurries off and returns with a magical symbol, which he gives to the group and they promptly give to Torinn.

Then they return to the barracks, where they find their dwarven cook just waking up after a long adventure in Pythock’s mansion. 

“Did you find anything out?” asks Sta’Ligir.

“Did I ever!” Cook exclaims. “Oi, look at this!” He pulls out the papers that he stole, as well as a couple of fulcantha leaves. 

“You found the plant!” exclaims Kratos.

“It had already been thrown away, but I found it before it was burned or taken from the estate. And the papers indicate that General Pythock has already taken _a year’s advance_ on his pay.”

“And he has already spent it all,” Hkatha nods. “This matches up with what I saw at the Gentleman’s Club. He’s deeply in debt to Millbury, daVoi’s henchman.”

“If he knows we have been investigating him, he may move against us- maybe send assassins or something,” Vann-La points out.

“_Or_ he may move against General Argos.” Heimall’s voice is grim. 

“We should inform Councilor Keflingorn,” Vann-La says, but just then, there is a knock at the door to their room. Cook grows pale; everyone freezes. A moment later it opens, and a servant, dressed in the livery of the Bronze Council, steps in to the chamber.

“Good afternoon,” he says. “I hope that I’m not interrupting anything.”

“Not at all,” replies Heimall.

“Good. My name is Martin. Please, come with me,” the servant says.

“Who sent you?” demands Torinn.

”I come on council business,” Martin begins. 

“WHO SENT YOU?” roars Kratos.

The servant cowers back. “I, I, Councilor Willow,” he stammers. 

“Help us, and we may lend leniency to you,” Hkatha states.

“What?” 

“Bring him with us,” declares Heimall. “There’s no time for this. We need to get to the colonel and give him our evidence. There’s no time to waste!”

“Wait, you’re supposed to come with _me_,” Martin protests.

_*Next Time:*_ The Argos Affair concludes!


*_Inspiring word_ time- already, halfway through round 1!

**Thank you, action point- two double attacks on Kratos in one round. Ouch!

***I believe that this may have been his first use of _stand the fallen,_ a totally kick-ass power.


----------



## cold1s

*StaL'igir*

*Notes from the Eladrin Wizard:*

The escape from Chebonnay seemed obvious. The party can at least claim to have deserted after the officers.    StaL'igir starts the campaign in a resentful frame of mind, his motto, a clerkish “I'm not even supposed to be here”.  A conscript to an army defending a city and empire to which he does not belong, he makes the switch from certain death to slim chance of survival mode easily enough.   

Escape to Fandelose offered the only honorable result of fleeing Chebonnay.  Along the route to escape, StaL'igir, or Iggy, realizes that the Six Fingered hand is not merely at threat to the non-Fey, which he knows as the “dull-spirited”, but a threat to the whole of fair existence.  Hopes of escape to the Feywild vanished after he observed signs of foul incursion to the sacred forest. 

The capture of General Argos on the brink of such a crisis only solidifies his poor opinion of the Dull-spirited.  Constantly bickering over minutia, short sighted and brutish, they have much to defeat from within before they can wage war against the external and very real enemy of the Six Fingered Hand. 

Notes on StaL'igir's character:
Reasonably  strong  and healthy, but very quick.  Extremely intelligent and fairly patient, he is awkward socially, therefore, he suffers from the “Cassandra Syndrome” - often right, but rarely able to convinces others of what he sees as obvious.  Combined with relative aloofness, he rarely makes impressions at parties.

StaL'igir.  Read as “Mr. L'igir”.  This becomes more obvious when he starts calling himself “Sergent L'igir” Bonus: he has a first name, but no party member (nor the DM) knows. 

Read on, it only get better.


----------



## the Jester

The party, a protesting Martin in tow, heads immediately to see Colonel Jaxe, intending to lay their evidence out before him. Then- assuming everything goes according to plan- they will move on to Councilor Keflingorn. Hopefully, between the two of them, the party will be able to gain enough support to move in on Millbury- and free General Argos. 

“But you’re supposed to come with me,” Martin protests again. The party ignores him, and Torinn does not release his iron grip on the servant’s arm. 

They reach the colonel’s office with only a few funny glances from other soldiers. The colonel’s adjutant informs them that he will be available shortly; when he shows them in, they ask him to “detain this servant- or conspirator.” The major immediately takes Martin in hand and leads him off to a detention center. Martin’s face has gone white, and he babbles protests as he is led away. 

The party enters Colonel Jaxe’s office. 

“Colonel, we have the evidence,” Heimall says without preamble. 

Jaxe cocks an eyebrow. “Please, go ahead.”

The party explains what they have put together- that Millbury, Chiron daVoi’s lackey, was the would-be assassin of Feevon Bronze. “Except I don’t think it was a real assassination attempt- it was all about framing General Argos,” explains Kratos.

Colonel Jaxe listens, his face stony, as they go on. He plucks a walnut from a bowl on his desk and clutches it in his fist. 

Millbury poisoned Feevon Bronze and planted the poison in Argos’ chambers, then returned to the Pythock estate and disposed of the plant- except that it remained in the rubbish heap, for Cook to find later. When Argos was arrested and thrown into the Black Tower, Pythock began agitating for the generalship based on some old property disputes with the city- essentially, Fandelose owed him a large amount of money, and appointing him to Argos’ old position would clear the debt. Meanwhile Pythock himself had fallen deeply into debt with Millbury; this put the pressure on Pythock to get the money from the city, or to get the generalship with its generous pay scale and rights to plunder, in order to alleviate his debt. 

Heimall concludes, “So basically, Millbury attempted to murder a Bronze Councilor, framed General Argos for it and manipulated a completely incompetent person into his place- ensuring that Fandelose won’t be ready when the Six-Fingered Hand comes.”

There is a cracking sound as Colonel Jaxe’s hand crushes the walnut open with rage. “I am convinced. We must present your evidence to Councilor Keflingorn immediately.” 

Vann-La nods. “Yes, sir- and you might want to send some guards to the Black Tower in case anyone tries to assassinate the general!”

Sta’Ligir adds, “It wouldn’t do to free him, only to find that we are too late.”

“Yes, a good point. I’ll see to it immediately.” He summons a small escort of troops for the party and issues them all horses. Then the party rides through a misty rain to Keflingorn’s abode, where a respectful servant shows them to the councilman. Once again, they lay out their evidence.

Knile Keflingorn grows more and more disquieted as they talk. Finally, once they have finished- and have shown him the leaf of the fulcantha plant as well as some of the documents- he is quite inflamed.

“So, she’s making a very bold move,” he mutters. “It seems out of character- but it’s the only explanation.”

“Who?” demands Torinn.

“Bridget Willow,” answers Keflingorn. “It has to be her behind this all. She’s making a power play of some kind. I can smell it!”

“Do you think she’s a traitor?” asks Vann-La.

“A traitor? No. Dangerously ambitious, though... and even if everything you say and that you have deduced is correct and she didn’t cause the problem, she is taking advantage of the moment to advance her agenda.” He smacks a fist into the palm of his other hand. “All right, it’s time to resolve this. I need you to go to the councilwoman and tell her that I am calling an emergency meeting of the council, immediately. Summon her to the council hall.”

The party scurries off again, this time to Councilor Willow’s house. Again, a servant shows them in. Bridget Willow is sitting by a fire, drinking a cup of tea. She smiles at them. “Not as prompt as I had hoped, but at least you are here.”

_Huh?_ thinks Torinn. 

“I’ll get right to the point. This so-called ‘investigation’ of Councilor Keflingorn isn’t going anywhere. He’s obstructing justice for whatever reason- but we need to conclude this matter and move on to more important things. I’m glad you all came- and I hope you can help me to persuade him. Say, where is Martin, anyway?”

There is a moment of silence as our heroes realize that Bridget Willow is the one who sent Martin to fetch them- to see her! 

“He is being... entertained,” Heimall says lamely. 

Bridget Willow eyes the warlord. “Excuse me,” she says, and leaves the room for a few long minutes. When she returns, she eyes the party coldly. “He was on official council business. If you have harmed him, you’ll pay for it. And you will rue the day you interfered with the official doings of the Bronze Council!”

“He hasn’t been harmed,” Sta’Ligir quickly replies. 

“That we know of,” Hkatha mutters under his breath.

“Then where is he?” Willow snaps. No answer is forthcoming; and after a moment, she growls, “This is outrageous! He was on official council business. You don’t know what kind of trouble you are in!”

Kratos shakes his head. “No, _you_ don’t know what kind of trouble you’re in! The Six-Fingered Hand is weeks away, and it’s going to crush this city and kill us all if we can’t stop it, and _you are worried about politics?”_ 

“I am worried about _justice,_” she retorts. “You people have probably assaulted a good man doing work for me and my city, and you’re defending a man who tried to kill my colleague! I’m calling an immediate, emergency meeting of the council to end this pathetic farce today!”

_One way or another,_ Vann-La answers silently, _this farce _will_ end today._

*** 

The Bronze Councilors, excepting only Bridget Willow and Knile Keflingorn, receive _two_ emergency summons to the Bronze Hall. This is a unique occasion; emergency sessions are rarely called, and it is unheard of for two councilors to call one at the same time.

These are strange days.

Heimall presents the evidence; it is as plain as day from her reaction that Bridget Willow is half-convinced herself. Both she and Keflingorn try to take political advantage of the situation, but neither his nor her approach is organized or systematic enough to imply that they set up the whole thing. They are both scrambling to spin things to their advantage, but neither one is doing a very good job. The rest of the Council is divided; after all, they have only the word of the army folks about what has happened. How can they know that this is really a leaf from the plant that produced the poison, how can they know that the party didn’t plant it themselves- there are questions. 

Then Knile Keflingorn plays his trump card. He is in charge of the investigation; he sends men to go find Styger, the merchant that sold the plant to Millbury, and bring him back to testify. Heimall stays at the council to ensure that things don’t spin out of control. Within an hour, Styger arrives, escorted by Vann-La and Torinn. It takes some persuasion, but he finally agrees to testify. 

With this added piece of evidence, the Bronze Council retires to vote. 

Half an hour later, they issue a warrant for the arrest of Millbury and command the freedom of General Argos and the restoration of him to his position. 

_*Next Time:*_ The arsonist revealed!


----------



## the Jester

The same night that General Argos is released, the arsonist strikes again, starting a fire at the house of Livia Dierfli.

By some “coincidence”, Kratos is there. Livia’s family has made plain that they do not approve of him, and have begun to make it difficult for Kratos and Livia to see each other. His very presence is suspicious, especially “in the nick of time.”

Especially when a combination of the watch and the Dierfli house guards capture the arsonist- and it is Nowhere Jones.

***

General Argos keeps a jar on his desk. He asks everyone that sees him to contribute what they can afford to the war effort. He does not demand anything, but he does remind every visitor that the Hand is coming, and everyone must do their part if the city of Fandelose is to avoid extinction. 

In the immediate aftermath of his liberation, General Argos sets to work on the jigsaw problem of the city’s defense. One part of the problem is that Councilor Bridget Willow may have the brave soldiers that uncovered the truth and freed him thrown in jail over their unlawful imprisonment of her manservant. Another issue is that a complaint has been filed against Sergeant Kratos regarding his behavior in the incident the other night wherein Nowhere Jones was caught in the act of attempting to light a fire. The fact that Nowhere Jones may be the city’s arsonist is another issue for General Argos, complicating his defense of the other members of the party. And he really doesn’t have time for this nonsense!

_But I cannot simply let this slide,_ the general tells himself. _This city has a long, proud tradition of civilian rule. If the military does not handle its affairs appropriately, the city will step in- and I need to gain their full support in order to avoid an insurrection when I declare martial law. And when the Six-Fingered Hand gets too close, I will _have to_ declare martial law. This politicking must stop; it will kill us all if I let it._ He sighs. _No, I must move immediately to investigate this alleged arson situation. If Nowhere Jones is truly the culprit, he’ll hang, just like anyone else would. And if not, he’ll be freed._

***

In a shabby cold small wet cell, Nowhere Jones sits with his back to the wall.

_Damn. They caught me. And when I was going to help Kratos with his lady friend, too- all I wanted to do was to help him look good to her family._ He grins inwardly. _Well, and to compromise Kratos. Maybe frame him for the other fires. More evidence, along with the candlesticks that I stole from the upper class house I lit and then passed on to him. Make him take the blame._

He glances at the cell door. _Well, so much for that. Now I’m caught. I’ll maintain my innocence, but if they can find any evidence- or worse yet, if Kratos talks- I’m a dead man. I guess it wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had to light those fires, but they were so _pretty...!_ And the sound of all the screams was so sweet, it was like a symphony._ He sighs. _I guess what they say about tieflings is true.

Too bad I’ll never see my play._

***

In order to ensure that the investigation is performed by trustworthy and impartial persons, General Argos has assigned some members of his staff that don’t know Nowhere Jones (or the rest of our heroes) to investigate the accusations against him; he orders the rest of the party to stay away from the investigation, except when required by the investigators, at which time they are to cooperate fully. Sergeant Kratos is fined 100 gp and a demerit is applied to his record due to the seriousness of the complaints against him. The general warns him that a second attempt to take the law into his own hands will be dealt with very harshly. General Argos warns them all sternly that the people of Fandelose barely tolerate the military presence here due to decades of heavy-handed mismanagement by his predecessor, General Urgrid. “I’ve spent the last two years trying to rebuild trust with these people, and I won’t have you ruining my efforts.”

Finally, he tells our heroes that he is working on the issue of Councilor Willow’s man Martin’s brief imprisonment, but it would be best if the party was absent from town until a resolution can be reached; that way he has time to ensure that no heated moments cause an unfortunate arrest. If the city guard _does_ try to arrest the party, they are to surrender peacefully in accordance with the laws of the Empire and Fandelose- and to insist on a military trial.

“This is ridiculous!” Kratos exclaims. “We just saved you from an unjust death, and you tell us to get out of town?!”

Sternly, General Argos answers, “There are things that need to be taken care of to ensure the safety of Fandelose, and not all of them are within the city walls. I have assignments for you.”

Sergeant Kratos shuts up, but he’s seething inside. _100 gold piece fine! Damned if I’ll pay that!_

“What can we do outside of the city?” interjects Heimall before Kratos can get in any deeper trouble. 

“There are several things. First, there is a forward observation post above the Black Gorge, atop the edge of the top of the canyon. It’s an old military tower, but it has been abandoned for almost half a century due to issues of manpower and funding. Frankly, I would be surprised if nothing has moved in and taken shelter there, so you should be prepared for trouble. It’s even possible that you will find advance agents of the Hand. I’ll send in a force to relieve you as soon as your legal situation is resolved to my satisfaction.”

“General, how long do you think that will take?” asks Vann-La.

“I believe that I can resolve it within a week. If I can do it sooner, I will. We need every man we can get for the coming battle, and we especially can’t afford to let politics interfere with the defense of Fandelose. But in the meantime, if you are here, you will only complicate matters. I need room to work.”

Heimall nods. “Yes, sir.”

Hkatha says, “You said that there were several things we could do to help out. What are the others?”

General Argos replies, “The second thing that you can do is help resolve the firestone situation. Fandelose needs its firestone supply- not only is it the main source of fire for the city, we need it for the forges and foundries. Firestone comes from the dwarves in the Black Gorge, but our supply is threatened. The Firestone clan of dwarves, who are in charge of the dwarven operation in the Gorge, claim that they haven’t received several of the most recent payments dispatched to them. Normally, the dwarves receive it at a small fort at the end of the gorge called Fort Duran Khazad. We have sent the payments, and dwarves have received it; but according to the Firestone dwarves, their couriers never returned.”

“It could be the Hand,” muses Heimall.

“Or bandits,” suggests Cook. 

“Or they could have just run off with the money,” adds Torinn.

“It doesn’t matter,” Argos says. “We need to find out what happened and return that money to the dwarves. The city can’t afford to pay it again; we need every copper piece for upgrading the city’s defenses and training and arming the defenders. We need to retrieve that money.”

“Hey, remember those dead dwarves that the ants were eating?” Torinn blurts out. “I wonder if they could be the dwarf couriers.”

“We should definitely take a closer look at them,” nods Kratos. 

“Is there anything else?” Hkatha asks the general.

“Yes. There is one more thing.” Argos takes a deep breath. “Somewhere in the Gorge is a secret place called the Cathedral of War. It is said that there are 250 very powerful weapons that wait there to be awakened. _Do not mention this to the dwarves._ They would not help, and might seriously hinder, your search for it. Be very careful about what you say around them.”

“What are these weapons?” asks Kratos. 

”I don’t know. It’s an old legend, but one that the people of Fandelose put a lot of credence in, and the old histories seem to imply some truth to it.”

_Only 250 weapons?_ thinks Kratos. _That is not enough to make a difference in a war such as this. And besides, how would we carry them?_

“Be ready to leave at sun up tomorrow,” General Argos says. “That leaves you in town for the rest of today to take care of any affairs you need to.”

_Oh, good,_ thinks Torinn. _Our tickets to see _Nowhere Jones_ are for this evening’s show- we’ll still get to see it._

“Stay out of trouble, and keep a low profile. Any questions?” After a moment of silence, General Argos nods. “Thank you again. Now go see the quartermaster and get fitted for new uniforms- you have fought long and hard in your present ones. Dismissed.”

***

The quartermaster, whose name is Flash, is most appreciative of the party’s heroics. He thanks them for freeing Argos, and he talks as much smack about General Pythock as the party does. He fits them for new uniforms and issues them any supplies that they need that he can. Each of them receives a minor magic item.* Flash is happy to issue them rations, basic supplies, climbing kits- “Whatever you need, if I got it, it’s yours.”

Then they go to see the play.

***

The play Nowhere Jones began making the rounds of the theater circuit in the countryside of the County of Jercie. The South Street Theater Troupe saw it while touring and loved it, and are now performing it themselves back home at the South Street Theater, on South Street, in the smoke-choked slums of Fandelose. The building is sturdy and of good make, but it is clearly the result of resourceful poor people working to improve the place for decades, rather than a well-to-do person spending a large sum at once to erect a beautiful place. The South Street Theater’s beauty is more like the confident, battle-scarred beauty of a Vann-La than the youthful, blushing, unblemished loveliness of a Livia Dierfli. 

“It’s too bad Nowhere Jones couldn’t be here,” whispers Torinn as he takes his seat. 

Heimall shrugs. “Yeah, I can’t believe that he would be so stupid as to light a bunch of fires in a city that’s on a war footing.”

“Do you think he was guilty?” asks Cook. 

Heimall shrugs again. “I don’t know. There were a lot of things about him that were suspicious...”

“What, the fact that he was a tiefling?” asks Hkatha Ilmixie ironically. 

“No. The fact that he killed several of our goblin prisoners- defenseless prisoners!- for no reason. I don’t know... I just don’t trust him.”

“Well, we’ll see,” replies Sta’Ligir. “He’s on trial now. If he’s found guilty, we’ll know. If not... we should be on the lookout for an arsonist.”

The lights are doused, the windows are shuttered and the play commences. It centers around the Jones family, which is a common name in Jercie, where the initial scenes take place. It follows a typical country family of father Tallin, mother Joy, two brothers (Vantray and Roland, who is a tiefling throwback) and an uncle (Kandor).

In the initial act, we meet the Joneses in their rustic country abode. Most of the act is just getting to know the family- all seem to be good people, though Roland has only a single friend outside the family (Andrew) and has quite a temper, and Kandor is rather withdrawn and negative. In the last few scenes of the act, Vantray, the younger brother, goes missing. Roland (the other brother, who is a tiefling) is accused and flees. He escapes the rest of the family and flees towards the city, vowing to rest nowhere until he has cleared his name and taking the name Nowhere Jones to represent this.

In act II, Nowhere Jones journeys to the city of Porthios Nax. There, he falls in with a rough crowd on the streets after being beaten by watchmen and mostly starved; he is taken in by a gang. Meanwhile, back at the pastoral house, Joy weeps and grows ill while Tallin and Kandor go off to try to find Nowhere Jones.

Then, at the beginning of Act III, Kandor returns alone, weeping and claiming that Nowhere Jones slew his own father. Joy is heartbroken and demands to be escorted to her family in the hills of Verdevane. Kandor consents, and preparations are made, including the sale of most of Joy Jones’ possessions, netting a hefty amount of money. Then, in a soliloquy, Kandor reveals that he, too, has tiefling traits, and he gloats at how his plan is succeeding- to get everyone else that might have a claim to Joy’s fortunes out of the way and then claim them for his own. Meanwhile, Nowhere Jones returns to health and becomes a moderating force within the gang. Yet the mystery of what happened to his brother torments him. Over the course of a year, he climbs high up the ladder of leadership of his gang, and finally he sends a group of young, anonymous humans to search for the answers to the mystery of his brother’s disappearance.

In act IV, Nowhere Jones’ agents find Andrew, his boyhood friend, who tells them that the house has been sold, along with most of the possessions of the mother, and that the father is dead nigh a year now, supposedly killed by his own son. They obviously know that this cannot be true, since Nowhere Jones was with the gang at that point, and with additional questioning, they (and Andrew) figure out the true story, and Andrew realizes that his old friend Roland is the “Nowhere Jones” that sent them. As a group, they return to Porthios Nax as quickly as possible. There, Nowhere Jones and Andrew are reunited, and quickly set out on fast mounts to catch his uncle before it is too late. Meanwhile, Kandor and Joy approach the hills of Verdevane, and in another, extremely villainous soliloquy, he admits his plans to ravish her and imprison her once he slays her elderly father- her last living relative, other than himself. 

Act V is very brief. It consists of but a single scene. Nowhere Jones and his childhood friend Andrew approach Joy’s family estate in Verdevane. They sneak up to the gates, but have not yet gained entrance when they see the wagon carrying Kandor and Joy enter via a higher road on the mountain. 

And that’s it. It ends with tense music in the air. The sophisticates of the city love it; most of the common folk (of which there are few in the audience) hate it. 

“We waited in line for hours for _that?_” complains Iggy.

_*Next Time:*_ Above the Black Gorge!


*Each pc got his choice of a +1 weapon, implement, armor or _necklace of protection_.


----------



## the Jester

In the Bronze Hall, wherein the Bronze Council of Fandelose meets, a contentious debate is happening.

General Argos, supreme commander of the Imperial Army forces in and around Fandelose, is here only as a courtesy. The imposition of martial law, though resisted by the council, is a part of his mandate. He need only show that the danger is real and imminent- and the scouting reports, maps and testimony of survivors of the oncoming Six-Fingered Hand is enough to establish that. Bridget Willow can (and will) argue until she is blue in the face, but she cannot prevent him from taking command of the city’s defenses.

At least, not _legally._

But the city watch is a civilian force, not a military one, and is under the command of the Council. If they choose to fight him, they have the ability to make it a very real battle in the streets- something that Fandelose, with every man and every hour precious, cannot afford. And there is the bureaucrat’s answer, too- slow the process down with red tape.

General Argos will have none of that. There is no time for such nonsense.

“Your Valor,” Knile Keflingorn says, addressing Argos by the honorific to which he is due as a general of the Empire, “some of the measures that you are suggesting seem... extreme.”

Keflingorn is the most sensible of the Bronze Councilors. The more of them that Argos can win over, the more fully the city will cooperate with what must be done. _I must persuade at least Keflingorn. His faction will follow him, and their support is enough for me to carry out my plans._ General Argos replies, “I assume that you are referring to the conscriptions.”

“Clearing a good part of the Upper District for rice fields is quite out of the question,” Feevon Bronze declares. “You are talking about the living areas of most of the city’s wealthiest people!”

“I am talking about feeding your city,” General Argos retorts. “Once the horde reaches us, they will invest Fandelose. There won’t be enough food stockpiled for us to last long, and the fields will be lost. We must burn them before the enemy takes them, so that they cannot live off of forage or grow their own crops. Fandelose has far too many people to feed without making drastic sacrifices.”

“I don’t think the wealthy will be eager to give their homes up,” Bronze repeats. “How would you compensate them?”

It is obvious to the general that the councilors are still thinking of him as an opponent, or at best an ally that must be kept from growing too strong. He speaks carefully, modulating his tone to deliver the message that the others in the room _must_ hear. “I would compensate them by saving their lives. If any man wishes to remain in his house at the expense of the food source of the city, he must merely persuade the thousands of hungry soldiers to keep fighting for him while he sits comfortably in bed. Meanwhile the enemy will scale the walls, rape his wife to death in front of him as they burn his house to the ground and eat his children alive.”

The councilors are shocked into silence.

”I am not exaggerating, ladies and gentlemen. That is how the Six-Fingered Hand operates. Their general styles himself ‘the Eviscerator’. These are not enemies who seek a bribe, a few slaves or a courtly surrender. They are not trying to kill our Emperor, our generals, or even our men. They are trying to _exterminate_ us. They will not leave a single human, elf, dwarf or other civilized being alive at the end of this war- unless we stop them.”

Bridget Willow opens her mouth to interject, but General Argos uses his words like a machete, hacking a path through the tangled politics of the city. “We are not fighting to remain wealthy, happy or healthy. We are no longer fighting for the Empire or for our freedom. We are fighting for our very survival. There is no surrender to this enemy, except to be used as cattle to feed them while they slaughter the remaining men and women of the western provinces. The few people who have escaped the Hand have told us what it is like- you have heard their testimony in the last few hours yourselves. I did not coach them or trick them or bribe them. I offered them no favors or compensation for telling their stories. They have seen that our choice is to fight with all we have, or die, and they came to try to make you see that. 

“Now, you all know that I have the legal authority to declare martial law. One way or another, I am doing so. We cannot afford the bickering and politics that have been going on here any longer. We need to act as a united force, bending every resource we have to our collective defense. I give you my word, as soon as this war is over, I will return control of Fandelose to you. But for now, _I need your help._ Only you can rally the people of Fandelose to fully participate in their own salvation. There is nowhere to run; we have no escape route. We _must_ make our stand, and we _must_ defeat our enemies. I need every person in the city to do their part- whether it is farming, forging or fighting. For you- I need you to _lead._ I need you to lead the city in carrying out the necessary actions to resist the Hand.”

The councilors are grim-looking. Bridget Willow is angry; Feevon Bronze looks frightened and resigned. Knile Keflingorn is studying General Argos’ face in turn. To Argos’ surprise, it is Councilor Bronze that speaks up first.

“General Argos, the council will aid you as best we can.”

Bridget Willow shoots Bronze an alarmed look.

“You are right. We cannot afford to bicker at a time like this. We need to have the best leadership that we can muster, and in matters military, you are it.”

General Argos bows his head. “Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t abuse our trust, general,” Councilor Willow snaps. “As soon as Fandelose is safe, we will expect you to keep your word.”

Argos nods. “I will keep my word,” he vows, “and together, we will live to see that day.”

***

Outside of Fandelose, a lazy, hungry bear sniffs the air, looking for easy food. It rambles onto the path to the Black Gorge and stumbles onto our heroes. Its belly rumbles, but before it tries to eat one of the two-legs, something stings it. Then really loud, scary noises come from the group, and the bear decides that, just maybe, it should look for easier prey. 

The bear flees into the hills, away from the party.

“That good trick,” Cook says, referring to the pair of _ghost sounds_ that Iggy and Hkatha used on the bear. The two wizards grin, and the party keeps walking. When the path starts to descend into the Black Gorge, they veer off to the north, staying above the rim of the canyon. They walk along for several miles until the ruins of a watch tower come into view. Near it are several cairns.

“Movement.” Vann-La points at the cairns. “In the building, too.”

The rocks of the cairns suddenly rattle and shift, and a pair of skeletons arises from them. 

“Smashie-smashie!” cries Cook, brandishing his iron pan. The rest of the party begins to move up to meet the skeletons as well, when suddenly the door to the watch tower cracks open and the ground starts distorting and heaving. It is incredibly disorienting, and our heroes find their perceptions highly disrupted!

“It’s some kind of bird-man,” Vann-La says, shaking her head to try to clear it.

“Kenku!” exclaims Sta’Ligir. 

Indeed- the watch tower proves to have five kenku in it, most of which hang back and shoot arrows at the party. Once Sta’Ligir sees just how many of them there are, he unleashes a _fireball_, blasting them all, and Hkatha follows it up with a _sleep_ spell. The combat is fast and furious; Vann-La drops both skeletons with a _rain of steel_ while the kenku keep creating _phantasmal reinforcements_ and illusory _treacherous terrain._

Finally, the manages to defeat the bird-folk. Immediately, they check to see if there is any sign that the kenku might be affiliated with the Hand, but fortunately, there isn’t. They survey the scene, extracting some treasure from the cairns and bodies, including a _cloak of resistance_ that they give to Kratos.

Then they discuss their next move and decide to head down into the gorge to solve the issue of the dwarven payments. This requires that they either walk back to the entrance of the canyon or climb a long 50’ down. The decision is easy; it will only take a few more hours of walking to go back the safe way. 

The party loops back to the path into the gorge and starts descending. But as they are about 1/3 of the way down the canyon’s wall along the trail, a sudden rumble alerts them to an avalanche of rock tumbling down at them! It smashes into them, knocking Vann-La completely over the edge! With a cry, she falls 30’ to the ground, landing in a pile of brush and gravel. 

“It’s a trap!” cries Kratos.

Indeed- a trio of hard-looking men, along with a pair of drakes, have emerged from behind a concealing screen of brush and boulders. They pull bows and start shooting for the party’s knees. The drakes hiss and begin to spit gouts of acid for the heroes. Behind them, a tougher-looking man with a glowing shield moves up behind them. “Get ‘em, boys!” he shouts.

Sta’Ligir offers the party’s attackers a rebuttal in the form of a _fireball_. The spell explodes amongst them, wounding all three of the humans with bows as well as both of the drakes. The party charges forward, and the archers cast aside their bows and draw swords, sliding easily into battle-ready stances. 

_These guys are professionals,_ Heimall realizes. _Who are they? Why are they attacking us? They’re too competent just to be bandits. They look like mercenaries to me..._

Indeed, the sell-swords fight hard and brutal. Vann-La manages to pick herself up and ascend the cliff, telling herself that she is _unstoppable._ When she rejoins the fight, she finds herself engaging the enemy captain in melee. When she strikes him, his shield replies with a blast of thunder and lightning. Vann-La groans, but keeps fighting, forcing the mercenary captain back and holding her ground long enough for Torinn to use a _healing word_ on her.  

The sell-swords and their captains are clearly savvy combatants, and if our heroes were less skilled, they would be doomed. But they have spent months fighting for their lives, and so they manage to defeat the mercenaries, slaying all but the captain, whom they take prisoner. Then comes the question of what to do with him.

“Kill him,” Sta’Ligir suggests.

“He might have valuable information,” Heimall protests. 

“All right, just maim him.”

“We aren’t going to maim any prisoners,” Heimall sighs. “These guys look like mercenaries. That means that someone hired them to go after us. Let’s bring him around, interrogate him and see what we can learn.”

“Someone like Millbury,” Kratos snarls.

***

The mercenary captain is surprisingly cooperative. He gives his name as Borgan Tyre, admits readily that his band was hired to kill the party, and by Millbury; but as ransom for his life, he offers to call the rest of the band off.

”How many of you are there, altogether?” asks Heimall.

“About forty. A few less, now,” Borgan Tyre amends, glancing at the corpses of the three sell-swords. 

The mercenary tells them that he doesn’t know where to find Millbury at this point; it was weeks ago, and Millbury was still in the city, advising Chiron daVoi, when Tyre last saw him.*

Heimall says, “I am going to make you a counter-offer, against Millbury. I’ll take you and your men on in my service. I’ll pay you, and pay you well if you are loyal. We need every soldier that we can get right now.”

“But I’m keeping his shield,” Vann-La pipes up. She glowers at Borgan Tyre. 

”Hey, I’m alive,” Tyre says with a shrug. “I count that as a win.”

***

The party and Borgan Tyre meet up with some of the rest of his band, and Tyre proves true to his word. Although the party is outnumbered, he introduces Heimall as the band’s new employer. The party puts the mercenary group to work on restoring the watchtower and then, finally, returns and reaches the bottom of the Black Gorge.

_*Next Time:*_ The firestone situation!

*Since then, our heroes uncovered Millbury’s part in the framing of General Argos and the attempted poisoning of Feevon Bronze, and Millbury has fled the city.


----------



## the Jester

Upon reaching the bottom of the Black Gorge, the party moves towards the deepest end of it. Before long, they are intercepted by dwarves, but fortunately, the group’s cook is a dwarf as well. Cook speaks at length with the dwarves of the gorge in their own tongue, claiming that his clan name is Po, and after an extended conversation between him and the glowering dwarves of the gorge, the language switches to Common and the dwarves welcome the others to the Black Gorge. The party is conveyed further along the floor of the gorge. They encounter a group of orcs, but the dwarves stop the party from attacking, explaining that these orcs live in some of the gorge’s caves and are occasional trading partners of the dwarves. Their ability to replace all their lost warriors in only a few years makes an attack on them very costly. “We breed slowly,” the dwarf rumbles thoughtfully. “Orcish reprisals usually throw away twenty orcs to kill three or four dwarves, but they are back to full force in ten years, while it takes us sixty. If this happened once a year, this would lead to our demise.” 

Not are these particular orcs affiliated with the Hand. The party continues until they reach the dwarven operation’s center. Before they enter, they are required to peacebond their weapons, tying them into sheaths and scabbards. Built into the side of the gorge itself, the dwarven community runs deep into the ground. The group is ushered into the tunnels in the stone to meet with the thane that rules over the dwarves. In their audience with him, the party explains the threat of the Six-Fingered Hand, and then declares that they are going to solve the issue of the missing payments for the dwarves.

“Oh? You’ve brought the coin, then?” Thane Firestone asks doubtfully.

“The city can’t afford that,” Heimall replies, “but we’re going to find out what happened to the initial payment.”

“Murder happened,” the thane says darkly.

“But it wasn’t the city, or the army, that did it,” Kratos answers. “We want to find whoever it was- probably Millbury- and make them pay.”

“Literally,” interjects Torinn with a grin.

The thane takes our heroes’ measure as they talk. He is expecting negotiation, an attempt to talk the price of firestone down, something- but nothing of the kind is forthcoming. _They haven’t offered me partial payment, or tried to work out a payment plan, or anything. They really do seem to mean to track down the money. Which is good, because we haven’t the numbers to withstand many losses, and we lost almost a score dwarves when they tried to receive payment before. 

I believe that these soldiers mean well. And yet there is one very important question that must be answered before I can trust them._

Thane Firestone speaks, again in Dwarven. “Bum Po, why is it that you do not carry any rank in the Army that you serve?”

Cook pauses. A pensive look sneaks onto his face for a moment; then, he gives his answer. “Oi great Thane, they have made me many offers to honor me, but I do not want to be in a human army.”

The thane nods, and shares his dwarven ale around, getting the party fairly drunk before they head out for Fort Duran Khazad- which translates into Fort Dwarf-Friend. This fort, perched on the top of the Black Gorge, looks over the dwarven operation, and a secret tunnel twists and curls up through the rock and into the rock at the back side of the fort. It is this secret tunnel that the dwarves guide our heroes to. They ascend it- it is long, with many loops back around as it rises- and finally come out behind the fort above the canyon. 

And now, for the killers in the fort, the gig is up. The party becomes suspicious upon approaching when they see a strange, worm-like creature with four writhing tentacles surrounding a dangerous-looking beak chained outside. When the men inside, dressed in uniforms of the Imperial Army, almost immediately mis-identify their command structure to the party, it’s time to throw down. Our heroes slay them, as well as the grick, fairly quickly, and a search turns up the missing payment.

“So, who were these guys?” wonders Vann-La. “Once they had the money, why didn’t they just flee?”

“Are we sure they weren’t soldiers?” asks Hkatha. 

“Well, they couldn’t tell a sergeant’s uniform from a corporal’s,” points out Sta’Ligir. 

“They didn’t fight like soldiers,” Vann-La says. “I’m pretty sure that they weren’t in the army, and I wouldn’t be surprised to find a group of men missing, once anyone checks up on this post.” 

“You think they killed and replaced the real soldiers? Why?” asks Cook.

“For the money, maybe,” replies Kratos. 

Vann-La shakes her head. “Yes, but why stick around afterward? They could have spent this already, a dozen times over, if they had just run with it.”

“We know one thing for sure,” says Cook (or Bum Po). “The dwarves, they need their money.”

“Right,” Iggy sighs. 

***

When the party returns the gold to the dwarves, using a _Tenser’s floating disk_ ritual performed by Torinn, the thane is quite impressed. Heimall and Torinn speak gravely, telling him that war is coming, and reminding him of the dwarven alliance with Fandelose. 

“Yes, yes,” he laughs dismissively as he counts out the coins. “You will find that my folk honor our debts and obligations to the fullest.” He glances at the soldiers, a strange fire in his eyes. “If this Six-Fingered Hand seeks to strike Fandelose, we will help break its fingers.”

The thane bellows at his servants, then turns back to the party. “I have something for you!” he smirks. “A token of my esteem. You impressed me so well the other day in my throne room that I had these made for you!”

Thane Firestone presents each of our heroes with a dwarven drinking mug. It is large, weighted at the bottom to help alleviate drunken spills, and of impressive craftsmanship.

A significant amount of drinking, once again, follows. 

***

What next?

Our heroes have resolved the most pressing matters in the gorge. What remains is the most secret matter- the Cathedral of War that General Argos told them about. He also warned them not to mention it to the dwarves, so they don’t. They just leave after another day of hanging out, recuperating and drinking. Those mugs give them a great deal of credibility to the dwarves. They have been honored; they have returned the dwarves’ rightful gold to them and made good the city’s obligations. 

Now they have to go, to seek out this mysterious Cathedral. Where is it? They have no idea. The Black Gorge is full of caves, and it is very long. The Cathedral of War could be anywhere. 

“Well, the gorge has at least one very noticeable feature,” says Vann-La. “That big statue. Grandfather.”

Indeed, our heroes did see that as they traveled: a 35’ tall statue of an old human that stretches from the floor of the gorge to the top of it. 

“It’s called ‘Grandfather’?” asks Iggy. “How do you know this?”

“The dwarves. I asked them about nearby features in Black Gorge.” 

“Oh, that makes sense,” Iggy says, thinking, _I pretty much just got drunk. That dwarven ale is pretty damned potent!_ “What else did the dwarves tell you about it?”

“The eyes,” Vann-La replies, “are supposed to be tunnels into a trap-filled warren.”

“A ‘trap-filled warren’?”

“That is how the dwarf that I was talking to put it.”

“I see..”

“Well,” Kratos says, “we might as well get to it.” 

He starts climbing the statue. 

“Hey, wait a second,” Vann-La suddenly says. She gestures. “Is that a body over there?” 

Kratos keeps climbing, ascending up the statue’s leg, then its torso and finally its face. At the eyes, he ties off a rope. Then, glancing down, he realizes that the party has found someone- found them, and is talking to them. _It’s a woman,_ he thinks, _maybe a half-elf?_ He sighs, then begins climbing downward.

***

The ‘body’ is alive. With a little tender ministration from Torinn, she comes around, and introduces herself as Loridell. She looks around and is clearly confused. “Last I remember, we were fleeing from the Hand’s forces,” she says. “It was night...”

“You must have stumbled over the edge of the cliff,” Torinn surmises.

“What an auspicious place for you to fall,” Vann-La says. 

Loridell is well-armed and armored; clearly, she is a seasoned veteran of many battles. She admits to being a paladin. 

“You’re separated from your group, whoever they were, and here we are. Clearly,” suggests Heimall, “the logical thing to do would be to join us.”

She nods. “You’re right, actually. If there are significant other Hand forces out there, I’d be doomed on my own.” 

“You aren’t from Fandelose, then?” Heimall asks. 

“Not originally,” she replies. 

“Well, we’re going through that statue’s eyes,” Kratos says, and starts climbing the rope again. 

“Into a trap-filled warren,” Vann-La adds. She starts climbing after Kratos. 

“All right,” Loridell shrugs. “Better than being exposed and alone.”

***

A ‘trap-filled warren’ indeed. The first room has a delayed poison gas trap, along with a cube that disgorges a pair of iron cobras.

Then the wall starts shooting darts to make things more interesting.

Charge! Our heroes respond by rushing through the traps and moving into the next area, where they find a miniature of the city. 

More traps follow- a pit onto a gelatinous cube; a magically animated arbalest that keeps shooting huge bolts into people; a room with a necrotic field that almost kills those who cross it. ‘Grandfather,’ who was a great early hero of Fandelose whose name has been forgotten (from what our heroes have heard collectively), is often depicted in murals or statues holding two metal objects, about as long as his forearm; one is black iron, often depicted dripping blood, with rough, jagged edges, while the other is made of some light wood and olive leaves are springing from it. 

And, of course, the party finds a way further down.

_*Next Time:*_ Deeper in Grandfather’s Legacy!


----------



## the Jester

Grandfather’s Legacy, as the complex behind the great statue is called, lives up to its reputation as a trap-filled warren. Many deadly traps, both mechanical and magical, remain active. But as they descend deeper into it and keep exploring, our heroes begin to piece together some of Grandfather’s story out of mosaics, statues and paintings. The rods he holds- like ankhs with no cross bars- are omnipresent in the paintings and mosaics depicting him and his works. From all appearances, he was a great hero of Fandelose, the greatest of his time. He is remembered only by the name ‘Grandfather’, for it has been many long centuries since his time. 

More and more, as our heroes explore, they are convinced that these two keys have something to do with the secret weapons that General Argos asked them to try to find. 

Mural after mural shows Grandfather presiding over the great city in times of battle, in times of peace, or both. His face is stern in some; in others, it is cracked with sorrow. Finally, in a long vaulted hall trapped by a field of deadly necrotic energy and a ceiling that drops a rain of gravel upon them, the party finds another fresco of Grandfather. In this one, he is looking at his blood-covered hands in horror, with the barbed iron rod clutched in one of them. The rod with olive leaves growing from it is under his feet, in the skull of one of his defeated foes. Cleverly hidden amongst the painted scene is a message: _The Key to War is the Key to Peace, but the Key to Peace is the Key to War. Without the strength to defend the state, one cannot have peace. Bloodshed is a regrettable necessity, or so I found it. At the end I wished there had been another way, even at great cost. If you come for the keys, I pray your intent is better than mine was. Solve the puzzles to earn a great boon. _

The jagged metal rod must be the Key to War, and the olive-leafed one must be the Key to Peace. Except... _the Key to War is the Key to Peace._ What does that mean?

“Maybe you need war to keep the peace,” suggests Vann-La. 

There is no way to be sure, at least at first. 

The “puzzles” that the writing refer to consist of wooden boards and three-dimensional, jigsaw-like puzzle pieces. The party stays back while Iggy messes around with them; he quickly finds that messing with the boards triggers a deadly trap in the room, as gravel starts to rain from the ceiling, and he is forced to flee, _dimension dooring_ to safety.

“We can come back later and investigate those puzzles further,” Heimall says, “but for now, let’s move on.”  Reluctantly, Sta’Ligir agrees. 

***

It doesn’t take long before our heroes find a crypt. Only a single large sarcophagus, chased with turquoise, rests within it. In the eerie flickering blue light illuminating the chamber, they can see that the surface of the sarcophagus is carved to resemble Grandfather, his arms crossed across his chest. In his hands he clutches what our heroes assume to be the Keys to War and Peace. “Do you suppose that this is Grandfather’s tomb?” asks Loridell. 

“Who knows?” replies Iggy. “It’s possible. No way to be sure, without opening it up.”

“Oi, maybe there is treasure within,” Cook points out. 

“I don’t know,” Vann-La answers. She hesitates. “Maybe we should leave it alone.”

“Well, you just know that something undead is gonna pop up when we open that,” Sta’Ligir continues. “So let’s just get it over with.”

“Or,” Vann-La returns, “we could... not. Let it stay asleep in there.”

Torinn snorts. “Adventure!” he cries. “Let’s open it up!”

First, they examine the sarcophagus for traps. Immediately, they note that it has already been broken open. “Maybe we’re too late!” exclaims Heimall. They elect to open the heavy lid nonetheless. 

Cook sets to work on the lid of the sarcophagus (which has been crudely re-sealed), and before long he manages to lever it open. Within it is a desiccated corpse laid out in finery. It is clear that the body has been looted; from marks and impressions left on the body, it is obvious that rings once adorned the fingers, a weapon was once in the sarcophagus with the body, and several necklaces were previously around the corpse’s neck. However, whoever looted the corpse missed some gold earrings and a silver pocketwatch, as well as a golden circlet on the body’s head. Finally, clutched in one of the bony hands of the body is the jagged rod that the party has seen in so many murals- but not the rod with the olive leaves. The other hand looks as though it has been forced open, and it is empty.

“Grandfather,” whispers Heimall. Then, noticing the empty hand, he swears. “Damn! Now what?” 

“We’ll have to see if we can track whoever took it down,” Vann-La says. 

“Why?” asks Kratos. “What do we need these things for?”

The party is silent for a moment; then, Iggy answers, “Just because we don’t know what we need them for doesn’t mean we don’t need them.”

“I bet that this complex has something to do with the Cathedral of War,” Vann-La suggests. “The Keys to War and Peace, a great hero who defended Fandelose in the past- it makes sense.”

“Maybe the Key to War opens the door to the Cathedral of War,” Sta’Ligir suggests. 

“Well, then we have it.” She gestures at the rod clutched by the corpse. 

“And why do we want to get into the Cathedral of War, anyway?” Kratos demands. “Four hundred weapons? That’s not enough to make a real difference in the coming war, and even if it were, we couldn’t possibly haul them back with us without help.”

“Still,” Sta’Ligir retorts, “General Argos wants us to try to find them.”

“Maybe we only need one key anyway,” says Torinn.

“But which one?” asks Vann-La. “Especially with what that message we found said- ‘the Key to War is the Key to Peace’ or however it went.”

“Oi, I don’t know if we want to take things from this grave anyway,” Cook says nervously. “My people believe that sometimes the dead will curse grave robbers. We could become haunted by their spirits!”

“We aren’t grave robbers, we’re adventurers,” Torinn replies. 

“I don’t know...” Heimall looks thoughtful. “Maybe we should just take the Key to War- assuming that is what it is- and leave the rest.”

“That’s gold in there,” Loridell points out. “And if we’re taking something, we might as well take it all.”

The party debates for a while, but greed wins over superstition, and Cook, Loridell and Hkatha end up taking the corpse’s items. Vann-La suggests turning them over to the war effort.

The party continues on. A nearby hallway contains a rent with a passage, seemingly opened at some point in the past by an earthquake, that heads downward. “This could be where our looters came from,” Hkatha observes.

The party elects to finish exploring the level of the dungeon that they are presently on before venturing further downward. More traps and undead litter the place, but more interestingly, the party finds a chamber with a trap that has already been triggered with the corpses of a number of bulky, reptilian humanoids impaled on spears that thrust upward from the floor. Carefully, our heroes inspect the bodies, and Sta’Ligir identifies them as troglodytes. Vann-La notes that they seem to be dusted with some kind of yellow powder, but no one can identify it.

“Well, let’s head down,” Torinn says. “Maybe we can find the other key.”

“Not yet,” Iggy replies. “First, let’s go try to figure the puzzles with the wood blocks out.”

“Hello, sir,” a new voice calls from behind the party. They spin, weapons flying from sheaths, to face the newcomer: one of Borgan Tyre’s mercenaries.

“What are you doing here?” demands Heimall.

“Who are you?” asks Iggy.

“How did you get here?” exclaims Torinn.

The mercenary, bemused, says, “Well, my name is Glen. I’m one of Borgan Tyre’s mercenaries.”

“Who?” asks Loridell.

“A mercenary that works for us now,” Heimall answers. “But go on, Glen.”

“A messenger from the city came,” Glen resumes, but is interrupted again.

“From General Argos?” says Vann-La.

“No, from the Heinrikson family.” The mercenary pulls a sealed envelope from his pocket and hands it to Heimall. “For you, sir.” 

Heimall nods his thanks and looks over the letter, then breaks the seal. It amounts to a courtesy hello from the local branch of his family, which has considerable mercantile power. Bemused, he realizes, _They want me to help protect them in the coming war. Well, I’ll do everything I can for them, of course- but I’ll be doing everything I can for everyone, anyhow._

“As to how I got down in here,” Glen continues after Heimall is finished reading, “I followed the signs of battle and trouble.”  

“Since you’re here...” Heimall says.

***

Even in trying to get through the necrotic field, our heroes have trouble, setting off yet another trap. This one animates a collection of wall-mounted weaponry, which set about dicing our heroes up. In reply, our heroes hack the weapons to pieces. They try their hands at the puzzles again, but fail, and are forced to jump through the field to escape the rain of gravel that pummels down from above. This proves almost lethal, dealing an inordinate amount of necrotic damage. They watch through the field as the room fills with gravel, and then it seems to magically clear away.

“We’ll get that solved sooner or later,” growls Iggy as Torinn heals him. Everyone is groaning in pain.

***

Further down, our heroes find the source of the yellow powder on the troglodyte corpses: strange, viney yellow plants that have somehow animated corpses to serve them. The party fights through them, blowing them apart with fire spells and hacking the plants to pieces. They slay a carrion crawler and some kind of strange worm made of blazing fire and molten earth. Then they come upon some live troglodytes, and this time the battle is much more severe. The troglodytes are ruthless, implacable foes, hurling stone-tipped javelins with deadly force. Even so, the party is a disciplined fighting force, used to working together to take out difficult opponents, and with Kratos, Heimall and Torinn all able to help restore the strength of the wounded, the party is able to face even superior numbers and drive them away. But it is a tough battle, and the party retreats to recuperate their strength for what they hope will be a final push the next day.

When they go back in, they fight their way through an angry, hungry cave tiger that is chained to a stalagmite. Its tether won’t allow it to leave the cavern that it is chained within. Clearly, the beast has been set in place as a guardian. 

Our heroes put it out of its misery.

After passing through more traps and monsters, and failing the puzzle above yet again, the party finds more troglodytes. There is some hissing negotiation, and then the chieftain of the trogs steps forward.

“What you want?” it rasps in Common.

“You speak our tongue,” Vann-La says in surprise.

“We want the Key to Peace,” declares Heimall. 

“What that?” the chieftain demands. “Besides, you kill my people. Why we give you anything?”

“It looks like this, but with leaves growing from it,” Sta’Ligir declares, pulling out the Key to War. 

Loridell catches a flicker of recognition in the chieftain’s eyes. “They have it, all right,” she murmurs.

“And we are willing to buy it from you,” Heimall says. “We’ll pay you fairly and leave you alone. No more killing.” 

The chieftain sneers. “You pay 100 gold pieces for it,” he demands.

“Done,” Heimall says immediately, “if you have it right now.” 

“You show money, first,” the troglodyte growls. 

The party quickly pulls together 100 gold, but they refuse to hand it over until the key is in sight. The troglodyte almost balks at that, but finally, they manage to transact the deal, and a few moments later, the party is headed to the surface with both the Key to War and the Key to Peace.

“Now how do we find the Cathedral of War?” wonders Hkatha.

_*Next Time:*_ How indeed!


----------



## the Jester

The summer sky is bleached a pale color, barely blue at all, as the heroes clamber up to the top of the great monument that marks the entry into Grandfather’s tomb and the dungeon surrounding it. With a grunt, Kratos continues his climb, attaining the top of the gorge a moment later. He ties a rope off and throws it over the edge for his companions, who clamber up to join him.

“Nice view,” comments Hkatha.

Indeed: the slash that is the Black Gorge winds away below them, and the mountains in the distance stand in glorious contrast to it. The proud walls of Fandelose, soot-stained and half-hidden by the dust raised by travelers and merchants, stand firm against the outside world, at least for the moment. 

Yet, opposite Fandelose, far from the mountains, trails of smoke rise into the air. 

_Those are cities,_ thinks Kratos. _People are dying even now, while we’re out of Fandelose for political reasons. General Argos is a fool to accommodate the Council on this- there is no time for debate. Every hour wasted means more lives lost._

Vann-La, meanwhile, is scanning the gorge below with her sharp elven eyes, looking for any clues to the location of the Cathedral of War that the party is seeking for the general. “I can see a bunch of caves,” she reports unhappily, “but there is no way to tell how deep any of them are from here...”

“Oi, there are a couple miles of gorge. That could be a lot of tunnels,” Cook laments.

“True,” nods Heimall, “but until we get a summons back from the general, we can’t return to the city, so we might as well do _something._”

“Hey, there are some orcs down there,” Vann-La says. “Remember what the dwarves told us? They sometimes trade with them. Maybe we could go talk to them. They might know something about this cathedral that we’re looking for.”

Kratos shakes his head. “Talking to orcs...”

***

The party descends and troops over to the orcs. Kratos keeps grumbling about the idea, but the orcs are neither immediately hostile nor particularly savage. For orcs, they seem quite civilized. 

The party queries them about the Cathedral of War, but they claim to know nothing. “Have you asked the dwarves?” one of the orcs asks. “They might know something.”

“We, uh, were just on our way there,” Iggy lies. 

The orcs discuss mining with our heroes, warning them to avoid dwarven claims. Sometimes, the orcs claim, dwarves will go mad with jealousy over their mining claims, greeting strangers with hostility- or even violence. They also mention a local “megadungeon” to the party: Marble Hall. “It’s got at least six levels, and there are multiple stairways that lead down into it,” the orcish spokesman says. 

“What lives there?” asks Hkatha.

The orc shrugs. “Who knows? Things come, things go. Sometimes orcs or dwarves will make a short stay in there, but it’s often more dangerous things from further down that come up to live.”

Could this be the location that they are seeking? Our heroes get directions and set forth to find out. They march towards the hall, but before they reach the part of the gorge containing in, they encounter a trio of dwarves. 

“Why don’t we ask the dwarves, anyway?” Hkatha suggests.

“General Argos warned us that they might interfere,” Vann-La points out. “He said that the dwarves guard it for a time of great need.”

“This ought to qualify,” Torinn says wryly.

“And what are these three going to do? If they mess with us, we can slay them,” Hkatha adds. 

After a moment of debate, the party decides to broach the subject. However, these dwarves do not admit to knowing anything about any cathedral in the gorge. “Maybe one of our sages, or the thane, might know something,” one of them suggests.

When the party declares that they intend to go to the Marble Halls, the eldest of the three dwarven prospectors warns them off of it. “It’s dangerous in there,” he says, his voice like sandpaper. “In m’youth, I went in a time or two. Lost some friends, all I gained for my trouble was a few dozen gold and some deep scars.”

The party debates again, moving off to the side for privacy. “Maybe it’s time to risk reaching out to the dwarves about the cathedral,” muses Heimall.

“I don’t have much of a horse in this race, but that sounds like a good approach to me,” Loridell agrees. 

“It’s risky, though. What if we alienate them? I bet General Argos will need them in the coming weeks.” Vann-La sighs.

Sta’Ligir frowns. “Well, the Black Gorge is huge, and it’s riddled with caves- and we can see that without actually doing any searching. We could probably search for a century without exploring everything down here. We need a lead.”

“We need to go back to the city,” Kratos mutters. 

“He’s right, we do,” Hkatha says. “But we _also_ need to find this cathedral. We’ll never do it without more information. I think Heimall’s also right- we need to talk to the dwarves. If they hinder us, so be it- we might not be able to find this cathedral. But they might be our only clue. Several of the murals in that trap-filled warren showed Grandfather with dwarves, too.”

“That’s true,” Loridell agrees, surprised. “I hadn’t really noticed at the time.”

“What if they try to stop us from getting to the cathedral, though?” Torinn’s tone is grim. “We are probably going to need them for the war effort.”

Heimall sighs. “I know, and I know it’s a risky move. But otherwise, we could spend months searching around without any result. We’ve already proven ourselves to be friends of the dwarves- we returned their lost payment, after all- and the thane seems to like and respect us.”

Cook speaks up again, his voice grave. “It is not hard to convince a dwarf to like you, but to _trust_ you? That another thing.”

“Let’s look at it another way,” Hkatah says. “Do we have any other ideas?”

***

The party is greeted warmly upon their return to the dwarven operation, and once more they are shown in to Thane Firestone, who bellows for ale and immediately starts getting them drunk. 

Our heroes are cautious about the subject they are broaching, but after draining a few mugs, they realize that they must broach it one way or another, or else the subject will never come up. So, finally, Heimall shrugs his shoulders mentally and then declares, “My lord, we must beg your aid with something.”

Thane Firestone strokes his beard. “Speak on, then,” he says, taking another sip of his fine dwarven beverage. 

Heimall takes a pull to enhance his courage before he speaks again. “As you know, the Six-Fingered Hand is attacking the Empire in full force. Our group has come from an area that has already been overrun- the Eastern Provinces across the mountains. We have seen the threat with our own eyes, and we came to Fandelose to bring a warning. Everything we have seen convinces us that the threat is real, immense and imminent. When we came to Fandelose, General Argos was imprisoned because of the actions of a traitor. There is no time to waste, and we need every advantage we can gain.

“I know that this may be a touchy subject to raise, and I apologize if we give any offense- but I believe that there is something that can help in the defense of Fandelose, and that you may be able to help us track it down. There are secret weapons kept in a place called the Cathedral of War, and we must find them.”

Thane Firestone raises an eyebrow. He takes a deep drink. Then he grunts, and finally, he speaks. “You have shown yourselves to be true friends of the dwarves, and your words ring true. We know that the Hand is closing in on your city- and on us.” His eyes are distant. “We guard the Cathedral of War in trust for our alliance with your city. The Cathedral is to be called upon only in the gravest of circumstances, when your city is at risk of extinction.”

“This is such a time,” states Vann-La.

“So you say,” the thane replies, “and I believe you. I will help you as best I can.” He gestures, and his lackeys refill his empty cup with more chilled dwarven ale. Firestone takes another long draught and smacks his lips. “Drink up!” he insists, and our heroes do. A hard look comes into the dwarf’s eyes. “Aye, and you prove yourselves again, drinking with me like this. Just as you proved yourselves by returning our payment to us, and by showing us to our dead, as was only right. Fear not. When the time comes, my folk will be there to aid in the defense of Fandelose. We will make the Six-Fingered Hand pay for their audacity in striking at us.” His voice is gradually rising, booming through his audience chamber. “We do indeed guard the Cathedral of War, but its location is lost. It is somewhere in our waterworks, but more than that, I do not know.” He gestures to another lackey. “Fetch Captain Nordek Stoneweight. He will escort our friends to the waterworks, and render all assistance to them in their mission to find the Cathedral of War.”

The lackey nods and hurries off.

***

Captain Stoneweight leads the party into the dwarven waterworks- a series of massive pipes, canals and channels. Some of the pipes are so large that the group walks three abreast atop them. They search, and search and search, for almost a full day. They have a few clues, but very few. Torinn declares that the Cathedral of War is probably of religious significance- “it’s a cathedral, after all,” he points out. As they  wander through the waterworks, Stoneweight realizes that there seems to be an empty space that they have skirted from several directions, and the party decides to make a more intensive search in the pipes and tunnels surrounding that space. 

Finally, thanks to Vann-La’s sharp Kree eyes, they find a cleverly concealed, dwarf-wrought secret door. The entryway is in a loud portion of the waterworks, where several large tributary tunnels pour together in a larger one, which also serves to generate some of the dwarfworks’ power via a massive water wheel.

“Good luck,” says Captain Stoneweight. “This is as far as I go.”

“Thank you for your help, Captain,” Heimall nods as Stoneweight withdraws. 

The party heads through. The secret door leads down a narrow, dank hallway before it opens up into the grandeur of the Cathedral. The giant chamber is well lit by glowing stones set all over the ceiling. A mass of metal and wood soldiers dominates the room, standing in unmoving ranks. The walls have great mosaic scenes of terrible war and destruction, with human and dwarf alike fighting a terrible force of undead and demonic figures. It is clear that they are losing on three of the walls, but the fourth wall is different. It is on the far side of the room, behind a great statue of Grandfather that stands almost 20’ high, with his arms crossed before his chest, one hand open with the fingers curled and the other balled into a fist. His statue is flanked by 12’ tall statues of dwarves. The wall behind him depicts the dwarves and humans finally overcoming their enemies with the aid of the metal and wood warriors that stand, motionless, in the room. Vann-La spies an inscription reading, “Peace After War” on the base of Grandfather’s statue.  

“Now what?” asks Hkatha.

“Peace after war,” muses Vann-La. “I wonder if-“

The dwarven statues animate. 

_*Next Time:*_ In the Cathedral of War!


----------



## the Jester

Dust and grit fly from the two statues as they begin advancing on the party. In a deep, gravelly voice, each one speaks. The one to the right of the great statue of Grandfather speaks in Common; to the left, the statue speaks in Dwarven. Cook understands both. 

“WHAT IS THE PASSWORD?”

Hkatha shouts, “Fandelose!”

“YOU ARE INTERLOPERS. YOU WILL NOT BE PERMITTED TO UNDERMINE THE ALLIANCE.”

The two statues move ponderously forward to attack, each moving around one side of the mass of strange, metal and wood figures.

Our heroes take quick advantage of the split of the dwarven statues, moving down one side of the square of intervening figures to focus their attacks on but a single enemy. The dwarven statue swings its stone greataxe in mighty, sweeping blows, but our heroes evade most of its attacks. They smash and chop at it, leaving webs of cracks on the statue’s surface, before Vann-La finally brings it down- just as the second statue reaches the party. Its axe crashes down on Vann-La’s shield with telling force, but she catches the blow and triggers the magical power of the shield that she took from Borgan Tyre. The party’s melee-oriented warriors rush forward while the wizards drop back to pelt the statue with magical attacks from a distance. The statue fights back, but it can only land a few blows before the party’s focused fire destroys it.

They catch their breath. Torinn and Heimall heal and bind the party’s wounds, and then they turn back to the 20’ high statue of Grandfather. 

“He’s got one hand open,” comments Heimall. “I bet we have to put one of the keys in it.”

“And maybe then his other hand will open, and we can put the other key in it,” suggests Torinn. 

Vann-La points at the inscription on the statue. “’Peace after War.’ Sounds to me like we put the Key to War in first.”

“I can sense magic on that statue,” Iggy says. “What if it triggers another trap, or summons another monster? We need to be ready, just in case.”

The party spreads out while Vann-La takes up the Key to War. Then she hesitates. “I still don’t get the whole ‘Key to Peace is the Key to War’ thing,” she says. 

“Maybe,” suggests Heimall, “it’s because we need the Key to Peace to access the Cathedral of War’s powers.”

Vann-La nods thoughtfully and thrusts the key into her belt, then begins pulling herself up the statue of Grandfather. She only has to climb about ten feet to get to the hand. Wedging herself against the statue with her legs and her left hand, she pulls the key out of her belt with her right hand. “It looks like it will fit perfectly,” she reports. “Get ready- here it goes.” With that, she inserts the Key to War into the statue’s hand. 

The statue’s eyes begin to glow faintly. Quickly, Vann-La hops off of it and backs up a few paces. And then it speaks. 

“WAR, THEN PEACE. THE WAR MACHINE SHALL TEST THE WORTHY.”

Before the party, space itself twists, and something emerges into the world. Clearly some type of machine, it vaguely resembles a heavily-armored dwarf, with a stylized beard of razor-sharp metal descending from its chin. Its hands resemble an axe head and a maul; thick armor plates shield it on all sides. Its broad shoulders are mounted with some kind of ominous-looking contraptions that bristle with several aligned barrels each. Long spiked chains spin from its back. In its chest, a glowing furnace radiates red-hot behind a portal in its chest.

“Watch out!” Hkatha cries, dropping back, evoking a _flaming sphere_ at the thing. 

Vann-La doesn’t hesitate for an instant. She charges in swinging, her warhammer singing as it smashes into the thing- and deflects harmlessly off of its armored plating! “This thing is pretty hard to hit,” she announces, and then it presses her, slamming its hammer hand at her while bringing the axe hand around on the other side. She catches both on her shield again, but barely holds them back! The war machine shifts up and unleashes a frenzy of attacks on the fighter and Torinn, flailing about with the spinning chains on its back. 

Torinn spits lightning, catching the war machine in his electric blast, and then moves in with a _righteous brand._ Vann-La steps up closer to flank, and the chains slap out, gouging a bloody tear in her shoulder. She grits her teeth and hits it with a _tide of iron,_ pushing it away to gain a little breathing space while Hkatha keeps his _flaming sphere_ on it.

Unfortunately, the war machine is equally capable fighting from a distance. The menacing shoulder-mounted turrets start shooting steam-powered darts in a steady stream at Hkatha. The tiefling reacts instantly, raising a _shield_ that deflects the incoming darts!

Torinn swings his spiked chain at it and _splits the sky._ The machine is smashed, spinning, to fall 10’ away. It seems to finally be noticeably damaged, as a massive jet of oil squirts from the rent that the dragonborn just put in the creature’s armor. Our heroes spring in on it, beating it while it is down, but it rights itself quickly and lashes out in return with terrific blows against Torinn and Vann-La. Hkatha keeps his _flaming sphere_ moving with the war machine, burning it again and again. Now there are more spots with oil and fluid leaking, and smoke is rising from somewhere inside the machine. Yet it fights on, clanking away from our heroes to stand near Grandfather’s statue and fire more of its shoulder darts at Hkatha. This time, he is hit thrice. 

“Bastard!” the tiefling wizard spits, and he hurls a _fireball_ at it. The blast staggers it, and then Vann-La and Torinn rush it again. They exchange blows with the war machine. Its hammer crashes into Vann-La’s chest with brutal force, nearly taking her from the fight; and then her warhammer smashes into its chest, where its furnace blazes, and the chest portal buckles inwards. The war machine staggers back, one step, two; and then it collapses with the groan of over-stressed metal, to lay still forever.

Panting, groaning, Torinn and Vann-La high five.

And then the great statue of Grandfather that dominates the room speaks a single word: “WORTHY.”

Vann-La takes the Key to Peace and climbs the statue again, where she finds that its other hand is now open. She inserts the second key and then drops back to the ground. Suddenly the mass of metal and wood figures in the center of the Cathedral begins to hum, click and whir. Their lidless eyes begin to glow a multitude of colors- red, green, blue, white. Slowly the inanimate soldiers- come to life!

“Let’s hope this wasn’t a terrible mistake,” murmurs Vann-La. 

“No- _these_ must be the weapons that General Argos spoke of!” Hkatha points to the animating figures. 

“Bur there are only 400 of them,” Kratos points out. “That isn’t enough to make a real difference.”

“Unless they are totally bad ass,” replies Heimall. 

“And they are far more expendable than human troops,” Loridell points out.

One of the strange figures strides towards the party. They shut up and turn to face it. “I am NC17,” it states, “and we are the warforged. What is the situation? Why have you awakened us?”

Heimall steps forward. “Greetings, NC17, I am Sergeant Heimall Heinrikson of the Imperial Army. We are attempting to defend Fandelose from an oncoming horde of goblinoids, orcs, gnolls, lizardfolk, kobolds and ogres called the Six-Fingered Hand. The Hand has already overrun the eastern provinces of this continent- and we aren’t sure how much else. We must make a stand, and the enemy will be here in a matter of weeks. We need your help.”

NC17 nods. “By ancient compact, we serve the cause of Fandelose- for a time. But we must survey the situation for ourselves before we decide exactly what course we will take.”

“Good. Well, first, we should go report in to General Argos. We don’t want to freak the dwarves out, though- you remain here while we go talk to their Thane, and maybe we can arrange for an escort for you.” Heimall starts to turn away, but NC17 speaks again.

“We will not wait. If the threat is as urgent as you say, there is no time to waste.” Behind him, the warforged are forming up in ranks. “You have awakened us in a time of need. For that we thank you, and we will gift you with certain things to aid you. But do not believe that you command us.”

There is a moment of silence. 

Kratos thinks, _I knew that this was a bad idea._

***

The warforged are not to be dissuaded, so our heroes march with them, trying first to reassure the dwarves that all is well- which they do, after a hasty discussion with some of the thane’s men. Heimall manages to persuade NC17 to go first to the forward observation post that the party has stationed Borgan Tyre at. From there, the warforged get a good look around. The mercenary captain reports that they have slain a few goblin spies in the last few days, while the party tarried within Grandfather’s Legacy and the dwarven operation. 

But still no word from Argos, allowing the party to get back to Fandelose. 

Heimall has Tyre dispatch a pair of men immediately to bring word of the coming of the warforged to the city with all haste in order to prevent any accidental conflicts from arising. He sighs. That’s pretty much all he can do under the present circumstances.

In the morning, NC17 surprises the party again. “We have observed the situation here from the observation post. Most of us will go to harry the enemy and take their measure, while a few representatives will go to the city to speak with the military leadership there.

“Meanwhile,” snarls Kratos, “we are stuck here.”

“Patience,” mutters Cook.

***

The party spends the next couple of days helping Borgan Tyre’s mercenaries continue to fortify the observation post. While they are doing so, it becomes increasingly apparent that three of them are under some kind of curse. They surmise it is because they looted Grandfather’s body; thus, they return everything that they looted from him to his tomb (except, of course, for the Key to War, which is sealed in the hand of the statue in the Cathedral of War). Then, finally, a troop of soldiers arrives to relieve them, and the party returns to Fandelose. When they return, they are challenged to identify themselves at the outer gates, and are amazed to see that an incredible bustle of activity is taking place. Scores of people, obviously citizens, are wearing military tunics that seem to identify them as civilians attached to the Army; they are busily reinforcing the walls, assembling weapons, stacking firestone sacks (for use in boiling oil, heating sand, etc), clearing an area around the walls to be used as a killing zone, and so forth. A large, deep ditch has already been excavated around the city’s base, and it bristles with a palisade of outward-facing spikes. Scouts thunder up and down the road with frequency. Clearly, Fandelose is now on a war footing, and the city isn’t fooling around. It seems that General Argos has finally been able to force the Bronze Council to respond to the urgency of the situation by threatening to declare martial law as soon as the Six-Fingered Hand comes within the prescribed twelve miles if the city isn’t ready to fight. 

Upon their return to the barracks, the pcs are shown to Colonel Jaxe, who debriefs them, with two scribes beside him taking copious notes. As they recount their tale, there are three interruptions from couriers telling the colonel that “the firestone shipment has arrived” (“Good, get it to the quartermasters and tell them to start distributing it according to the general’s plan immediately”), “scouts report the advanced skirmishers of the Hand have been spotted as close as Owl Hill” (about four miles south of the city) and “the remaining grain in the Farmers’ Granary has been poisoned for the Hand” (the Farmers’ Granary is about twelve miles outside of town and usually serves as a food reserve above and beyond the granaries inside the city). 

Once he receives their report, Colonel Jaxe tells the party that he is sorry that they will not have any time to rest, but the forces of the Hand are too close for any leisure. (He aims this remark at Hkatha, who is an aristocrat, more than anyone else.) Every man, woman and child in the city is being asked to contribute in one way or another. The city’s very survival is at stake. 

“What can we do to help, sir?” asks Iggy.

“As you yourselves discovered while you were poking around the city,” the colonel replies, “there are many hidden entrances into Fandelose. All of the ones we know about are being sealed up and/or guarded. However, there are bound to be many more that we don’t know about. Hopefully, neither does the Six-Fingered Hand.

“The issue is that there is an eladrin architect named Hyswell that may know of several entrances unknown to anyone else- and he is a hermit that is exiled from both the city and his own kind. He betrayed the governing faction of Fandelose once before (leading to his exile from the city), and now lives on a high, hard-to-reach peak about two days’ travel away.”

Jaxe goes on, “The problem is, the Six-Fingered Hand may well know about Hyswell. One of the factors leading to his exile from his kinfolk was his turn towards alien geometries in construction, sponsored by Abyssal patrons. These same demonic forces advise the leadership of the Hand. Hyswell needs to be either brought into the city or killed, so that the Hand can’t take him. He’s not likely to be friendly, but it is possible that he is open to persuasion.” He pauses for a moment, then says, “It should take about four days to get there, about the same to return. You should have enough time to get there and back and still have a few spare days before the Hand arrives.”

“What of the warforged, sir?” asks Heimall.

“General Argos has been meeting with LZ9, their representative. He sends his congratulations for a job well done.” Colonel Jaxe cracks a rare smile. “And I must echo those sentiments. Congratulations- _captains._”

_*Next Time:*_ Hyswell the Bitter!


----------



## Baron Opal

the Jester said:


> Captain Stoneweight leads the party into the dwarven waterworks- a series of massive pipes, canals and channels... They search, and search and search, for almost a full day. They have a few clues, but very few... As they  wander through the waterworks, Stoneweight realizes that there seems to be an empty space that they have skirted from several directions, and the party decides to make a more intensive search in the pipes and tunnels surrounding that space.
> 
> Finally, thanks to Vann-La’s sharp Kree eyes, they find a cleverly concealed, dwarf-wrought secret door.




How did you run this? Mostly some description, as a skill challenge, a little of both?


----------



## the Jester

Baron Opal said:


> How did you run this? Mostly some description, as a skill challenge, a little of both?




It was a skill challenge, but by the time they were in the dwarven waterworks they were almost done with it. It was an extra-difficult skill challenge- the party needed 14 successes, which is more than the standard system calls for. Here are the details:

_The pcs must engage in a skill test to find the Cathedral of War. At this point, asking the dwarves for help is no longer a completely lost cause; the pcs have proven themselves staunch allies. Thus, persuasion- Diplomacy- is an option. Alternatively, the pcs can attempt to use misdirection in order to search the miles of tunnels that make up the dwarven waterworks themselves; it’s all the same skill test.

The skill test is a level 6, complexity 6 test (14 successes before 3 failures); the following are the primary skills: Bluff, Diplomacy, History, Insight, Perception and Streetwise. To succeed at this skill test, the pcs must have either three Diplomacy successes or five Perception successes, or a combination totally six Diplomacy and Perception checks.

Bluff (DC 22): The pcs can use misdirection to both get clues as to the Cathedral of War’s location and access to the dwarven waterworks.

Diplomacy (DC 26): If the pcs decide to ask openly about the Cathedral, they must use diplomacy to sway the Thane as to the seriousness of the situation and to reassure him as to the honorability of the party’s intentions. (Dwarves gain a +2 bonus on Diplomacy checks to persuade the thane.) To succeed at this skill test, the pcs must have either three Diplomacy successes or five Perception successes.

History (DC 22): If the pcs go to the dwarves and attempt to persuade them to reveal the location of the cathedral, pcs may use History to attempt to build up the dwarven sense of camaraderie with the city, to shore up arguments relying on treaties between dwarf and man, etc. The party can use History to aid a Diplomacy check, or to gain a success in its own right.

Insight (DC 22): A canny pc can use Insight when interacting with the Thane and other pcs are making Bluff or Diplomacy checks to try to try to glean important information. Only one success can be earned this way, but a success allows the pc to realize that an appeal to dwarven ancestor worship- to the ancestors that gave their lives to help the city in Grandfather’s day- might help (and thus, opens Religion). Insight can also be used to aid the next Bluff or Diplomacy check; the DC is 18.

Perception (DC 22): This consists of straight up searching. To succeed at this skill test, the pcs must have either three Diplomacy successes or five Perception successes. Characters can aid another in this Perception check; the DC is 18.

Streetwise (DC 26): The winding tunnels of the dwarven operation are hard to read with Streetwise, but a strong effort might yield the party success in the form of an increasing understanding of the waterways, where they go and access points to them. A dwarf gets a +5 bonus to a Streetwise check in this context.

Religion (DC 18) (only if opened by Insight): The pcs appeal to the dwarven respect and worship of their ancestors in the name of those dwarves that died for Fandelose in Grandfather’s time. _

Cheers!


----------



## the Jester

_Nearly two thousand years ago..._

Atop a mountain shorn of vegetation and stripped of the minerals that were its life blood, a gnomish god-king stood pensively, facing into the wind that blew cold from the north. He gazed for a long time at the jagged peaks spearing the clouds, at the blue-green forest vista beyond them that was slowing crawling up the slopes. 

_All that I have loosed,_ thought the gnome, _has done what was needed- and more. Now it threatens to grow out of control- to encroach on the civilized lands that I protect, that I used the fey lands to protect._ He stroked his long, white beard, tugged at his moustaches. _Now the fey forces with which I have allied have come to show me that they are not under my control and never were. But then, I have always known that. The Elf-King of Ketzia and I have a long history of mutual respect and friendship- from the time when we saved the fey folk from the summoner that would have enslaved them on to the present. We have aided one another while each advancing our own interests.

Now his lands, whose encroachment on those of our enemies during the Great War helped us immeasurably, are coming uncomfortably close to us all. My growing city will not grow without roads, and my burgeoning kingdom- even if loosely allied to the Empire- will suffer greatly if the wild lands overtake the farms and villages._

He sighed. There were unseen eyes watching- his followers, and, he could only assume, Ketzian eyes as well. If the negotiations did not go well, the next step was probably an attempt at assassination.

_I pray that it does not come to blows,_ the gnome thought.

To his left, the sun was sinking. The shadows of the peaks before him were lengthening, each falling across the next mountain to the east like an ominous glove of darkness. Below him there was a rustle of leaves, and a flash of color as a cloud of butterflies materialized into view. They were followed by the flash of mithral: elfin chain mail, adorning the Elf-King’s guards. 

_Ah, old man, remember the days when he could travel freely, without guardians at hand?_ the god-king thought. _Not anymore. Even with the war won, our own internecine conflicts have left him without safe haven, here or in his own realm. How very sad..._

They climbed the trail quickly, half a dozen elven footmen with long gleaming rapiers thrust through their belts. They were followed by another half-dozen elven archers, behind whom came Oberon, the Elf-King of Ketzia. He beamed at the gnome king, who smiled back. They clasped hands, then embraced. 

“Old friend,” murmured the elf.

“Greetings, my lord,” the gnome replied with a grin. 

“It has been some time since you asked to meet personally. I trust there is some need?” 

The gnome nodded and sighed. “My friend, your... encroachment.”

The elf-king smiled gently. “Ahhh, at last. I have long wondered when you would raise your concerns with me.”

“You understand my concerns, of course. My people-“ 

“Cannot thrive in my realm, aye. I understand.” The elf turned his violet eyes to the north as well. “That area- the northern part of our continent- will never return to your world, my friend. You must realize that.”

“That is exactly why you must stop. Stop before you swallow up my lands and people.”

“It is not I,” replied the elf-king gravely, “it is _Ketzia_ that you need the aid of. The true wilderness, the fey lands, the hollow hills and the forests above them- they do not serve my will. _I serve theirs._”

“And what do they think on this subject?”

The elf-king smiled. “My lands are happy to have some measure of their ancient expanse restored.”

“They wish more, then. They wish to continue, until they engulf my lands.”

The elf-king arched an eyebrow. “Your lands, my lord?”

“_Mine,_” the gnome asserted, almost angrily.

“And after you are gone?”

The question drew the gnome up short. “My people,” he said, and stopped. “My people,” he said again, firmly. “The lands belong to them- and they, to the lands. Baron Lillamere is a perfect example. I am their liege- which means that I am _theirs._ They are mine- but they are my responsibility, my duty. They aren’t my toys. I’m no Wotanian despot- you know that- I take their well-being seriously. It’s the most important thing to me, and that’s why I asked you here. I want to work this out, before something bad happens.”

“Is that a threat, old friend?” The elf-king’s smile cooled quickly.

“No! It is a warning! There are indeed elements among my followers that would threaten you if you threaten my lands. I cannot know them all, nor can I stop them all. I need your help to help you.”

“You think your little spies threaten me?”

A shrug. “I have seen you threatened by a simple summoner,” he replied, “and my people know the details.”

Silence for perhaps thirty seconds.

”I would not see our friendship hurt,” the gnome finally said. “I respect you. You have given me aid and succor when no other could.”

“You have done the same for me and my folk,” the elf nodded.

“Then please- let us come to an accord.”

Oberon smiled again, sadly. “We already have.”

The gnome said nothing.

“My people are ready to fight.” The elf-king sighed. “Ready to fight each other. You have, perhaps, been too good a friend to my people. There are many among them that would fight against us, for you, in the name of the friendship that you have earned from them.” The gnome remained silent, showing no sign of the shock he felt at the words of the fey king. “Do you understand, my friend? You have caused a schism amongst my folk. No, we shall not fight you; we would have to fight ourselves to do so.”

“I never wanted that,” the gnome murmured. Yet in his heart, he was glad: glad for the chance to avoid so much bloodshed and ill-will that the echoes might never cease. 

“No, but you are happy to take advantage of it, aren’t you? Ah, my friend, no need to worry; were I you, I would feel the same as you. I understand you well enough, I think, to forgive you. Did you know, there is even a new word in our tongue engendered by this break in my people. _Eladrin._ It means, roughly, ‘those who keep the faith.’ Bur where I say ‘faith,’ you must understand, it is a... much more complex concept.” 

“Feyth,” the gnome murmured.

“Exactly, old friend,” the elf answered. “Exactly.”

***

When dawn broke, they went their separate ways for the final time. They would never meet again, and both of them knew it. Behind them, atop the mountain, an acorn had been planted, and it began to grow as the sun’s rays caressed the peak. It tore its ways free of the soil, growing greater and greater over the years, reaching high into the sky with thick barky limbs. Simultaneously, a great tower was built in the same spot. One existed in the lands of Ketzia, the fey wild lands that had grown so powerful in the aftermath of the Great War; the other grew from mortal hands, in mortal lands, growing into a staunch tower that, three centuries later, fell to ruin only to be replaced by a whole series of monuments, towers, libraries and keeps, each falling after many mortal generations. 

On the mortal plane, the oak was invisible, intangible, a mere idea. Its absence was symbolic: the Feywild would encroach no further than that peak. To the south, the lands would remain in mortal hands. 

But when the day was brightest, when the night was deepest- at those times, intercourse between the two realms could still take place. 

In fact, it _would_ take place. 

***

_Two thousand years later. Now._

The party sets out from Fandelose, heading into the mountains west of the city in search of Hyswell the Bitter. They ascend gradually, climbing up and over a ridge of mountains and then up to a peak, having a skirmish with agents of the Hand along the way. They take a goblin captive, and Hkatha interrogates him. The goblin says that his force was “going to talk to the elf,” but he doesn’t know why. It seems that he was merely a lackey. 

“They were probably going to Hyswell,” opines Heimall. “He’s an elf, right?”

“No,” replies Iggy, “he’s an _eladrin._”

“What’s the difference?” shrugs Heimall.

Iggy starts to answer, but the conversation has already moved on. Hkatha releases the goblin prisoner, but Vann-La and Torinn bring it down with javelins. “No way are we letting the enemy go right now,” Vann-La growls. “There’s too much at stake.”

The party travels on and upwards. The presence of the Six-Fingered Hand is always in their minds. As they ascend, they can see the plains to the south are aflame in many places. The Hand is on the move- towards Fandelose. Closing in like a noose. 

_I hope that the general’s preparations will be enough,_ thinks Heimall. _But the enemy is so numerous, they have known such success, that I do not know if we can hold them. They have been already been bloodied on the other towns and cities in the area. They will be thirsty for blood, hungry for victory- while many of our troops are green, untested recruits.

I pray that General Argos is as good as his reputation implies._

***

The party continues to climb, the ascent growing steeper and steeper. Scree slopes slip away beneath them; hard, sheer climbs require that they rope themselves together and work hard to help the weaker climbers make it up. “I’m not even supposed to be here,” groans Captain Ligir, as the others help haul him up to a narrow ledge. Panting, most of them rest for a few minutes as Cook, Vann-La and Kratos continue to blaze an upward trail.

The air grows colder, the wind harsher as they ascend. But the party works together, spelling each other when one or another of them becomes too exhausted, and they manage to crawl up the mountainside with impressive speed, taking only half a day to finish the climb. At the top they find a plateau that was clearly leveled artificially, and upon it, a squat watch tower, obviously of dwarven make. It fills the small plateau almost to the edges. “Good defensive work,” Cook comments approvingly.

The party circles around the building, seeking an entrance. It proves to be pretty much exactly opposite the area the party approached from, and a crucified dwarven corpse is hung before the door with a sign that reads, “STAY OUT” draped around its neck. The body has clearly rested here for months.

“Looks friendly enough,” comments Vann-La ironically.

“Oi, no,” moans Cook. “We have to take that body down and bury it! It is most disrespectful to leave him hanging like that!”

“One thing at a time, Cook,” replies Hkatha. “We have to deal with Hyswell first. _Then_ we can deal with the dead.”

“Oi,” Cook mumbles, but says no more for the moment. 

The party pushes through the outer door and into the courtyard, where a mangy-looking, flea-ridden hound rests, scratching itself. Vann-La clucks softly at it and extends a hand, trying to befriend it, but it only gives a trio of pitiful-sounding barks that are half whine- and then it _fey steps_ out of sight. 

“What the hell?” exclaims Loridell. “A vanishing dog?”

“It’s a cooshee,” explains Vann-La. “An elven dog.”

“I thought you said this guy was an eladrin, not an elf,” says Torinn. 

Iggy rolls his eyes.

The party advances to the entrance to the tower proper, but as they reach a door, a voice cries out from inside an arrow slit. “Go away!”

The party stops. Loridell calls out, “Are you the great architect Hyswell?”

“Aye,” the voice replies suspiciously.

“We come to beg your aid,” Vann-La speaks up. “The people of Fandelose need you. We would restore you from your exile-“

From beyond the arrow slit comes a derisive snort. “You exiled me, and now you need me, of course! Hah! I think not!”

“Please,” Hkatha says, “we recognize that a grave injustice has been performed on you, and we wish to help make things right. We are not the ones that sent you-“

“Since you have deemed me outcast, I do the same to you. Now leave my mountaintop, or I will throw you from the edges!”

“We don’t want to fight you,” sighs Hkatha. “We want to help you.”

Vann-La moves towards the door. “Let’s talk face to face.”

The architect screams in rage, and suddenly there is a loud cracking sound as brick and stone rises up from beneath the ground itself to begin grasping at the party’s legs, tying them in place! Only Hkatha, who is far enough in the back of the party to be outside of Hyswell’s area, manages to avoid the strange effect. _Old foundation stones! It’s as if he can command the architecture itself,_ thinks the tiefling. _Of course- his command of architecture must be mixed with the alien sorceries that General Argos warned us of!_ With a grimace, Hkatha skirts the area of twisting, grasping architecture and moves to the door. He throws it open.

And there is something red and demonic snarling right behind it.

“Wrong door,” Hkatha says in Abyssal, and slams it shut again. 

Meanwhile, everyone else struggles against the _grasping floor._ Vann-La manages to break partially loose and drag herself closer, but not close enough. The door flies open and the demon roars as it tears at Hkatha, who throws up a _shield_ spell just in time to save himself! 

From behind the arrow slit, a glowing green ray shoots out at Loridell, bursting into a noxious cloud of _Abyssal fumes._ The paladin gags and retches so violently that she finally manages to free herself of the _grasping floor!_

With a grimace, Vann-La finally gets free of the area grasping at her, and rushes into the tower- only to find that there are _two_ of the strange demons to deal with! She roars, “_Come and get it!_” They rush in at her, as does the cooshee- and even Hyswell seems to be drawn in by her bloodthirsty cry. As Heimall encourages her, she makes another brutal attack, smashing into the demon with bone-cracking force.

The cooshee and evistro savage Vann-La, leaving her bloodied. She strikes back, her hammer crunching into the cooshee’s shoulder. It yelps, and Hyswell the Bitter cries, “Leave my dog alone!” The walls, floor and ceiling strike out at the party, seemingly trying to protect the architect. 

“Learn how to take care of a dog!” Vann-La counters. She steps in and swings at Hyswell- but he raises a hand, and a strange _ripple of distortion_ throws Vann-La on her back and away. Her hammer swings through empty air as she yelps in dismay. 

Hkatha intones a spell, and a _fireball_ blossoms around Hyswell. The architect cries out, even as the party overcomes the evistro demons. Small fires burn on his cloak and the hem of his shirt. Hkatha snarls a threat at him in Abyssal, and Hyswell sneers in reply. 

“Shamrock, up!” he cries, and _fey steps_ away. 

But before it can move, the cooshee is felled by Cook, Torinn and Vann-La.

Hkatha spies two staircases heading upwards, and without hesitation, he hurries up one of them. Cook sprints for the other, and the party pours upwards in two groups. 

Both sets of stairs lead to the roof, where the bitter architect awaits them. As they attain the roof, Hyswell cries out, “Where is my dog? Damn you!!” 

Cook shouts back, “My people _eat_ dog!!”

Vann-La rushes at Hyswell. “Surrender or die!” she bellows, but again, a _ripple of distortion_ throws her back and prone, this time almost pitching her off the edge of the roof! Her fingers scrabble for a hold and she catches herself on the mortared stones at the last instant, maintaining a precarious position near the edge. The building itself seems to strike at her. 

“You had your chance,” Hkatha says, intoning the words to another spell. Infernal flames form a sphere, appearing next to the architect and immediately burning him. With a shout, Hyswell leaps away from the sphere and suddenly the very distance and direction of space itself seem to shift and rearrange. Torinn finds himself hurtling towards the edge of the cliff, but he catches himself just as Vann-La did. As he re-orients himself, the architect smashes bodily into him, trying to drive the dragonborn over the edge again! Torinn’s arms flail, and only a quick grab by Heimall prevents him from falling back and down a long, long way! 

The group surrounds their foe, but he taps the heels of his boots together and _fey steps_ again, out from the center of them all. “Hey!” exclaims Vann-La. “He can do that more than once!” Then she is choking on another round of _Abyssal fumes_. 

Torinn charges out of the fumes, lashing her spiked chain at Hyswell. It smashes him across the head, leaving him reeling. “Strike them, building, strike them!” he cries, staggering back, and the very stones rise up, smashing at Torinn and Vann-La. 

Heimall shouts, “Vann-La! Strike down the evil elf!”

“He’s not an elf!” she cries back, but attacks him nonetheless. Perhaps it is Heimall’s misidentification of the race of their foe, but the Kree warrior’s blow misses cleanly. She curses in Elven as Torinn misses again, too- and then, from behind the architect, Cook emerges from the shadows, his frying pan held high, and slaps Hyswell across the top of his head. He collapses, knocked unconscious.

“There we go!” beams the dwarf. “He is our prisoner now!”

The party binds and strips the architect, taking him back inside the tower. They search the place thoroughly- other than the architect’s magical boots, which prove to be _boots of eagerness,_ the party finds a chest holding 450 gold pieces and 500 silver pieces. Best of all- at least, in the opinion of several of the party’s members- is a book of rituals that they find, containing the rituals _detect secret doors, arcane lock_ and _knock._

Since it is already nearly dark and a descent of the mountain in the night seems most dangerous, the party elects to rest in the architect’s tower for the night. They set a watch.

Hyswell groans and comes awake. His eyes are bloodshot and a large lump has risen on his head. He finds himself bound in the corner of his bedroom, with most of the party sleeping around him and Heimall watching him intently. 

“You’re awake,” Heimall says presently. “Well, don’t try anything, or-“

And, as eladrin are wont to do, Hyswell simply _fey steps_ out of sight.

_*Next Time:*_ After Hyswell- into the Feywild!


----------



## the Jester

I’d just like to mention that, for the events in this post, the party was 6th-7th level- and only three pcs were present for the fight. 

***

Loud cursing awakens the party. Heimall cries, “He got away!”

The empty shackles that had held Hyswell the Bitter tell the tale immediately. “He stepped through the Feywild and escaped,” groans Ligir. 

“He couldn’t have gotten too far,” says Vann-La. “We’d better move fast!”

Quickly, the party looks for the architect. He is not on the roof, nor is there any sign of him over the edges of the peak. The party descends into the building’s basement, following a flight of sturdy stone steps hewn into the mountain’s top. Hkatha and Iggy provide some light via their arcane cantrips, while Torinn’s _lantern of revelation_ sheds more light. The basement is large, seemingly larger than the entire upper level of the architect’s adopted home. One end seems to have some kind of opening to the sky- stars are visible. There is no immediate sign of Hyswell the Bitter.

As the party heads towards the opening, Heimall notes that the ceiling has roots descending into it from above. _That’s odd,_ he thinks, _there weren’t any plants on the top of the mountain._ 

The party reaches the edge of the opening- and, to their surprise, it is an opening from the earth into an area screened by massive roots, some as big around as Heimall’s thigh. Rocks and earth mix with a skein of moss and root to form a shell-like covering over the pit that the heroes are in, and when they climb out, they find themselves- amazingly- on a limb of a tree of such majestic size that it cannot possibly be of the natural world. Its lower branches are as thick as a city road. Its girth is greater than that of most inns. 

“Wow,” breathes Vann-La.

_The Feywild,_ thinks Ligir. _Somehow, we’ve transitioned over. Somehow, we must have gone through a portal, or perhaps experienced a worldfall._

“This is amazing,” says Heimall. “Iggy- is this where you elves come from?”

“Eladrin,” sighs Ligir. “Yes, although I’ve never been in this area before.”

“So you don’t really know your way around here?” 

“Not really,” the wizard confirms. “But I am looking for someone here.”

Loridell cocks her head. “How’s that?”

“A black unicorn. An angry one, or something.”

“How,” asks Kratos, “did you get a unicorn mad at you?”

“He’s not mad at me. He’s mad about something else, or at least he seems to be. I hope,” Ligir adds, “that he’s mad about the Six-Fingered Hand. I think he wants to talk to me.”

“What, is the Hand here too?” asks Hkatha. 

“No. I mean- hmm. I don’t know. They could be. The Feywild has plenty of goblins in it.”

“Maybe we should ask someone, if we can find anyone. But more pressingly,” Heimall says, “we need to find Hyswell the Bitter.”

“Hello!” chirps a high-pitched voice.

Perched above the party is a two foot long dragon with bright purple and green markings and colorful butterfly wings. “Hello,” Iggy replies to it.

“You’re strangers,” the small dragon states.

“Yep, sure are,” Heimall answers. “I’m Heimall. What’s your name?”

“Smiley!”

“Well, hello, Smiley, pleased to meet you,” Iggy says.

“Likewise. You look like you’re from the world, mostly.” The faerie dragon winks at Iggy. “Except you, of course. What are you guys doing here?”

Heimall speaks up again. “Well, Smiley, we’re looking for someone that we think came through here recently. An eladrin. He’s a criminal, and we don’t want him to cause you guys any trouble, so we want to catch him.”

“I don’t like locking people up. What has this criminal done? What’s his name?”

“He’s called Hyswell the Bitter-“

“Hyswell!” exclaims Smiley. “Oh my!”

“You know of him, then?”

“Oh, yes. Oh, my. Oh, dear. He’s trouble.”

“You’ll help us, then?” 

“Haven’t seen him.” 

“Can you help us look for him?”

“Nope, busy, not getting involved. In fact, I need to get going-“

“Maybe,” Iggy says desperately, “you know someone else that could help? You wouldn’t have to get involved yourself, you could just put us in touch-“

The faerie dragon hesitates. “All right,” he finally says, “but only because it’s Hyswell.”

***

Smiley leads to a brownie at the base of the tree. She is twice as tall as a cat, with ruffled brown hair and cute little overalls that seem to be made of leaf and bark. When Smiley mentions Hyswell, she gets as frightened as he is, although our heroes manage to coax a further lead from her after a few moments of persuasion and gentle bribery. “I didn’t see where he went,” she admits, “but come with me.” She leads them to the base of the massive tree that they are on and knocks on the trunk. A moment later, a beautiful dryad steps forth. When she sees the party she almost flees back into the tree, but Magda manages to convince her to speak to the party. She tells them that Hyswell had indeed passed- and then a look of horror passes over her face.

Iggy feels something too- an unpleasant uncleanness stains his awareness suddenly. “What’s happening?” he gasps.

“Hyswell,” says the dryad, horror staining her voice, her eyes. “He’s performing a terrible ritual. Quickly!”

***

Down a long, shallow hill; across a narrow brook that sings merrily along its path, flanked by pink and yellow flowers; up the other hillside framing the brook, through a screen of magnificent bushes and brambles covered with bright red berries; the sound of chanting ahead; and then the hill’s top. 

A circle of menhirs, mossy and glistening in the morning dew, surrounds a slab of stone that Hyswell has used for a makeshift altar. A fairy’s corpse is stretched upon it, a spreading pool of blood beneath. And, towering in the circle of stones, newly arrived in response to the awful ritual performed, stands a terrible demon. Its carries itself in the mocking semblance of a humanoid gait, yet its features are those of a diseased vulture covered in buboes and chancres. 

“Fools!” Hyswell cackles. “Now you’ll die!” 

The ground below Vann-La and Heimall, even though natural, responds to the architect’s commands and begins grasping at their legs. “Can’t move!” cries Heimall, while Vann-La manages to press forward slowly. But then Hyswell _fey steps_* over behind the two of them and shrieks, “Slay them!!”

The demon has other ideas. It laughs and launches itself after the architect, clawing at him. Hyswell’s eyes widen in fear. “NO!” he shrieks, but the demon only laughs. Clearly, the mad eladrin does not have the control over it that he had wished. 

Vann-La cries, “You bastard! You sacrificed a pixie for this??” He hurls a javelin at Hyswell.

”Help me!” Hyswell cries desperately to our heroes.

“It’s too late for that,” Vann-La intones. She misses Hyswell with another javelin, then draws her hammer and charges forward, smashing him in the jaw with it. Bone and brain crunch. “Enough of you!” she cries fiercely. 

Then the demon slashes her as it flies by, ripping a gouge in her armor- and her shoulder. Blood trickles down her side and pain blazes up in her. “So much for avoiding a fight with this thing!” she declares. 

Heimall, meanwhile, remains trapped by the _grasping floor_. He struggles, but can’t seem to get himself free. “Damn it!” he shouts aloud in frustration. “Vann-La, _GIT!!_”

Iggy keeps his distance, landing an _acid arrow_ but missing thereafter with spell after spell. _Magic missile, scorching burst, shock sphere-_ all fail to harm the terrible demon, which has settled into a pattern of clawing at Vann-La while she presses it back with a _tide of iron._ It issues a _stunning screech,_ and both Vann-La and Heimall reel back, clutching their heads. 

Iggy _dimension doors_ into harm’s way. “Hey ugly!” he shouts, drinking a healing potion, “Over here!”

The vrock just laughs a hideous croaking laugh and pounces on the helpless Vann-La, tearing a deep wound in her chest. She screams in pain.

“All right, bird-face, don’t take _me_ seriously, huh?” Grimly, Iggy pulls out and loads the orcish sunpowder pistol that he took as loot from the pistoleers so long ago. 

Both Heimall and Vann-La recover from the screech. Heimall shouts, “Don’t give up, soldier! The Empire needs warriors like you!” 

Gritting her teeth through the pain, Vann-La nods. His words inspire her, keeping her in the vicious fight. She hammers at it, landing a blow but missing with more. _This thing is tough!_ she thinks. Then she sees her chance, and moves to flank it so that she can launch a _flanking assault_ on the demon. She pounds it, her hammer slipping off the thing’s tough chest but still doing damage. Something inside it snaps, and suddenly a great cloud of spores puffs out around the monster! She and Heimall gag and cough, barely able to act! Dazed, they fall back as the demon unleashes a terrific flurry of blows at Heimall. 

”Black unicorn, aid us!” the Kree cries, as she is nearly driven to her knees by the power of the demonic assault. 

Heimall finally tears free of the _grasping floor_ and rushes to Vann-La’s aid. He hits with a _viper strike,_ and the demon screams in pain. It is growing weaker- but it is tearing them apart. 

Then, suddenly, a loud *BOOM* echoes across the hill as Iggy fires his gun. 

Unfortunately, he misses. 

Cursing, he swears to himself, _As soon as I have a chance, I’m going to learn how to use this damned thing better!_** He reloads and fires again, but misses. “Damn it!” he shouts aloud, and draws his wand, switching to a more traditional technique. He begins firing _magic missiles_- and continues to miss. Shaking his head in disbelief at how off his aim is, he thinks, _It must be fatigue._

Heimall keeps missing. He is swearing too, loud and long military curses that would make a civilian blush. Then the vrock screeches again, and he isn’t doing anything at all but clutch his ears, stunned by the thunderous cry. 

Not so, Vann-La. She stands toe-to-toe with the beast, swinging her hammer at it over and over. It isn’t that her blows don’t connect; they just often can’t manage to harm it. She has dealt it several punishing blows, however. Panting, she pauses to catch her _second wind_. With Heimall momentarily out of the fight...

The vrock nearly takes her head off when she overextends herself trying to slam the hammer into its knee. She stumbles, seeing stars, and swings blindly, missing. Blinking blood from her eyes, she spits copper-tasting phlegm. 

“Vann-La!” cries Heimall, having regained his wits much more quickly than he regained his mobility. “_GIT!!_”

Vann-La swings again, this time connecting with the demon’s head! It shakes itself, clearly badly wounded after that blow. Vann-La staggers and regains her balance, and Heimall hurls himself aside, distracting the vrock and pulling a _guileful switch_. 

Vann-La swings again, but this time the vrock bats her hammer away as it snarls at Heimall. 

“_GIT!!_” Heimall screams at Vann-La. 

The warhammer slams up into the vrock’s head again, knocking it to its knees.

“_GIT!!_” Heimall screams one more time.

And the warhammer comes down again, smashing the demon’s head open, spraying brains and blood everywhere. The vrock immediately begins to hiss and bubble, dissolving into acrid-smelling green goo that smokes and pops. 

Our heroes collapse onto the ground, gasping for breath. 

_But we’re alive._

_*Next Time:*_ Total War!!

*More properly, when in the Feywild, a _fey step_ is a _world step_, wherein the creature steps momentarily through the material world. 

**In other words, take the necessary weapon proficiency feat.


----------



## the Jester

“...and then the brownie told us that we could transition back to the real world- our world, that is- by going back into that hollow at noon. At midnight, it worldfalls into the Feywild, and at noon it worldfalls back into the world.”

“I see.” Colonel Jaxe drums his fingers on his desk. “Worldfalls, eh?”

“Yes, sir.” Ligir explains, “A worldfall is a phenomenon that results in a crossing of the worlds.” 

“So I gather,” Jaxe answers dryly. “Well. Well done, men, even if you couldn’t bring him back alive. At least the Hand won’t get his knowledge- and it sounds as though they were trying.” He stands up, clasping his hands behind his back. “The Hand is only days away. There is no time for you to rest, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for all that you have done. I hope you are ready for what comes next.”

“And what is that, sir?” Vann-La queries. 

“Total war,” replies Colonel Jaxe.

Into the heavy silence, Heimall asks, “How much time do we have, sir?”

“Four days. Enough time to get to know the units that you’ll be building and to dig some fortifications.”

***

The Six-Fingered Hand is on the march. Scouts gallop out from Fandelose, dust swirling behind them as they go to gauge the oncoming forces. Back and forth, a constant stream of eyes, seeing and then relating what they have seen to General Argos. 

_They come._ 

Harried by the warforged, slowed by what long-range light cavalry Argos can spare to distract the oncoming force, the horde extends in a seething mass as far as the scouts can see. How many? Thousands, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands- none can say. More than they could see.

In the city, the last frantic days before the enemy arrives are abuzz with activity. Supplies are cached where they will do the most good; the farms outside the walls are fired, the wells poisoned. Last minute arrangements are made with the dwarves, as well as those warforged within the city or able to retreat within it before the horde hits. 

They come, numberless in their masses. 

It is clear that it will come to a siege. General Argos has known that for over a year. His forces are too few for a pitched battle in the field to spell anything but disaster. The enemy is led by a hobgoblin named Heshwat the Eviscerator, and it is said that in the van of the enemy column a group of wagons holds tall poles, on which are stretched living prisoners, their intestines spilling down and trailing behind the wagon, torn and stretched by countless stomping boots and churning wheels. When one of the screaming victims finally dies, a new one is bound in place and his or her belly slit open. 

The land outside the city has been prepared, with wooden spikes, trenches and moats dug and filled. One approach only is open to the killing field surrounding Fandelose itself, up the trade road that leads past the Black Gorge. A great triple gate waits, each one open for the moment. Before this, our heroes have drawn up, each in command of a company of 100 soldiers. Iggy commands Scorpion Company, from the Imperial Sixth Legion. They are a company of archers. Kratos has been given command of the Granite Wedge, a group of dwarves from the operation in the gorge. Captain Nordek Stoneweight is the dwarven leader, but he is happy to put himself under Kratos’ command in order to fully integrate the dwarves and their deadly trap with General Argos’ battle plan. Torinn enthusiastically takes command of a group of 100 warforged soldiers that have seconded themselves to the general. They are called Delta Squadron, and Torinn’s subcommander is named TRS-80. Interestingly, one of the warforged in the unit is of a somewhat different design than the others; it claims to be older, from an earlier run of warforged, and originally defended a different area, but its memories of that time are mostly overwritten. Its name is P-38. The others are given control of four companies of Imperial pikemen- Viper Company under Loridell (who has accepted a field commission), Raptor Company under Hkatha, Tiger Company under Heimall and Bear Company under Vann-la. 

The enemy will have to advance up a relatively narrow raised road that approaches the city. The plains to either side of the road would require significant climbing across the fortifications to attain the killing field surrounding the city. To the city’s north, the Black Gorge cuts access to Fandelose for several miles. 

It also serves as the location of a most cunning dwarven trap- if enough enemies can be lured into the Gorge to warrant using it.

***

9 a.m. Dust in the distance. 

The warforged and Bear Company deploy to the south, in the plains below the road. If they move far enough forward, they may be able to take the enemies in the flank. The archers in the middle, the pikemen forward and as a rear guard. The dwarves remain just ahead of the turnoff into the Black Gorge on the road.

The entire horizon is obliterated beneath an obscuring mist of dust by 9:30. Distant sound- a tremendous number of feet on the move- carries far, echoing from the peaks behind the field of coming battle. Coming closer and closer.

The last of the scouts pull in. 

10 a.m., and the forces of the Hand finally come into view. Obscured by the dust they raise, a disorganized advance probe of rabble, mixed goblins, orcs, lizardfolk, kobolds and gnolls. As the defenders come into view, a roar starts to rise up from them, quiet at first, but building second by second into a manic roar of bloodlust and triumph.

The rabble pours forward, several hundred of them rushing up the roads- to the pike hedge that awaits them. They fling themselves forward, but the long weapons they face tear into them. Blood runs over the trade road, into the ditches designed to slow the enemy, as the defenders of Fandelose dispatch the enemy with ruthless efficiency. The rabble throwing themselves to their death break almost immediately, and Viper Company charges forward, impaling many of the fleeing ones, while the dwarves of the Granite Wedge crush more of the enemy against Tiger Company.

”That was just the first wave,” says TRS-80 to Torinn. “The second will be stronger.”

“We aren’t really supposed to stop them,” Torinn replies. “We just want to bloody their noses- let them know they are in for a fight.”

“I estimate that we have defeated almost 400 of them.” The warforged’s cold eyes fix on the dragonborn. “Out of, at minimum, 400,000.”

“A bloody nose,” replies Torinn, “is a bloody nose. It doesn’t finish you off- but it might make you careless.”

“If you have a nose to bloody,” the warforged replies gravely. 

_Bastard,_ thinks Torinn.

***

About an hour after the first probe, a group of kobold emissaries rides forward on a covered wagon (probably plundered) under a flag of truce.

“I don’t really see what we have to talk about,” grunts Ligir. “Company! Draw! And- _loose!_”

Arrows rain down at the wagon, which promptly retreats.*

Moments later, the second Hand probe begins to advance, consisting of twice as many rabble as before. This time, they are accompanied by a unit of about 100 archers. Additionally, two distinctly elite-looking units of slightly over 100 each are advancing- one a group of hobgoblins, the other a group of orcish berserkers that leads the rabble down the road. 

“Get ready!” Loridell calls to her troops as the enemies pour forward with a roar towards the pikemen again. This time, the hobgoblins form up and begin marching towards the warforged and Bear Company. 

Arrows rain at the orcs as they come within range, but they only roar and charge forward at the dwarves. The pikemen and dwarves brace for them, and the forces meet in a crunch, with the extraordinary advantage of the pike’s reach proving a telling factor- as it always had for the Fourth Legion. Orc after orc flings himself forward, batting away one long shaft of the hedge only to be impaled by another. Then the dwarves march forward, shattering the orcish formation with their hammers. 

The hobgoblin elite forces, meanwhile, charge forward into the warforged line. They prove to be devastatingly effective at fighting in formation, and the clash between the units grows very hot indeed. On the other side of the road, the goblin archers have run up against the Black Gorge; realizing that they cannot easily circumnavigate it, they instead start firing their bows into the Imperial Archers, who are thus compelled to focus on them in turn. 

The clash of sword on armor, the shriek of the wounded and slain, the stink of death fill the road. The bodies are heaped high. The orcs cannot retreat, being pressed by the rabble from behind. Trapped in between the dwarven hammer and the anvil of the pikemen, all they can do is die in droves. 

The hobgoblins, on the other hand, are faring much better, dealing extraordinary damage and guarding each other extremely well. Even with Delta Squadron and Bear Company focusing on them, they are staying in the fight- and staying competitive. 

But it can’t last forever; the rabble and the orcs are dying like flies, and more of the defenders are able to turn a few pikes towards the hobgoblins. Finally, the enemy is repulsed again, and although the defenders have suffered some losses, they are not yet too severe.

“The next wave,” TRS-80 tells Torinn, “will be a _real_ test of our intentions- whether or not we truly intend to dispute the approach to the city.”

***

The third wave outnumbers the defending group about 4:1. 

“This will be the wave we flee from,” Hkatha says. “We’ll draw them in, trigger the trap in the gorge and get back into the city.”

The enemy marches, thousands of rabble, hundreds more of the elite hobgoblins, archers and berserkers- and several hundred goblin worg-riders. 

“Trouble,” snaps Vann-La.

The worg-riders are fast. They rush forward, and the rabble roars and runs forward as well, pouring up the road in a hideous mass of slavering would-be conquerors. 

The troops begin pulling back. The archers set up a withering rain of fire, trying to slow the enemy down. The hobgoblins advanced, an inevitable wave of steel and sweat and blood. They came into contact with the rear elements of the defenders and began slaughtering them. The rest poured through the three great gates, sealing them behind themselves as they fled to the walls. 

Shortly, the boom of a ram swung by ogres announced that the triple gates outside of the killing ground would not hold the Six-Fingered Hand back for long.

_*Next Time:*_ Man the Walls!!


*For the record, this would have been an illusion-cloaked ambush on our heroes, consisting of an oni mage, 2 ogre savages and 3 kobold minions.


----------



## Mathew_Freeman

Huge update, thank you!

What sort of mechanics were you using to run such large scale battles, as I assume that you're not going to lay out several hundred miniatures on a map?!


----------



## the Jester

Mathew_Freeman said:


> What sort of mechanics were you using to run such large scale battles, as I assume that you're not going to lay out several hundred miniatures on a map?!





I worked up a unit-scale rule set grounded heavily in the 4e basic rules. I had each unit be 20 creatures, so (in the initial battles) the pcs each controlled a formation of five units. 

As for laying out hundreds of minis on a map- oh hell yes I did, but not until the defense of the walls. I should have taken some pictures- I bought several rolls of pennies for use as miniatures. A friend dropped by while we were in the next battle, and he said, "Hey guys, what's HOLY CRAP THAT'S A LOT OF MINIATURES!"


----------



## the Jester

The massive triple gates of Fandelose rumble shut behind the last of the defenders as they pour back into the city. Below the city, the three wooden gates are falling before the ogres with their monstrously large rams. From his position high on the city’s third outer wall, General Argos watches, no emotion showing on his face. 

“It looks like the dwarven trap has sprung, sir,” Colonel Jaxe observes.

Indeed: the Granite Wedge had stayed behind, drawing hundreds of the soldiers of the Hand into the Black Gorge- before triggering a massive rockfall that smashes down on their pursuers. 

But Argos’ only reply is, “Now it will come to a siege.”

“Unless they breach the walls,” Colonel Jaxe answers.

”They shall not. Even if they make it through the first gate, the men in the gatehouse will be able to destroy them via murder holes. More of the same awaits them through each gate.”

Outside of the walls, the massive horde spills into the killing field surrounding the city. Thousands upon thousands of goblins, orcs, gnolls, kobolds and more pour forward, shouting gleefully for human blood. Their advance slows as more and more of them pour through the narrow gates, which- now breached- are already being torn apart and carted away, as are elements of the palisade surrounding the site of the first battle, material to be turned into more siege towers, more scorpions. 

The front line of the mass of the Six-Fingered Hand rabble begins to edge forward faster, pressed by the increasing number of troops behind them. Suddenly, with the hiss of a thousand bow strings, a cloud of arrows rises from the city walls and arches over the foreground- and into the oncoming rabble. Screams ring out as goblins and lizard men fall, pierced, only to be trampled by their bellowing fellows. 

The rabble of the Hand charges. 

***

”There,” Kratos gestures from a rooftop near the market square nearest the main gates. “Siege towers.” He turns to the sergeant nearest him. “Focus on those towers!”

The sergeant is his spotter. He pulls out his spyglass and takes careful note of the position of the oncoming towers, then turns and begins shouting instructions into the square below, where the crews of the catapults begin reorienting them and adjusting their tension. And then they loose their first shots, huge rocks propelled by the catapult up and over the closer masses of oncoming soldiers towards the siege towers.

One stone hits a tower dead center. Orcs and hobgoblins are flung from the tower to their dooms below, but the tower keeps rolling forward, cracked but not destroyed. Another of the catapults deals a glancing blow to it. Still the tower rolls on.

***

On the field, several formations of much-more competent Hand soldiers are forming up into lines behind the massive mobs of rabble charging forward. “Hobgoblin elites,” grunts Vann-La. She glances around. She is atop the outer wall, along with hundreds of defenders. She is commanding a small section; Torinn and Ligir are several dozen paces to either side. Both soldiers and peasant volunteers are here; everyone in the city knows their lives are at stake. Small fires, heating cauldrons of sand or oil, are all over, as are long poles with a T of wood at the end, used for pushing scaling ladders away from the wall. Most of the peasants are firing shoddy crossbows into the mass of troops rushing forward, while the soldiers have bows. Arrows whistle out, wounding and slaying the Six-Fingered Hand’s first wave as they rush forward.

_We’re as ready as we can be,_ the Kree warrior thinks. 

Torinn strides forward to the edge of the parapet, looking out from between two of the merlons. “Here they come!” he shouts. He pulls out his spiked chain and cracks it like a whip. “Be ready!!”

Further down the line, Heimall has his pike out and is giving a speech to the men and women under his command. “This is it, soldiers!” he cries. “The moment of truth! This is more than our lives at stake- it is the entire Empire, our entire way of life! It’s all on the line, here, soldiers! Stand firm when they come- FOR THE EMPIRE!!”

With a roar, the rabble reaches the wall, many falling to the spikes and ditches around the perimeter, more to the arrows that speed out from the walls in lethal clouds. But more and more of them pour forward, some trying to climb the wall- which has been oiled at General Argos’ command- by hand and foot alone, others throwing up ladders. 

Atop the wall, roughly half the defenders cast down their missile weapons in favor of weapons or T poles. Ladder after ladder is shoved over. Sta’Ligir and Hkatha launch _fireballs_ and other destructive magic into the seething mass of Hand troops below. Bodies litter the ground, but some of the enemy attain the top of the parapet. 

***

The Six-Fingered Hand’s scorpions come within range and hurling heavy rocks at the city’s gates. Immediately, Kratos redirects his fire. Soon the siege engines are exchanging fire, but the catapults of Fandelose win the first contest, and then turn their fire back on the siege towers, smashing the damaged one to rubble and then destroying another. More scorpions are rolling forward, but due to the catapults’ edge in range, the defenders annihilate them before they can close. 

Further out in the swarm of rabble, the siege engineers see more siege towers, moving forward in pairs. “They ain’t organized enough,” says one of the catapult crewmen, and spits. “If they was smart, they would send all the towers up at once.”

_A good point,_ Captain Kratos admits. _What does that tell us about their command structure? Are they having difficulty coordinating the races? It seems like the kobolds are actually the ones that can talk to everyone- I wouldn’t be surprised if they were the ones in charge, at least, beneath Arawn himself._

The catapults continue hurling stones.

***

Crawling like ants, falling to their doom from the slick wall, stabbed with pikes, pierced by arrows, scorched by spells, the Hand keeps coming even as dusk falls on the first day of the siege. All through the night the battle continues, lit by the smoky haze of the fires lit by the pounding artillery of both sides, by spilled oil and fallen torches.

Again and again the defenders push the attackers back, inflicting losses of almost 50:1 on the enemy. Trying to rotate fresh troops in to relieve the exhausted men defending the city with their lives, General Argos is up all night. The gates come under repeated assault, but when things seem almost lost, a quick sally from a postern gate shatters the Hand’s advance. 

Dawn pours light onto a ghastly battlefield, the dead and their blood staining the ground everywhere. Blazing firestone rocks sail out over the field, cast by the general’s own war machines, setting aflame the hillside leading to the upper approaches to the city- not only difficult to cross, it is now made an inferno.

In wave after wave, the enemy pounds on the walls. Muscles aching, our heroes and the people under their command fight on, hour after hour, snatching short moments of rest whenever they can, but that is all they can afford.

Day after day, the assault smashes into the city, the Six-Fingered Hand trying to push through and crush the Imperial resistance. Looking out at the roaring army of humanoids, Loridell can’t help but wonder if there is any more resistance remaining. _Does the Empire still exist? What of the Emperor? Are we all that still resists the foe?_

Without a way out of the city, without an escape from the sea of troops encircling them, there is no way to know.

***

Cook is not going anywhere near the walls, no sir. He knows better. “That a place for soldiers and warriors, not cooks,” he mutters to himself. 

But that doesn’t mean that he cannot contribute. 

He cooks, massive amounts of food for huge numbers of soldiers and support troops. They aren’t looking for taste; they just need the strength to fight on. Good thing, too, as Cook can provide little of the one but has no problem with the other. Ladling large globs of dwarven grub stew into bowls, he nods respectfully to the warriors. These men and women are saving his life every day- and not all of them will survive. 

He can do more, too. As the siege drags on into its second week of unceasing violence, he decides that he must. Secret ways, unknown to the humans, run from the dwarven operation in Black Gorge to the underbelly of the city. They showed him some of them when he was in the gorge before. Over the following weeks, Cook learns these passages well, using them to help ferry information and messages back and forth from Fandelose to the isolated dwarves in the Black Gorge- whom the Hand is mostly ignoring after a few costly attempts to attack them in their mountain hold failed.

It is not a glamorous job, but that doesn’t matter. It is _important._ 

And he’s helping his friends. 

And, most important of all, _he is not in the damned Army._

***

After two weeks of virtually unceasing attack, the Six-Fingered Hand draws back just out of catapult range and begins a proper siege, trying to strangle the city and cut off its supplies. 

General Argos is ahead of them. In the weeks before the horde arrived, he had his engineers redirect a mountain stream so that it now runs through the upper part of the city. Now, using his powers under martial law, he forces the aristocracy and businessmen that live in the upper part of the city to relocate. The buildings are largely razed, and the land leveled and turned into rice fields, flooded by the mountain river. 

*** 

The siege settles in to a steady state. Time passes, weeks into months. The love affair between Kratos and Livia grows stronger, more passionate. She begs him not to make a fuss about removing her from the household in which she is stationed until after Fandelose is saved and he is a great hero; right now, her family’s status completely depends on her position. Reluctantly, he accedes to her request. “But soon, when we have saved Fandelose, your mistress will not be able to deny us,” he says. “I will be a hero, and I will have you for my wife!” 

***

Sta’Ligir catches occasional glimpses of the gloomy unicorn when he steps momentarily into the fey realms to teleport, but is unable to make contact. _He knows something,_ the wizard thinks, _something important..._

One day, about two months into the siege, the High Civilizer approaches him with a bunch of pictures of eladrin architecture and a ton of strange questions for him, saying that he might be able to glean some ideas that will help the city in the siege. (Many of the pictures are of eladrin battlements and the like.) Iggy shrugs and answers as best he can. The high priest of civilization is as good an ally as anyone or anything is likely to be, under the circumstances. 

***

The Hand still often throws minor attacks at the besieged, but it is clear that they are content to wait, for the most part. Starvation is on their side- or so they think. 

In Fandelose, food is rationed, but the rice crops- assuming that they survive and flourish- will relieve the situation in the spring. 

Cook begins visiting the rice fields after he meets a trio of Mao Maos while serving food in a cafeteria. (Mao Mao is a human land of rice farmers and ancient, decadent cultures prone to dragon worship, surrounding Cook’s own home of Muk Nam on the north and west.) They have features and accents similar to Cook’s, and speak the same Eastern tongue as him. They are overjoyed to see someone that is, if not their countryman, at least from the same continent as them. The Mao Maos are three brothers, named Lao Bin, Lao To and Lao Ping. They befriend Cook, inviting him to their hovel at nightfall for some sake. They live on the upper parts of the city, where they tend the rice fields, and over the next few years they become great friends with Bum Po the cook.

***

Autumn becomes winter. Heimall is visited by several of his cousins, who have been hearing tales of his exploits on the walls and understand that he is one of the heroes of the battle. They are extremely solicitous of his good will and offer to arrange for reasonable quantities of normal gear to be provided for 50% of normal price. They also give to him a magical dagger that their father claimed in war from a dwarven assassin, and opine that they hope it can help the war effort. After the rest leave, one of them- Vedreich- stays behind for a few moments.

“Cousin,” he says, “I understand that you have put out feelers to the city’s underground, asking for help with the war effort.”

“True enough,” Heimall replies.

“Your cries for aid have not gone unheard- or unheeded. In future, if you need to... get the word out... I am your man.”

“Thank you, cousin.”

***

On the hundredth day of the siege, General Argos gets his first good night’s sleep since it began.

When he wakes, his mind is especially clear. _I needed that,_ he thinks. _It has been too long since I have been properly rested. But my mind must be sharp. We are holding- we can hold forever. But that is not enough._

He dresses, then strides to his map room, where a miniature version of the battle is set up. Several officers are murmuring and gesturing at one particular group. “Gentlemen,” Argos nods to them. After the customary exchange of salutes, the general studies what they are looking at. 

“They’re building more siege towers, using the wood from the palisades. This time, they will send them in all at once. We must be ready.” He turns to Colonel Jaxe. “We have a lot of raw materials from those mansions that we demolished. Use them to build more catapults. Use the brick and stonework as ammunition. We need to be ready when the attack comes- but we have time.”

“How do you figure?” demands one of his new officers, taken from the local political establishment. 

“Because, Lieutenant Keflingorn, it is winter. The rains have already started, and by the looks of the sky, we’ll have a storm rolling in tonight.”

“So?”

“Mud,” explains Colonel Jaxe. “The siege towers will bog down and become sitting ducks.”

“At least until the weather turns, we are safe- from that particular avenue of attack.”

***

At midwinter, Loridell is initiated into the Fraternity of Battle, a group of warriors whose numbers have been depleted by the fighting. They accept only the worthy, but in skill at arms and in moral certitude, and they test the young paladin. She passes with honors, displaying both valor and judgment during her tests.

When she returns to the barracks, she is exhausted, but pleasantly so. She throws herself into her bunk. Briefly, just before she falls into a deep sleep, she wonders, _Whatever happened to the warforged? Many of them were outside the walls when the siege hit. Do we have any communication with them? Are they even still alive? If so, what are they doing?_ Then sleep steals her thoughts away, and a blanket of oblivion comes over her.

The next morning it’s back to the walls, with sleet coming down and soaking the field. General Argos’ assessment of the siege towers proves accurate: it is not for several more months until the towers begin rolling at the head of a new assault. 

But the citizens of Fandelose have seen that they must all work together to survive. They have seen, by the annexation of the Upper District, that General Argos will not give the rich the preferential treatment they desire, but rather the same treatment as everyone else. _Work. Contribute. Give us what you have that we can use to survive. Damn your antique furniture- those chairs are going to be fashioned into the parts of new T poles. We’re housing soldiers here, because they need to be able to reach the wall there quickly. If you won’t work, we’ll put you on the wall to fight._

Every man, woman and child in Fandelose that is able to contribute does. 

Except one.

***

The first hot day of spring. The ground has finally dried out, and sprouts of grass have begun trying to repopulate the killing field outside of Fandelose. They are doomed to be torn up beneath the churning wheels of the towers, the rush of booted feet. The roar of the renewed assault. The stink of sweat. The catapults bouncing, almost ripping their moorings free of the ground, as they hurl huge masses of stone into the oncoming towers. The archers on the wall fire wave of wave of arrows at them, killing the exposed orcs and hobgoblins. 

Mixed rabble rushes towards the wall again, and peasants pick up their T poles. Blood, burning oil, the crash of arrow on shield, the screams of the injured and dying. Total war. 

Tower after tower falls, battered to pieces by the siege weapons. The scorpions hurl stones at the gates again, and there aren’t enough catapults to assault them too without letting the towers reach the walls. The outer gate cracks and bends, but does not break- not yet. 

Cursing as the reports reach him, Kratos turns his engines on the enemy scorpions, letting the towers creep forward. _It doesn’t matter if we stop the siege towers if the gates fall,_ he thinks to himself. But now half of the scorpions are focusing on the catapults, and a lucky shot hurls a large, oblong stone directly into one, smashing it to pieces and pulverizing two men. Kratos reels back as shrapnel smashes into his breastplate, then regains his bearings. 

“Shoot those damn things! Destroy them!” he shouts. 

One by one, the scorpions are annihilated. But before he can turn his engines back on the siege towers, one of them reaches the outer wall. A ramp slams down, bridging the gap between tower and wall, and a wave or berserk orcs rushes forward.

Iggy is there, and he meets them with a _fireball,_ slaying many of the attackers outright. But not all. More pour forward, to be met by a hedge of pikemen that rushes forward, bristling like a porcupine. Orcs and goblins scream as they are impaled or hurled from the wall to die on the bodies surrounding the wall. 

The tower is pelted by withering fire from Fandelose’s archers. Orcs pour out of it, only to fall, arrows in their vitals. The wounded are pushed down, trampled, finished by the pikemen when possible. 

But more of the peasants and the pikemen are falling, now, victims of the besiegers in the tower plus the rain of arrows that is coming more heavily from below. A mass of goblins and kobolds on a ladder manage to fight their way to the top and spill out onto the parapets. The pikemen in the area rush forward, but the goblins hold long enough for one of the orcish priests to attain the wall. More hobgoblin warriors pour up to fill the gap in the kobold and goblin line made by the pikemen, and then they are pushing towards the tower and the area around it. 

Iggy blasts them with spells, but the hobgoblins are clearly more elite soldiers than have previously reached the walls. More scorpion attacks smash into the troops atop the wall not far away, smashing merlons to bits. A wide chunk of parapet cracks and slides away, crushing lizard folk and goblins below it as it does but taking half a dozen soldiers to their doom. 

The Imperial soldiers form up on Heimall, Loridell and Torinn, while Ligir retreats through the line and pulls out his sunpowder pistol. The hobgoblins form a wedge before the orc and then march forward, hacking peasants down as they come on towards the pike formation. They roar as they reach the pikes, charging forward. Several of the hobgoblins are caught in the bristling hedge, but others slip through, or the long weapons turn from their armor. They begin hacking into the defenders. 

Torinn is there, his spiked chain ablaze with the power of Lester as he holds the line. Heimall, Loridell and Iggy back him up, and after a moment wherein their morale looks about to break, the pikemen steel themselves and force their way forward. Torinn spits a blast of electric energy into the midst of the soldiers. 

With a roar, the pikemen attack. 

The hobgoblins are thrown back. The orcish cleric’s god cannot protect him from the wrath of Lester’s priest. The remaining siege towers are obliterated by the Fandelosian engines, and the scorpions forced to attempt to withdraw. They fail, and are reduced to broken slats and pieces of rope by the catapults. 

“The day is ours!” proclaims Heimall to the soldiers. They cheer. 

“But that one was closer,” Loridell gasps as the attackers withdraw for the day, harried by a sortie from the sally port on the city’s west side.

“I’ll be damned,” mutters Iggy. 

“Huh?” Then Loridell notices that the soldiers are chanting a word, rising in volume as more and more of them pick it up.

_Dragon. Dragon. DRAGON. DRAGON. DRAGON..._

They have hoisted Torinn on their soldiers and are carrying him, hollering wildly in victory.

“Looks like someone got himself a new nickname,” Loridell says wryly. 

“It also looks like the soldiers now have a lucky charm,” Ligir replies. 

_*Next Time:*_ The siege continues!


----------



## the Jester

Mathew_Freeman said:


> Huge update, thank you!
> 
> What sort of mechanics were you using to run such large scale battles, as I assume that you're not going to lay out several hundred miniatures on a map?!




Here's a link to the thread that I discussed the mechanics on. They evolved as we played, too, and certain things worked or didn't.


----------



## Mathew_Freeman

the Jester said:


> Here's a link to the thread that I discussed the mechanics on. They evolved as we played, too, and certain things worked or didn't.




Thanks for that.

That latest update is a monster! Fantastic stuff, and I'm really enjoying how you're fitting in the roleplaying stuff with the combat. I can totally understand how your players feel genuinely involved in the game, without having to spend hours rolling dice.


----------



## the Jester

Outside of the walls of Fandelose, the Six-Fingered Hand has erected a great field of poles, from which dangle living but eviscerated people. Their moans of torment do not reach the wall unless the wind is with them; if they were that close, the archers of Fandelose could put them out of their misery. 

Periodically, amongst the various things that the Hand’s siege engines hurl, there will be rotting corpses, full of disease- an attempt to crush the spirit of the city and force its capitulation. But between Torinn and Yabin, the city’s ritualist, any outbreaks are swiftly brought under control.

Month after month, the defenders hold. The rice fields on the plateau that was once covered by the estates of the aristocracy serve their purpose admirably. The people of Fandelose eat, and though they are cut off from the outside, the frequency of Hand attacks tapers off as their tactics switch to an attempt to starve them out.

The siege moves into its third year. By mid-winter, it seems that the besiegers are suffering more deprivation than are the besieged. Between the rice fields and diverted mountain runoff water, Fandelose is well-equipped for its people to eat and drink- and, if their diet might not have the variety to which the citizens were previously accustomed, at least their bellies are full.

A surreal sort of sense of the everyday has evolved. The siege almost feels normal. Everyone knows there is extreme danger at every moment, yet the defenders have so far been so adroit in their defense that they have taken few losses- and inflicted thousands of wounded and dead on the horde of the Six-Fingered Hand. Such success lulls the citizens into a sense of inevitable victory. Between General Argos and his officers, many people think, the war is practically won.

The passage of years necessitates that life go on. Babies are born, old men and women die (and not from arrow or sword). Men woo their would-be ladies.

Vann-La finds herself the unexpected subject of such attention, but it’s only logical. He is a Kree, and she hasn’t seen another of her type in... well, in years. Lar-Gonn is one of the sergeants in the company she commanded at the very beginning, outside of the walls. He writes her Elven poetry and brings her gifts both subtle and attractive.

Slowly, over the last couple of years, the two of them have been circling each other, courting. They have kissed, but nothing else, for an Elven courtship is a slow, languid and- ultimately, at its consummation- torrid affair. But slowly, slowly, they dance the Elven dance, circling and swaying in and out of each others’ reach.

The best gift? He taught her the secret techniques of the Kree battle dance.*

***

For bravery, and for saving the lives of many of his men, Torinn is awarded with both a Copper Star and a Scarlet Heart. Furthermore, he is promoted to Major. 

“I’m the ranking officer of us, now!” he crows to his friends later. 

“Great,” mutters Ligir. 

“You’ve got a nickname, too,” Loridell says. “The Dragon.”

“Yeah, that’s really gotten around among the men,” agrees Kratos. “I’ve heard a lot of soldiers that don’t know you refer to you as ‘the Dragon’, as well.”

The cleric looks bemused. “All right. The Dragon. I can live with that.”

“There’s something else, too,” Heimall adds. “Come on.” 

He walks them to a courtyard, where a half-finished, life-sized marble statue of Torinn sits. “Commissioned,” he states, “by some of those same soldiers.” He claps Torinn on the arm.

_Wow,_ thinks the dragonborn. _I wonder if this is how Lester felt in his early days, when he was just a mortal adventurer. Was there some group that he helped save that built the first statue of him, that recognized the spark of his divinity?_ He holds his gaze on the statue, beaming. _The only dragonborn in the city, and I’m a local hero already!_ 

Of course, “already” is after three years of siege. 

***

The dead of night. Sound asleep, taking some much-needed rest, deep in his dreamscape. 

A sudden shaking of the shoulder, and Kratos comes awake.

“Sir!” the messenger is saying. “Colonel Jaxe needs you, immediately!”

The warlord scrambles up from his bed with a grunt. “I’ll be there momentarily,” he says groggily, and begins pulling his uniform on. A glance to the window- “What time is it?”

“About two past midnight, sir.”

Another grunt as he pulls his boots on, then, “Lead on.”

Kratos follows the lad, who cannot be more than eleven, and swiftly they come to Colonel Jaxe’s office. Kratos cocks an eyebrow when he enters, for several of his friends are also present, clearly dragged out of bed. Vann-La, Torinn, Heimall and Ligir all nod their greetings, as does Colonel Jaxe. A young corporal who doesn’t quite fill his uniform is in the room as well. 

”I’ll get right to it,” the colonel says without preamble. “They have miners and sappers hard at work, digging down below the city to try to undermine the walls. We have countermined them, and our tunnel will be meeting theirs before long. I need you to go in there are kill them, then collapse their tunnel so they can’t continue to use it. It’s a tunnel- it’s not really suited for a large group. We want a quick strike so that we can collapse their tunnel before they can summon reinforcements. You’ll have an engineer, Corporal Lonny, with you.” Jaxe gestures at the other young man present.

“How do you know where they are?” Vann-La asks. 

Colonel Jaxe allows himself a small smile. “Fandelose is home to the high priest of a god named Hamel. The high priest and Yabin, the city’s ritualist, have worked together to develop certain ritual prayers to Hamel that tie the High Civilizer into the city. He sensed the disturbance coming through the earth.”

“All right,” Heimall says. “It sounds as though time is of the essence. Let’s go.”

They troop out, Lonny in the lead. Torinn is somewhat discomfited to note that the lad is obviously nervous around the party; clearly, their exploits in the defense of the city have made them all larger than life figures.

“Listen,” says Ligir, “when the bad guys show up, just stay behind us and shoot your crossbow.”

“Well- I don’t have one, you see.”

“Oh, what do you have?”

“A dagger. I’m not really supposed to fight. I’m here to help with the engineering.”

“Okay, well, you just stay back, but if an enemy comes near, try to stab it.”

“All right.”

“Well, except for me. Stay in front of me, but behind them.”

“Why-“

“Because I’m the wizard,” Iggy explains. 

That doesn’t really help bring Lonny’s view of the party back down to earth.

***

The countermine starts in a basement and moves southeast, first descending to a depth of around 16’ and then leveling off. The tunnel is wide enough for three to walk abreast and well-braced. “This is some good engineering,” Heimall remarks. “Did you help do this, Lonny?”

He shakes his head. “No, I’m pretty new.”

They reach the end of the countermine and can hear the sounds of picks on the far side of the end wall. The party prepares to attack when the sappers bust through- and, moments later, they do. The wall has been prepared to allow a large chunk to shatter free at once, so when the Hand’s kobolds break through, they are exposed by the crumbling rocks.

Our heroes take immediate advantage, and a brief but brutal battle ensues. The kobold leaders have some sort of trap-springing powers, and once the party rushes into the tunnel that they have been digging, they find that it is full of areas rigged to collapse. The kobolds take advantage of this and cause a couple of minor collapses that damage Vann-La and Kratos, but the party swiftly slays the sappers. A couple of them flee and get away, but that’s okay, as Heimall points out. After all, their mission is to collapse the tunnel- and now they can. They look the area over for any traps or other hidden surprises while Lonny examines the system of ropes and rigging that are preparing the tunnel for collapse. The others head forward, hoping to draw some enemy troops in while Lonny works. Indeed, Hand reinforcements _are_ on their way, in much greater number than the party had expected- their are several dozen of them. 

Quickly, our heroes withdraw and trigger the collapse. Not far behind them, dozens of Six-Fingered Hand troops find themselves suddenly being crushed under stone and soil. Those not killed instantly struggle, but they are buried beneath tons of earth. They cannot move. Crushed, suffocating, all of them die.

On the surface, the party waits for a while to ensure nothing makes it through. Indeed, all is quiet. 

“Well,” says Vann-La, “I guess we should report in.” 

“Then I’m going back to bed,” grumbles Kratos.

_*Next Time:*_ Ogres at the gates!


*This is a 9th level daily fighter power attributed to the elven culture from which Vann-La comes. :

*Kree Battle Dance-- Fighter Attack 9* 
_You attack two enemies, drawing them in to you._
*Daily; Martial*
*Standard Action; Melee* weapon
*Primary Target:* One creature.
*Primary Attack:* Strength vs. AC.
*Hit:* 2 [W] + Strength modifier damage. Shift 1 and make a secondary attack.
*Secondary Target:* One creature other than primary target.
*Secondary Attack:* Strength vs. AC.
*Hit:* 2 [W] + Strength modifier damage.
*Effect:* The primary target is pulled adjacent to you.


----------



## the Jester

“So how much back pay you figure we’re owed?”

The second soldier stops shoveling rice into his mouth and peers from bloodshot eyes at the first. They are in one of the city’s mess halls, where food is provided for the soldiers. Several dozen men and women are scattered amongst the tables, chowing down on the rice and chicken available. After a few moments, the soldier grunts, “Don’t have my sums,” and keeps eating.

“Just sayin’,” the first soldier sighs. “I ain’t seen a copper since this all started.”

A shrug. “Nobody else has either.” _Nom nom nom._

The first soldier sighs again, puts down his battered tin bowl and stares off into space. “Wasn’t like this in the old days,” he says.

“Would you shut up? I’m tryin’ to eat.” 

“Yeah, well, I’m just sayin’. We could stand to see a little pay. It’s been four years.”

“Listen, you idiot, you’re alive. Once we get outta this mess, I’m sure the general will make everything right. He always does. Now would ya shut up and let me eat?”

“I’m just sayin’, is all.”

***

With the spring comes a renewed offensive. Massive waves of Hand troops come rushing forward, more scorpions lobbing stones, more rabble trying to scale the walls. Again the Imperial Pikemen and the now-veteran peasants of Fandelose push back ladder after ladder. Pikes pry goblins from the blood-slick walls, and the superior range of the Imperial archers keeps the Six-Fingered Hand’s goblin archers under withering fire, preventing them from playing a decisive role in the battle. 

Siege towers rumble forward again, but again the artillery of the city pummels them badly. Before they can reach the walls, most of them are destroyed. The catapults fire on the enemy scorpions again, as well, once more demonstrating their superiority.

Atop the inner wall, General Argos watches impassively. His adjutant, Colonel Jaxe, predicts, “We will throw them back again with minimal losses.”

“Perhaps,” Argos says brusquely. 

“You suspect this attack has more to it?”

“So far,” the general replies, “our enemy has shown a great willingness to sacrifice many of his troops against us. He knows that he cannot take us with the tactics that he has employed so far. So why is he doing it again? He does not have as many towers as last time, either. I cannot believe that Heshwat the Eviscerator is a fool; therefore, there _must be_ more to this attack. Ahh, there we are.”

Jaxe turns and follows the general’s gaze. On the field of battle, a huge mantlet is moving forward, carried by ogres. Beneath it, they have a huge ram.

“He has enough towers,” General Argos nods, “that we cannot focus on the ram. Colonel, ready men and oil in the gatehouse. I fear that they will take the outer gates.”

From his position, it is easy for Argos to see the Dragon fighting on the outer wall, bellowing directions at his men, striking down a group of hobgoblins that attains the wall and then grabbing their scaling ladder and pulling it up rather than pushing it down. _He’s clever,_ thinks Argos. _An excellent example to our other officers. He is such a colorful figure that the men couldn’t help but focus on him._

On the outer wall, the defenders continue stabbing at the enemy as they rise up the walls. Others fire crossbows or pour pots of boiling oil on concentrations of the foe below. Already there are several fires on the field, corpses and gear burning alongside the few scraggly bits of grass and brush that have started growing since the last major battle. Heimall gives a warning cry, pointing out the oncoming mantlet, and the archers change their focus, starting to fire into it. But the top of the mantlet is covered in thick hides soaked through with water. Arrows stick in it uselessly; those that are aflame sputter and go out, failing to ignite anything. Only the arms and legs of the ogres carrying the great shield are vulnerable. 

“Shoot their hands and arms!” cries Loridell. 

Ogres roar as their hands and arms begin to suffer beneath the onslaught of missiles, but only so many men can fire upon them- for another wedge of elite hobgoblins has attained the wall. Several fan out, firing crossbows to keep the Imperial soldiers at bay, giving their fellows more time to scale up to the top. 

Heimall and Torinn lead the assault against them with a roar, leading a small squad of pikemen in a heedless charge forward, and they manage to throw the enemy back down the wall. As the last of them fall over the edge, the Dragon drops his spiked chain and grabs the scaling ladder. Two of his men scurry to help him draw it up.

Then the entire section of wall shakes as the ogre-wielded ram slams into the outermost of Fandelose’s triple gates. Several men are cast from their feet, crying out in surprise. Then a wave of arrows from the rabble closest to the wall flies overhead, arcing back down. A peasant screams as an arrow takes him in the eye, whirling about like a dancer for a few seconds before falling in a spreading pool of blood. Another arrow sinks deep into a pikeman’s thigh, whistling past the man in front of him. Still more strike home as the defenders scramble for the cover of the merlons.

On the ground below, one of the ogres holding the mantlet collapses from blood loss, but another- hidden under the protective shield- takes his place. Still others swing the ram again, and the gate bends inward with the impact. Again, the nearby sections of wall shudder. Chunks of masonry fly free from the area immediately surrounding the gate and a spiderweb of cracks suddenly runs along the stone at the edge of the bronze gate. The ogres draw the ram back and swing it again.

*BOOM!* 

***

“You got much left?” Ligir gasps to Hkatha. 

The tiefling shakes his head. “I need to rest before I have much left.”

Captain Ligir nods. “Then let’s try this!” He plucks a bead from his necklace and hurls it down at the mantlet. When it hits, it explodes into a burst of orange flames. The mantlet helps protect the ogres, but all of them are singed by it. 

“That gate won’t hold much longer,” Vann-La shouts grimly. “We need to get some men down there!”

“Once they’re through the first gate, they have the gatehouse above them and men in between the outer and middle walls,” Heimall replies. “Hopefully there’s going to be hell to pay for them.”

The wall shudders again as the ram impacts on the gate once more, shooting several bolts out of the stone with the impact. Large pieces of rock and mortar crash down around the ogres, several bouncing from the mantlet. The gate still hangs, but only barely. More goblin archers are inching forward.

A catapult shot smashes down, pulverizing several of them before they can loose another arrow.

*BOOM!!*

Finally, the outer gate falls. 

With a roar, the ogres rush in, dozens on kobolds and goblins on their heels. 

“Uh-oh,” Vann-La says.

But the ogres find more than they bargained for beyond the gate. 20’ ahead is a second gate, even stronger than the first. As they start to rush towards it, the big brutes find themselves slipping, unable to maintain their balance. 

The rush of rabble following them immediately finds themselves faced by the same problem, and in a moment they are careening off of each other, unable to keep their feet. 

The ground is covered in grease. 

From each side, pikes suddenly sprout from arrow slits, stabbing out viciously at the invaders. After only a few seconds, just enough to cause total chaos amongst the Six-Fingered Hand troops slipping and sliding on the slick floor, the pikes withdraw.

From murder holes in the ceiling, flaming oil pours down, all over goblins, ogres and kobolds. They scream in pain and panic, and then the grease ignites, and what was total chaos becomes complete and utter pandemonium. The hapless invaders are not able to retreat until it is too late due to the press of troops behind them, pushing forward.

The pikes stab out again, and this time they keep stabbing as more and more rabble are pushed into the killing zone. Now arrows are being fired from above, from most of the murder holes (though two of them have flames from slicks of oil that block their use by the defenders, and one has actually had a terrible mishap that is even now resulting in the death of three of the defenders by fire).

***

Atop the inner wall, a messenger hands a scroll to the general. He reads it, then grunts. “We have turned this to our advantage. They cannot push through the gates, and in fact the bodies of the dead are blocking their access to the middle gate. But the press is so great that more and more of them are being forced in to die at the pikes of the Fourth Legion.”

After several hard-fought hours, the Hand forces that have managed to ascend to the outermost wall are finally thrown back. Beneath the gatehouse, in between the first and second gate, the corpses of the Hand dead fill the area almost to the floor of the gatehouse.

Once more, the Six-Fingered Hand falls back.

***

Wounds are bound. Those too seriously injured to fight are removed to various sites set up for chirurgeons to work. Even as exhausted as he is, Torinn makes a point of spending some time spreading Lester’s healing love around. 

_This was the mostly costly of their attacks yet,_ thinks General Argos. _They are growing desperate. If they can launch a few more attacks like that, we will lose too many men and women. They replace their numbers so quickly compared to us! We must be careful to fight defensively, and we must make the survival of our warriors of paramount importance.  

But our position is untenable in the long term. We can hold them for a time- for a long time, obviously- but we cannot _win_ simply by holding them at bay. We will be like a cliff facing the sea- it will wear us down over time, slowly, unless the ocean itself recedes. 

No, we must strike back. But we cannot do it yet- not until the warforged have paved the way. And it will take time- time that I must buy Fandelose. We must hold on until NC17 and his warforged have finished with their preparations. To move before then would be foolish, and would only result in our destruction._

The general stares, brooding, at the seething army of humanoids encamped not far from the walls. 

***

No-one can deny that Kratos is a hero now. In the middle of the fourth year of the siege, he marries Livia, with no objections from either her family or her lady. 

“I can provide for your family,” he tells his new wife. “_Our_ family.”

The marriage comes just in time, for Livia is with child.

***

In addition to all of his military duties- which, surprisingly, his aristocratic origin does not lessen at all- Hkatha must still deal with the affairs of his estate, administrating much more directly than he would prefer. Since he fell deeply into debt to daVoi’s faction- especially that traitor, Millbury- he has had something of a dearth of servants. Only one man remains in service, an old butler who worked for Hkatha’s father up until his tragic and untimely death by fire several years past. The butler, Jeve, has nowhere else to go, no friends and no kin, so he has stayed on and tended a basic garden to feed himself when the master is away.

Now Jeve walks in with a look of distaste on his face. “Sir,” he says, “one of your... acquaintances is here. A fellow named Vyth.” The butler sniffs disdainfully. 

_Vyth?_ Hkatha is surprised. He has not heard from the fellow since almost a year before the siege began. Vyth is a dealer in exotic narcotics and similar items. Hkatha has done business with him on several occasions in the past; _Expensive but reliable,_ he thinks. Aloud, he says, “Show him in.”

With another disapproving sniff, Jeve obeys.

Vyth is a wiry balding man whose face shows the deep lines and old pock marks of heavy addiction. His eyes dart around constantly, as if he doesn’t trust anything to be as it appears. He greets Hkatha like an old friend- which is surely an exaggeration- and paces around while he talks. 

“It seems like it’s only a matter of time, you know,” he says. “Until they take the city, I mean. And, well- I don’t want to be here when it happens.” He faces Hkatha. “Look, I know this might be a sensitive subject- but I believe the stories.”

“The stories?”

“About your family.” Vyth hesitates, then plunges ahead. “They say that the Ilmixie line has had terrible dealings with... things. From other worlds. That you all tend to sorcery and... well, I just think that you can help me escape before the city falls.”

Hkatha studies Vyth for a moment, a frown slowly creeping on his face. “Why are you so sure that they’ll take the city, Vyth? We’ve held out so far. Why are you concerned now, when you haven’t come to see me once before this?”

Vyth gulps. “Nothing, I swear,” he says, pacing again. “Look... I just have a feeling. Maybe treachery from within...”

Hkatha rises, his eyes flaring red with menace. “What do you know, Vyth?” he demands softly. 

Vyth stiffens. “I... all right, a guy approached me about betraying the city from within shortly before the siege began. I said no, of course- but if he talked to me, he must have talked to other people too, right? So someone must have said yes.”

“Who was it?”

“One of the daVoi lackeys. Millbury.”

Hkatha scowls. His brows draw together in anger and he lets out a growl. “Don’t worry, Vyth,” he snarls, “the city isn’t going to fall. And I _will_ help take care of you. But keep your eyes open for anything, any of Millbury’s contacts, _anything,_ and you let me know immediately if you see anything.”

“I will.”

“For now, get out of here. You’ll be safe enough in the city, so long as you stay on my good side.”

“All right.”

After his old acquaintance leaves, Hkatha broods for a long time.

_*Next Time:*_ A midnight attack on the rice fields!


----------



## the Jester

On the walls, all is quiet. The multitude of fires of the Six-Fingered Hand horde glimmer redly in the night. “It’s hard to believe that it has been five years,” one of the guards mutters to another. 

The older man on duty with him nods. “I know what you mean. And we’re still holding.”

“Yeah- but I don’t think that we’ll ever be free again.”

The veteran studies the young man. “How old are you, kid?”

“Nineteen. What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Just this.” The veteran pulls an onion out of his pouch and starts peeling the skin. “I’ve been under General Argos’ command for a long time, and I’ll tell you what: he never gives up. Never. And he always comes up with an answer. He won’t let no one hurry him, either- he takes his time, he’s careful. But he’ll spring real fast when the time is right.” The soldier takes a bite out of his onion. “We’ll be free again, all right. Ol’ Argos has something up his sleeve. He’s just waiting for the right moment.”

“Seems like it’ll never come,” the younger man grumbles. 

“Haw! That’s rich. No, I tell you, kid, Argos won’t make a move until the time is right. But when he does, he’ll break this stranglehold, and he’ll cut all six fingers off of that mean ol’ hand.”

***

The upper part of the city, built on a series of low hills, has been converted from the aristocracy’s holdings to rice fields, flooded by a diverted river. The triple walls of Fandelose are a mere single wall in the uppermost portion of the city, but they are nearly unassailable due to the rugged mountain paths required to reach them. General Argos has a constant watch in place, but there has not been a serious attempt to take the area since very early in the siege. Even so, the watchers positioned here are not careless. Far from it; they still spy Six-Fingered Hand scouts in the mountains quite frequently, and there are even occasional units of skirmishers that try to shoot down soldiers on the walls. 

Despite this, however, in the deepest part of the night, a troop of goblins manages to attain the wall in secret, and- with remarkable speed, and using the aid of a ram wielded by the only two ogres in the attacking force- open a breach in the wall. 

By then the alarm has been sounded, and our heroes are on their way, gathering a ragged group of responders as they go. But the goblins- nearly a thousand, split evenly between worg-riders and archers- have enough time to start putting the peasants living on the edge of the rice field to the sword. Those that try to flee find themselves the target of a massed hail of arrows. The screams of the wounded and the dying echo in the night. More of the goblins rampage into the fields of precious rice, some hurling lit torches, some merely trampling.

By the time Fandelose’s counter reaches the Upper District, it is almost too late. The bodies of slain citizens litter the field. The broken stalks of crushed rice are strewn about the fields. Cottages are burning. The air is filled with the smell of smoke and the yelling of goblins.

_Four companies of pikemen and four companies of archers,_ thinks Vann-La. _We’re outnumbered pretty badly here. But even if we have to die to stop them, we have to save the rice. Without our food supply, we’re doomed!_ “Forward!” she roars to her troops. 

The pikemen make a desperate rush forward into the fields themselves, where the worg-riders are rampaging. They quickly revise their tactics, though, forming up to meet the oncoming Imperial troops. The archers begin pelting them from the sides. 

Again, the Imperial Archers prove their worth. Their superior range forces the goblin archers to first shift their attention from the beleaguered pikemen- already being hammered into by the goblin cavalry- and then to fall back as the Imperial Archers keep firing rhythmic waves of arrows. 

All along the lines, the pikemen fight bravely. Their reach gives them a deadly edge, but the goblins’ worgs are fierce and ruthless. Though pierced again and again, they fight with deadly power. Slowly, the line of pikemen begins to crumple. 

_I know there are reinforcements on the way,_ thinks Heimall desperately. _If only we can hold out long enough!_ 

The Imperial Archers turn their focus again, unleashing a withering barrage at the worg-riders. The pikemen manage to fall back and form another ragged line.

At the edge of the plateau, where the road leads down into the rest of the city, comes a sound: hundreds of boots marching in unison. _Reinforcements,_ thinks Torinn. _We’ve done it! We’ve held out!_

The enemy redoubles their effort to hurl back the advance defenders, to buy enough time to finish their work. “Let’s get ‘em, boys!” roars Kratos. “You like to eat, right!”

The pikemen surge forward.

***

“How bad is it?” asks Torinn.

”It could be worse,” the messenger answers. “We’re still counting the bodies, but we probably have enough farmers left to manage the harvest, if only barely; and though they damaged the crops, there is enough live rice left that, with some rationing, we should be able to make through the next winter.”

“Thank you,” the dragonborn mutters, and thinks, _Another winter. How much longer can this go on? I would have thought that they would have given up by now! But no, this Heshwat the Eviscerator- he won’t let Fandelose get away. He will fight to the end. Somehow, we have to strike back!_

***

“I understand that you are within your rights to maintain your position as long as the siege lasts, general,” says Bridget Willow, “but I hope you agree with me that once it is over, it is time to restore civilian rule.”

The general studies her. “Once the time has come, I will indeed relinquish my control of Fandelose, Councilor Willow. You need have no fear of my becoming a tyrant.”

“I notice, however,” she replies after a moment, “that you do not seem to acknowledge that the end of the siege will be that time.”

“Councilor Willow, I assure you that at the first possible moment I will relinquish control of this city. But the crisis may last beyond the siege. This is not the only army of the Hand, you know, Councilor.”

“Yet, if they are not here, they do not present an imminent threat-“

“Yes, Councilor Willow, they do.” General Argos gives her a hard look. “I promise you that my motivation is only the safety of your city and people. Surely, you can understand that I must have a free hand to act during this period. Look at how paralyzed the city was before I invoked martial law.”

“Paralyzed, or free?”

General Argos sighs. “I trust my position is clear, Councilor Willow. Good day.”

“It is all too clear, Your Majesty.” With that caustic remark, Bridget Willow turns on her heel and stalks from General Argos’ office. Leaving him to stare at her wake.

***

Months tick by. Another winter rolls in, turning the churned ground around the great city to mud. The citizenry manages to repair the outer gate, though not with the same strength as it once had. The horde has seemingly grown sullen and stays well out of catapult range- but remains encamped. 

When the time to strike back finally arrives, the heroes are atop the walls, watching a major force mass for an assault, when a summons for them arrives. Hurrying off- for they know that their commander would not request that they leave the wall without good reason- they find Colonel Jaxe and about two dozen other senior officers for a staff meeting (including Knile Keflingorn, who is now a colonel himself). The staff meeting is conducted by Argos himself. 

He begins without preamble as soon as everyone is seated. “Gentlemen, ladies, thank you for being prompt. I have no doubt that you’re all eager to get back to the fight, so I’ll make this as quick as possible. 

“The Six-Fingered Hand has been hitting us hard here for five years, and we’ve had to be almost purely on the defensive. Their advantage in numbers is such that any kind of counterattack would have been prohibitively expensive for us. We’ve managed to maintain our supplies, hold the enemy at bay and keep our spirits relatively high. Now, at last, we have the opportunity to punch back.

“Most of you don’t know what the warforged have been doing for most of the time that this siege has been going on. They have been crucial to setting up our counterattack. The horde of the Hand is huge- the forces besieging us number around a million. That’s more than the entire population of Fandelose by almost fifteen to one. That numerical superiority is their greatest strength; we’ve all seen that the vast majority of them are rabble, and we can kill them ten to one or more when it comes down to soldier to soldier combat on the walls. But their elite troops are much more dangerous, and they have rabble to waste, and kobolds and goblins and orcs breed like rabbits. So they can afford the losses we’re dealing to them and have a new generation of troops ready to fight in only a few years. Some of the kobolds we’ve been fighting are only five years old, ladies and gentlemen. Five years, and they can replace half of their lost rabble.

“But that size has a great cost. They need immense amounts of forage. They aren’t squeamish about what they eat- we’ve all heard the stories about what happens to captured troops- and they are capable of living off of crops and such for quite some time. We’ve seen that they burn the towns and cities but spare the fields; that’s so they will have enough forage to keep going.

“Well, thanks to the warforged, that’s all changing. They have accomplished three chief things for us in the last year. First, they have established a secondary base from which they can strike, outside of Fandelose but only about twenty miles away. They are close enough to aid us when we’re in need, but able to operate independently. 

“Secondly, they have been destroying the fields and eliminating all the local food sources for the enemy. Yes, we all know what that means. Our people have nothing to eat and nowhere to go, and if they find anything, we are likely to destroy it. I know that this means terrible hardship for anyone who isn’t inside the walls of Fandelose, but it’s no worse than if we don’t do it. The Six-Fingered Hand is enslaving or eating everyone they find. We must stop them. The food that is out there might feed our people for a few weeks, but the horde’s scavengers will find it. I have judged that the cost to them is worth the cost to us, terrible as it is. We must stop them, no matter what the cost. We can rebuild- but only if we can break them. Otherwise, they will make us all extinct.

“The final thing that the warforged have accomplished by being such a thorn in the side of the horde, is to draw out their rear defense. It has become porous and overextended. From the right direction, with coordination with the warforged, we will cut the enemy’s supply lines and then destroy their command tent and assassinate their leadership.” Murmuring around the table draws a tight smile from Argos. “My plan is audacious, yes. Yet being timid will leave us stalemated until we are old men. We will sneak a small group of elite troops out of the city under the nose of the enemy; they will establish communication with the warforged and arrange a clever attack. The warforged will attack the baggage train and attempt to draw off the enemy’s defensive units. While they pursue the warforged, our troops will fall upon the baggage train and take what they can, destroying as much as possible of the rest. If we can cut off the enemy’s food supply, we will nearly have him. 

“The warforged and our troops must either evade or crush the enemy baggage guard troops. Then they will immediately move to perform the same maneuver against the guards of the command tents. They will press hard, and the warforged are willing to make significant sacrifices, in order to draw as many of the enemy guards into pursuing them as possible. And then an elite team of our greatest champions will storm the command tent, and attempt to slay the enemy leaders. With neither food nor leadership, the horde will collapse.”

Vann-La speaks up. “General, who do you have in mind for this mission?”

General Argos answers, “I think you know the answer to that without asking, Captain. You and your friends.”

“Excellent,” Vann-La answers with a wicked smile.

_*Next Time:*_ A complication or two- such as the Lost Legion!


----------



## the Jester

Current party roster- don't think I have done one of these in a while in this SH:

*Vann-La* - elf fighter 9 (multiclassed ranger)
*Hkatha Ilmixie* - tiefling wizard 8
*Cook* - dwarf rogue 7 (from the Far East)
*Torinn "the Dragon of Fandelose"* - dragonborn cleric of Lester 9 (multiclassed fighter)
*Kratos Aurion* - half-elf warlord 8 (multiclassed warlock)
*Ligir* - eladrin wizard 8
*Loridell* - half-elf paladin 7
*Heimall Henrickson* - human warlord 8


----------



## the Jester

Drums beat. Around Fandelose, virtually encircling the city, the fires of the Six-Fingered Hand glare like bloodshot eyes in the night. 

“Next attack is gonna be ugly,” grunts one of the sentries atop the wall. 

“You say that every time,” his companion on the battlements sighs. She shakes her head. “We can hold ‘em forever if we need to, so long as we keep the General alive.” 

“Yeah, but holding them off forever is no good.” The soldier hawks up a massive blob of phlegm and spits it over the edge of the wall. “I mean, I’d like to do something else with my life. Maybe have a family, settle down, get back into tanning- I used to be a tanner, did you know that?”

The other sentry heaves another sigh. “No, I don’t really listen when you say the same things night after night.”

Stung by her rebuke, the first sentry falls silent, staring out into the night for signs of movement. _Well, that’s what I get,_ he thinks. _Not like the old days, when my charm would win me a girl a week. But Cherm’s right- I do bitch about this all the time, now. And why not? It’s been years! This damned war, it seems like it’s never going to end.

I guess it’s like the General always says- _defense won’t win the war, but it will prevent you from losing a battle._ But how do we go on the offense? We have just enough people to hold out against their big attacks, when they come. We can’t spare a big enough force to take the field and try to engage them. My guess is, our best chance is to kill the enemy general. But he’s got to be surrounded by hundreds, maybe thousands of guards. No, no way I can see it that this ends good for us. No way at all. I guess the best we can hope for is to stay alive in the middle of the squeeze until- if- the enemy runs out of supplies._

“What really worries me,” Cherm says suddenly, “is that the Hand army has been encamped for almost six years now. So why hasn’t the Empire struck back?” Her voice cracks. “Is Fandelose all that’s left?”

***

Just after dark. The upper part of the city- now rice fields, once the district of the wealthy- is walled and shielded by the steep slopes of the mountains above Fandelose. It is the hardest part of the city for the enemy to assault, the easiest to defend. With the exception of a few desultory attacks, some siege engine fire and the goblin raid on the rice fields, it has been uncontested throughout the years of siege. It is from here that our heroes- newly outfitted with magical gear constructed by the city’s ritualist, Yabin*- lead their small groups of skirmishers, twenty each, over the wall (except, of course, for Cook, who is not technically a member of the army at all, yet is accompanying them ostensibly as a cook). Quietly, with no light and as little noise as possible, the group disappears into the mountains, heading towards a rendezvous with the warforged two days hence. 

They creep along, spread out a fair amount. At one point, a goblin soldier spies Cook, but before he can raise an alarm the dwarf sinks a shuriken into his throat. 

Otherwise, things proceed as planned. The skirmishers drift quietly through the mountains, moving undetected until they are outside of the area of encirclement of the Six-Fingered Hand. Then, as dawn breaks, they meet up and take shelter in a cave which they screen with brush. Sentries are posted, and the group gets a bit of shut-eye. 

In the late afternoon, as the officers (our heroes) are discussing when to break cover, a scout hurries up. “Sirs!” he exclaims.

“What is it, soldier?” asks Captain Ligir. “Have you spotted the warforged?”

“No, sir. We have encountered a scout who claims to be from another Imperial legion in the area!”

“What?” exclaims Captain Vann-La.

“Take us to him,” Major Torinn demands, “immediately!”

***

The scout, Hyracuse, claims to be a member of a lost unit that was destroyed. However, it is clear that he is hiding something. He is evasive and won’t name the unit that he is with. Still, he does seem to hate the Six-Fingered Hand and, while wary, is friendly and seems eager to slay goblins and kobolds himself. He asks the party for their story. 

Captain Heimall replies, “We are from Fandelose, which still stands, but is under siege by the Six-Fingered Hand. We intend to break that siege- but I think we had best wait to say more until we know more of who you are.”

Hyracuse glances around at the hard-looking soldiers everywhere, scarred from years of fighting on the walls. He nods. “Why don’t you follow me, and I’ll take you to them. If you really are fighting the good fight, my commander will be overjoyed to help in any way that he can.”

Warily, our heroes agree, and they follow Hyracuse to a hidden vale. Indeed, his words prove to be true; there is a tattered legion hidden in the valley. There are around 800 men in the camp- a huge number of soldiers, compared to the less-than-200 skirmishers that Fandelose has dispatched. “We call ourselves the Lost Legion, now,” the scout says sadly, but will not say more.

Captain Heimall, however, has already seen enough to draw his conclusions. _The standards, the insignia on the uniforms... I know what legion this is. It has some men mixed in from other legions, no doubt survivors that they took in- but it is unmistakable. And now they call themselves the Lost Legion._ A cold dread settles into Heimall’s chest cavity. _What has happened to them?_

The party is shown to the command tent of the leader of the Lost Legion. Runners have already announced their arrival, and they are shown in immediately. An older man, tall, with skin like leather and dark eyes set beneath a thin brow, stands awaiting them. As they walk in, a staggering realization hits the party.

_Grand Marshall Prieve. _The_ Grand Marshall of the Imperial Army. The head of the Imperial Army. He outranks everyone except the Emperor himself in matters military._

Everyone immediately salutes. 

Grand Marshall Prieve returns their salute. He is ramrod-straight, his spine like iron. “Gentlemen, ladies,” he nods to them. “Welcome to our encampment. It seems that you have around 150 soldiers in your group, yes? You will be a welcome addition to our forces. Now, report. Where are you from? Who commands you? What is your status?”

“Sir,” replies Captain Vann-La, “we are troops from the nearby city of Fandelose, under General Argos. Fandelose still holds, but remains besieged. We are on a mission to attack their supply train, to draw off the guards from the commanders’ tent, and then assassinate Heshwat the Eviscerator and his ranking officers.” Carefully, she omits mention of the warforged. _He wants to add us to his command,_ she thinks. _We can’t allow that to happen. And if we can convince him to back us in our mission, it might just make it significantly easier. No, best to leave out all mention of the warforged until the last minute. Besides, I don’t think Grand Marshall Prieve would like their answer when he tried to put them under his command._ 

At Argos’ name, the Grand Marshall’s eyes widen and he seems to stand even more fiercely straight. “Argos, eh?” There is no disguising the satisfaction in his voice. Clearly, General Argos is a name that Prieve knows- and respects. It is writ as plain as day on his features: _There is no other general that I would rather have at my side for this terrible doomed war._

“With all due respect, sir,” Captain Heimall speaks up, “what about you? Why are you calling this the Lost Legion now? Isn’t,” he hesitates for a moment, “isn’t this the Sun Legion?

“The Emperor’s own?

“And if it is, sir- where is the Emperor?”

Grand Marshall Prieve draws in a deep breath. “Emperor Panthos died in battle just about two months ago. Yes, captain, we were the Sun Legion, but we failed. We are lost, now. We guard the heir, but he is only three years old- far too young to be a viable ruler. He may never become the Emperor at all if he does not reach the age of majority.” 

“Sir, please- aid us,” says Hkatha. His voice is like silk. “We could use your help, and you would be able to strike back. Obviously you have not been inactive for the last five years; your legion is clearly not at full strength and you have obviously had to recruit from other groups of survivors. Clearly you haven’t given up. If you help us break the siege on Fandelose, you will have somewhere to rest, to re-equip. A base from which we can counterattack.”

Grand Marshall Prieve declares, “My legion has been playing a hiding game while looking for any sign of a place where they can either weather the storm or strike back, but so far without any luck. Now you tell me that the chance to make such a place is before me?” He slams his fist into the palm of his other hand. “Aye, we shall aid you!”

***

Over the next couple of days, the party convinces Grand Marshall Prieve to leave them under Argos’ command. Then they mention the warforged- which, it turns out, the Lost Legion has had under observation for several years but had not previously revealed themselves to. The party then establishes contact with the warforged, who are already aware of General Argos’ plan somehow. A lot of coordination and a couple of days later, they are ready to make their move. 

***

First the Lost Legion and the warforged successively draw off the majority of the baggage train’s guards, then the skirmishers move in and annihilate a great deal of the train itself, shooting them down with arrows. A few of them focus on destroying the token force of rabble and archers that are still present to defend the train, and in less than an hour, the attack is over, with the supply line cut and a huge reserve force of Hand troops setting off in pursuit. 

Including almost all of the forces surrounding the command tent. 

Carefully, the party sneaks forward. Now it is just eight of them- no more. Any more would be too obvious- it would be impossible to pass unseen through the pickets, even as diffused as they are with all of the forces that are pursuing the three groups that struck the baggage trains only half an hour apart each.

“There are still troops up beyond the tent, not too far ahead,” hisses Loridell. “We won’t have too long before there’s a major response.”

“We knew that already, though,” Torinn mutters back. “Doesn’t change anything.”

“Oi, this is a bad idea,” Cook groans to nobody in particular.

The pavilion tent up ahead is large, well-lit from within. Voices, some sounding arrogant, others whining, emanate from inside of it. Hkatha whispers a spell and fades from view as Vann-La moves up, drawing a dagger, and quietly cuts a long vertical slit in the wall of the tent. She peers through it- huddled on the floor beyond the slit are a bunch of exhausted, hungry-looking human slaves. She motions them to be quiet and stay low. 

Cook slips past her, silent and unseen in the shadows. He peers through the curtains into the pavilion’s main compartment. _There they are,_ he thinks. 

There they are indeed. Dominated by a growling, foul-tempered hobgoblin with a wicked-looking glaive strapped to him, the party sees a group that includes a goblin dressed in jewels and finery, a robe-wearing kobold drinking a glass of wine, an orcish axeman in plate armor that dangles with trophies- especially fingers, a savage-looking gnoll gnawing on a piece of human jerky and clutching a rod topped with a hyena skull, and five uniformed hobgoblin guards.  


Before he can chicken out, Cook hurls a shuriken at the kobold.

_*Next Time:*_ Our heroes in battle with Heshwat the Eviscerator, Morl the Goblin King, Vypp the Director of Kobolds, the Orcish Warlord Tursh and the Mouth of Yeenoghu!

*Due to many war encounters that yielded no treasure, I awarded each pc a major magic item before they started the “sneak out of the walls” bit, to wit:

Cook: A pair of flanker’s boots (AV 129).
Heimall: A flaming glaive +3 (PH 234).
Hkatha: A robe of defying storms +3 (AV 49).
Kratos: An ironskin belt (PH 253).
Loridell: A righteous greatsword +3 (AV 77).
Sta’Ligir: A necklace of fireballs +3 (AV 153).
Torinn: A torc of power preservation +3 (AV 154).
Vann-La: A pair of breach bracers (AV 116).


----------



## daysoftheking

*Holy...*

Wow. I found and read this ENTIRE thread today. And now you update!! 

Is there available information on your campaign world? I would really enjoy reading more about the background, house rules, and such about this.


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## Mathew_Freeman

Oh holy , this is going to be one hell of a fight! Can't wait to read the next update!


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## C_M2008

Damn Cliffhangers.

I echo the request for a backround/history/world thread though.


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## the Jester

Sooo... regarding more info on my campaign world, I don't have a specific thread on the state of affairs as of game present. My other story hour threads and my Plots & Places threads are the best places to go for bits and pieces. But I'm happy to answer (non-spoilerific) campaign questions here, as well.

If you go to Yahoo and navigate to the Cydra group, you can see a bunch of 3.x material that is now approximately 1700 years out of date. Also, I have a campaign wiki here, but it hasn't been updated at all since 4e came out.

The 4e era is an era of greater ignorance than in the past, so the pcs have yet to see a modern map of _any_ of the campaign world. Despite the thriving empire (now crushed?) that existed at the start of the campaign, the average citizen had become more insular, less traveled and significantly less educated than in the glory days of the 3e, and especially the early 2e, empire.


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## C_M2008

I need my fix man and if I don't get it........I'll,......I'lll......I'll patiently wait some more.

In all seriousness this is my favourite thread on ENworld and as long as there are more updates I'll be reading.


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## the Jester

The kobold spins around, ducking under the shuriken that Cook threw.

Too slow.

It tears a furrow along the kobold’s chin and cheek. The little dog-lizard-man gives a high-pitched yelp, and if they didn’t already know it, the enemy force would have been alerted.

But by then, Vann-La is already striding into the tent, her right hand gripped into a fist, her shield strapped to her other arm. 

The time for stealth has passed.

The gnoll, who is called the Mouth of Yeenoghu, lifts its skull-topped rod and pronounces a blasphemous word of power around its half-gnawed jerky. The skull’s eyes blaze, and a _demonic blast_ of fire shoots out at the Kree elf. She throws up her shield, and it catches the flames, deflecting them from her. Spatters of hot liquid fire that stinks of brimstone patter down around her feet, but she just keeps advancing. 

Heshwat the Eviscerator, hobgoblin general, whips out his deadly glaive and leaps to meet her. He stabs forward, roaring a bloodthirsty challenge, and sneaks past Vann-La’s guard! She spins away from the blow, but before she can react, Heshwat strikes again, this time hitting her in the throat, and Vann-La is stunned by the force of the blow!

“GET THEM!” bellows the Eviscerator.

By now the party has poured into the tent, but before any of them advance beyond Vann-La, LIgir hurls a _fireball_ into the far side of the pavilion tent. It bursts with a lurid orange flame, and several of the hobgoblin guards fall, shrieking and burning to death. 

Hot on the _fireball’s_ heels, Kratos and Heimall push forward into the fray, engaging the orcish warlord Tursh. He roars in berserk fury as the double warlord assault pounds into him, replying with a _warrior’s surge_ that heals him partway. Meanwhile, Cook and the kobold director Vypp are exchanging ranged attacks, with Cook hurling shuriken and kitchen knives while the kobold spits lightning and is able to help his allies move and attack more often, almost like a warlord would. 

But with Vann-La stunned, the kobold is unable to resist the opportunity to keep her that way, and he spits a bolt of crackling lightning at her, stunning her again. 

The goblin king Morl, meanwhile, keeps throwing daggers with _underhanded throws_ that keep him moving and distract their targets, making the goblin king hard to track. After a moment, he decides that the stunned elf is too tasty of a target to ignore, and dances close to slash her with his scimitar. The Mouth of Yeenoghu, meanwhile, turns to aid Tursh (the orcish warlord). With a glare, the filthy beast sends a wave of sheer malice at Kratos, who reels back, dazed from the psychic blow. 

Hkatha, meanwhile, has maneuvered into a good position from which to catch the enemy in another burst. This time he casts a _sleep_ spell, but in the confined quarters of the pavilion, it is fairly ineffective, slowing the enemy for a moment or two but not actually putting anyone to sleep. The tiefling snorts, and unleashes a _scorching burst_ in the middle of a bunch of enemies. The screams of pain that rise from the foe is certainly more satisfying than the _sleep_ had been!

Loridell moves in, axe to axe against Tursh. The two exchange a series of blows, parries and blocks, with Loridell rapidly getting the better of the exchange. “Guards!” roars Tursh in Goblin, “Guards!” Torinn flails about with his spiked chain, smashing the kobold director with bone-crunching force even as he maneuvers his allies into better position. Next he lays a blow into the Mouth of Yeenoghu, then strikes at Heshwat to no avail. 

Heshwat the Eviscerator, after a quick look to ensure that his allies are doing all right, laughs at Torinn and then stabs the stunned Vann-La again, bloodying her. “_Throat-Ripper_ will kill you, elf-woman!” he sneers, grinning. 

“Hai!” 

Heshwat jerks around just in time, parrying an incoming shuriken from Cook off the haft of his glaive with a _ping_.

“You leave her alone!” the dwarf shouts. 

Vann-La groans, starting to come around- and Heshwat stabs her in the head again, knocking her back. Once more, Vann-La is insensate. The hobgoblin general laughs. 

Then there is an explosion of fire all around Hkatha, as he unleashes a _fire burst_ close enough to catch himself. The kobold and orc are both caught in the blast, as are two more of the guards. 

“Yeah, that’s right!” shouts Ligir. “We’re _wizards-_ and you’ve been ignoring us, hitting on Vann-La while she’s down. Let me tell you something, you _don’t ignore the wizards._ No, _this is why you hit the wizards!_”

With that, Iggy _dimension doors_ next to Morl the goblin king, unleashes a _fire shroud_ that staggers Morl and then* _fey steps_ right out of the midst of things to safety again!

Vann-La tries to get her head together. It feels like the world is spinning. She is highly disoriented. She shakes her head, trying to clear the spots before her eyes.

_Movement._ 

She throws herself left and down, and this time Heshwat’s glaive only hits her arm.

Her head is clearing. Slowly... slowly...

Her shield jerks up as _Throat-Ripper_ flashes in again, and the weapon crashes off of the shield. Then there is a boom as she activates the power of the _storm shield_ that the party took from the mercenary Borgan Tyre. 

The hobgoblin general only laughs.

Suddenly a _beacon of hope_ blazes from Torinn, weakening both the Mouth of Yeenoghu and King Morl with its divine power. 

_“Stand tough!”_ shouts Kratos at the party. “We’ve got them now!”

Vann-La seems to agree, shifting away from Heshwat- or is it closer to the other foes? _“COME AND GET IT!”_ she shouts. 

As one, Tursh, Heshwat and the Mouth of Yeenoghu rush forward at the Kree warrior. She slashes out at all of them, her hammer crunching into the Mouth of Yeenoghu’s shoulder before smashing the orcish warlord hard in the face! Tursh crumples, pulverized white matter pouring out of the ruin of his forehead. 

Heshwat the Eviscerator gnashes his teeth. “You’ll pay for that, elf,” he growls. 

Vann-La grins as she assumes the stance of her _rain of steel_, her hammer swooping through the air all around her like a lethal hawk. It crashes into the Mouth of Yeenoghu, who gasps in pain but retains his feet. Raising his hyena-skull topped rod again, the Mouth unleashes a _demonic blast_ that hits Vann-La, and liquid fire splashes out and burns Loridell, Kratos and Heimall.

Meanwhile, King Morl carefully works his way towards the edge of the tent, hurling daggers with _underhanded throws_ over and over again at Kratos.

”I have had about enough of you!” snaps the warlord, turning to face Morl. He hefts his maul.

*BOOM!!* 

Another _fireball,_ this time caused by Iggy’s new _necklace of fireballs,_ catches more of the largely ineffective guards unawares. They are blown from their feet and the back wall of the pavilion bursts into flames. The Mouth of Yeenoghu is caught in the blast, and he howls in agony as his body chars and his flesh melts. He falls, twitching, dead to the ground.

“Excellent!” cries Loridell, and she charges at the kobold as the others dog pile Heshwat the Eviscerator. A rain of blows falls towards the hobgoblin general, but most turn from his armor or are parried by his consummate skill with _Throat-Ripper._ Even so, the heroes of Fandelose manage to cut and stab him several times, and blood starts to run out the seams in his armor and pool on the ground around him.

Meanwhile, Loridell collides with the kobold, who is frantically backpedaling, pointing at Heshwat and trying to trick her into turning back to attack him. But the paladin will have none of that. Her charge leaves Vypp reeling, and then she slams her axe into his neck with a _holy strike!_

The head of Vypp the Director bounces across the battlefield.

Morl the goblin king grimaces. He is near the side of the tent, and as Vypp falls, he slashes his scimitar across the tent’s wall and leaps through the rent thereby opened. Screaming for guards, he runs away.

“You bitch!” shouts Iggy. “That’s right, you _better_ run!!”

Now Heshwat the Eviscerator stands alone. He snarls, slashing with his glaive, trying to push Vann-La back, pummeled again and again by hammer, maul, sword, shuriken... Slowly, Heshwat weakens, his blows growing feebler and feebler. His eyes dart around, fear reaching them for the first time as the spiked chain of Torinn whips around one last time- slashing across his face and tearing open his skull, leaving Heshwat the Eviscerator enough time left alive only to stagger once in a wandering circle before collapsing dead to the floor of the pavilion.

Panting breath. The crying of the slaves. Cook is already at work, trying to free them. Vann-La and Kratos set to work with their hammers. In the growing illumination of the tent fire, the party hustles the slaves outside. 

Heimall lingers long enough to grab _Throat-Ripper._ 

Outside. The predawn hours are lit by fires, and the sounds of battle from the front are already in full swing. 

“Look!” cries Cook.

A company of Six-Fingered Hand elite troops are marching for the command tent at double time.

“Not enough time to rest,” grunts Torinn. “We’re screwed.”

“Maybe not,” replies Heimall. “We have the bodies of their leadership.”

“You’re suggesting that we can intimidate our way out of this?”

“Maybe. At the least, we will have proof that we kicked Heshwat’s ass.”

“True enough.”

A few arrows sing over the party.

“It’s time to go,” states Hkatha.

***

Within two days, the army that has surrounded Fandelose for over five years has broken camp and departed. More accurately, without the iron hand of Heshwat the Eviscerator to keep them in line, the Hand army disintegrates. Already hungry, no longer having any organized distribution of rations, they begin falling on one another, orcs and gnolls eating goblins and kobolds. 

The violence is appalling- but it all amongst the enemy. It costs Fandelose not a single life more than it has already given. 

From the walls, the war-weary people of the great city watch. Fires, fields that are no more than weeds now burning again; the screams of the warring humanoids as they tear themselves apart; the clash of steel as the larger, stronger Hand troops make their smaller, weaker brethren into the new rations. 

On the morning of the fourth day after the breaking of the Hand army, General Argos strides atop the wall and looks gravely at the field of corpses below, already calculating the effort required to clear them, and the likelihood of disease if the city doesn’t move swiftly.

_But they’re gone for now,_ he thinks. _We have a reprieve. A year or two, no more- but we’ll need that year or two.

The Empire isn’t finished yet,_ General Argos vows silently.

_*Next Time:*_ Victory celebration!

*Using an action point.


----------



## Mathew_Freeman

Awesome stuff! Sounds like a hell of a good fight!


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## C_M2008

fun stuff.


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## the Jester

The celebration is truly epic.

The people of Fandelose have triumphed over a seemingly numberless horde. They have held out against all odds, and although it took almost six years, they have driven off the foe at last. Heshwat the Eviscerator, who had made a daily practice of torturing captives before the walls, now stares sightlessly from the top of a pike, mounted atop those self same walls. The Six-Fingered Hand has been driven back- at least for now. 

General Argos announces a great festival, open to everyone in the city. There will be food and entertainment aplenty, and everyone is invited. A small force will remain on watch, and there are scouts in the outlying areas, so even if a tattered remnant Hand force manages to make an attack, the city should have plenty of warning. 

And almost everyone is there- almost the entire city. People bring food and drink to contribute, and there is plenty to be had by all. Even after half a decade of siege, the people of Fandelose have never been driven to deep hunger. 

Our heroes are acclaimed as main heroes of the war. They are the Defenders of Fandelose, the Heroes of the Wall. The Dragon walks with them, and all of them have made names for themselves. 

But of course, nothing is ever all good. 

The soldiers grumble. None of them have received any pay yet, and it’s six years overdue- more, in some cases. And the Bronze Council is still not back in power. There are definitely... areas of tension yet to be fully resolved. Areas that have been safely ignored for nigh on six years, while much more immediate concerns threw themselves at the gates over and over again. 

_Not tonight._ No, let tonight be for tonight- a celebration of victory, a collective triumph for all of Fandelose’s people. 

***

It takes little time for the party to become separated by the roar of the crowd, the temptation of different performances, different food and drink, different people. To her delight, Vann-La finds herself swept into Lar-Gonn, the Kree sergeant that has fought beside (and beneath) her since the initial engagements by the Black Gorge. They have been courting for several years, showing the legendary elven patience, but tonight is the night. She lets herself be seduced by Lar-Gonn’s delightful little morsels called _chocolates_.

In the morning, he will give her the rest of the bag.

***

Wandering through the massive press of people, Torinn is surprised to stumble upon General Pythock, his face painted with makeup, orating to a collection of citizens. Torinn smiles at the general, and is not surprised to see his answering sneer. 

Pythock, of course, is the general that was in charge when the party first reached Fandelose, a month or so ahead of the Six-Fingered Hand, when General Argos had been imprisoned in the Black Tower, framed by Millbury. Pythock had gained his position by virtue of his aristocratic roots, and had made a very poor impression on the party. _In fact, I don’t think he had been to work at all between when we got to the city and when we got Argos out of the tower,_ muses Torinn.  

Yet when the dragonborn edges close enough to hear what Pythock is saying, he is astonished to hear the man taking all the credit for the victory against the Hand and for making the plan that sent the party after the enemy leadership!

“Yes,” Pythock says, rolling his eyes in Torinn’s direction, “those on the walls are usually the ones acclaimed by the folk who see only the men fighting, and don’t know about the meticulous planning that goes into such things, planning done by people such as myself.”

“And General Argos, of course,” Torinn says loudly. He notes that the crowd around the... discussion... is growing larger. 

“Of course,” Pythock sneers. “Generals, and marshals, and those wise enough and smart enough to make decisions. Those are the _real_ heroes of this battle.”

”You’re no Argos,” Torinn sneers back.

“It’s the Dragon!” someone in the crowd gasps. 

“It was the people of Fandelose, more than anybody, who won the day for the city. And us- myself, Kratos, Ligir, Heimall, Hkatha, Loridell and Vann-La, plus our cook.”

“Of course,” Pythock says disdainfully. “Your slaying of a few dozen kobolds and goblins makes you an essential part of the victory.”

”No, but our slaying of Heshwat the Eviscerator does.”

“A shame you couldn’t finish off the enemy leadership. Too bad some of them escaped you- or was it the other way around?”

“One of them escaped us,” Torinn replies, “and not for long.”

They argue back and forth for some time, trading insults and barbs. Their debate grows more and more heated, until, after one particularly cutting remark from Torinn about Pythock’s harlot-painted face, the general bursts out, “I’ll put you in the stockade for that!”

“Ma’am yes ma’am!” Torinn replies, standing at attention.

General Pythock glares at the dragonborn. “Justice must be served,” he growls.

“Justice must be served!” Torinn answers.

“Your service,” splutters Pythock, “has been exemplary, but your insubordination...”

”Well, sir,” Torinn retorts sarcastically, “as soon as you get to your desk, you can draw up charges against me.” _And since you’ll never bother going to work, it will never happen._

“Oh, believe me, sirrah, I shall!” 

But of course, Pythock never does.

***

Everyone has a great time. There is plenty of food and drink, and stronger, stranger things find their way into the party. Ligir makes brief contact- again- with a group of gnomes, but it is fleeting, although the brownie that they give him leaves him hallucinating for most of a day. 

Heimall, on the other hand, overhears some drunken bigots plotting a final solution to “the gnome problem.” “I’m sure that if they hadn’t been pulling strings behind the scenes the whole time,” says one of the bigots, “we’d have won this war in less than a year!”

_Were you paying attention at all?_ Heimall wants to scream. Instead, he just moves on to another table.

The feasting goes on through the night, and none of our heroes go home alone. Even Torinn, the only dragonborn in the city, finds himself in the arms of a young maiden that night- or at least, a young woman.

A young woman that just happens to be Bridget Willow’s daughter. 

_*Next Time:*_ On leave, our heroes decide to keep working... as they go in pursuit of Morl, the Goblin King!


----------



## the Jester

In the heat of midsummer, the piles of bodies scattered everywhere for miles are starting to rot, to swell with percolating juices. Clouds of flies gather, swarming over everything. Rats and vultures feast, as they have done for years in the vicinity of Fandelose.

Amongst the corpses, fitful, wary groups of starving goblins and kobolds slice the less-rotten chunks of flesh before scampering back into the cover of the nearby hills or forests, feeding on rotting meat, many of them becoming ill and then being slain and eaten as fresh meat by their fellows. 

Under the blazing sun, some corpses stir to unlife, animated spontaneously by the heavy pall of death that still blankets the area. 

Within the city, the people continue to celebrate, but the mass of rot and filth surrounding them will have to be dealt with- or else plague will come.

***

The defenders of Fandelose have earned their leave. In thirds, the military is given a month off. Our heroes are amongst the first wave. Free time, to do with as they will, for a month! It has been a lifetime since they had such leisure!

Kratos tells his friends, “I’m done. We’ve protected Fandelose, and I’m married with kids now. I can’t be running around risking my neck every day anymore.”

“I understand,” nods Hkatha. “You have responsibilities now.”

“Yes.” Kratos sighs. “Good luck. Come over for dinner sometime.” A pause. “I’m going to talk to General Argos next week and resign my commission.”

The others stare at him without speaking for a moment.

“I have kids,” Kratos repeats. 

***

Minus Kratos, the rest of them head out into the rotting battlefield and move quickly towards the command tent, hacking their way through throngs of zombies and worse undead along the way. They are looking for loot, of course, but of greater interest to them is the goblin king Morl, who escaped their attack on the Six-Fingered Hand’s command tent. Once they cut their way to the tent, they look for tracks. 

Of course, there are thousands of tracks.

Heimall scratches his beard. “Well, we know where he started, and we know he’s goblin sized.”

“He had nice boots,” recalls Torinn. “Most of the goblin tracks are probably in sandals or barefoot.”

“And we know he ran off that way,” gestures Iggy. 

The party starts a thorough search, and although it takes them several hours, they find a group of tracks that they presume to be Morl’s, accompanied by several other goblin-sized tracks. They set out in hot pursuit, following the tracks until they come to a meeting with another group of tracks- but these are different: hooved, but clearly from an upright creature. “Whatever they are, they’re probably about the size of a bugbear,” muses Vann-La.

“It seems like minotaurs fit,” Ligir suggests. 

They continue along, following the tracks as they head up into the scrub-covered rocky hills to the south. As evening grows deep the party finds a ruin at the end of the trail, with a trap door leading down to a set of wide descending stairs.

“Let’s go.” Vann-La hefts her hammer and pushes the trap door open, then leads the descent down a flight of cracked stone stairs. Small rivulets of water run down the stairs’ edge; slime and mold grow on the walls. The others follow close on her heels.

At the bottom, the stairs spill into a chamber dominated by a massive statue of a minotaur with a wide-bladed greataxe in its hands. Vann-La raises a hand and halts the party. “There’s blood on that axe,” she murmurs. 

Cook moves cautiously forward. “Maybe I check it out,” he says, then blanches when he sees the size of the blade. “Oooi,” he groans unhappily.

But as he starts to move forward, something moves behind the pedestal that the statue stands upon. A large, growling beast that our heroes instantly recognize as a worg pads into view.

And immediately begins to bark loudly.

Vann-La curses and springs forward. Voices suddenly rise in a surprised babble from off to the left, and more barking starts coming from _both_ sides, where there are exits from the chamber. 

As Vann-La rushes towards the visible worg, the great statue sweeps its blade around in a great circle, slashing her with brutal force- but deftly avoiding the worg. Vann-La rolls with the blow, then darts the rest of the way forward to the worg, which she engages with brutal efficiency.

Meanwhile, another worg enters the fray from either side. To the left, the voices have stopped- _They were speaking in Goblin,_ thinks Torinn- and there is no sign of the speakers as of yet. 

The party moves in, trying to dodge the statue’s blade while bringing the battle to the worgs so that Vann-La is not surrounded and overwhelmed. But the statue’s axe is swift and deadly. 

_I must disable that,_ thinks Cook. He takes a deep breath and then springs forward, under the blade, and darts atop the pedestal to begin his work. 

Things get more interesting when Heimall tries to skirt the statue around the left side and gets caught by one of the hiding bugbears, who wraps a tight leather cord around his neck and drags him back. Vann-La darts over to aid her friend, but the bugbear uses the warlord as a shield, catching Vann-La’s hammer blow on Heimall’s breastplate. Both of our heroes curse, but Heimall can’t seem to break the strangler’s grip!

But the battle quickly turns. Heimall manages to avoid the bugbear’s attempts to use him as a body shield again, and Vann-La brings her hammer into the bugbear’s face, pulping its nose and teeth. With a red wail, the bugbear collapses back against the wall, raising its hands in front of its ruined face. 

Heimall whirls and buries the point of _Throat-Ripper_ in the bugbear’s chest.  

The rest of the fight is quick and intense, and in only a few moments, the worgs and the other bugbear have been laid low, and the statue has been disabled by a combination of Cook’s mechanical skill and Torinn and Ligir’s magical ability. 

“Well, at least they know we’re coming, after that racket,” Torinn says wryly. 

The party explores the two chambers that the bugbears and worgs came from. To the left is a simple chamber with four bedrolls laid out. One corner of the room has a trash heap in it, consisting mostly of food waste. A few barrels and crates of torches and foodstuffs form a rough wall segregating the trash heap from the rest of the room.

To the right, the party finds what is clearly a temple, dominated by an altar with a huge set of horns above it. Ligir whistles. “I wonder what kind of beast _those_ came off of,” he says. The horns are curved like a bull’s, but they are far too large for any bull. Tapering to a razor-sharp point, each horn is as wide as Vann-La’s waist at its widest place. Straightened, each horn might measure seven feet long or thereabouts. The altar itself is a barbaric block of black stone faced with bones, with bloodstains all over it. The whole assembly glows with a ghastly green light.

“This is an altar to Baphomet, the demon prince of minotaurs,” pronounces Torinn.

“Looks like we were right,” Ligir says. “Maybe Morl has found some new allies.”

There are other exits from the central room with the chopper statue: two archways are blocked by curtains and two doors lead out from the wall opposite the stairs. The party decides to investigate the curtained off areas first. The first one appears to be some kind of meeting chamber, with a decent-sized table surrounded by chairs and several stools. Vann-La immediately strides to one of the walls and announces, “There’s a secret door here.”

“Those are some sharp elven eyes you have there.” Heimall smiles, clearly impressed. Not much escapes Vann-La’s notice, that’s for sure!

The party takes up positions around the secret door. Vann-La opens it, but all that is beyond it is a small 5’x5’ space. Vann-La strides forward and warns, “Stay ready!” And she opens the secret door that- again- she had noted without so much as a glance around.*

Then she charges. 

Beyond the second secret door is a guard room with hobgoblins in it! The first falls in a bloody cloud of bone and flesh when the Kree’s warhammer crashes into his chest. The others rise and draw, but the rest of the party is already pouring in through the secret door. 

There are shouts and cries from the adjoining room as more hobgoblins stir and try to pull themselves out of their beds, where they were no doubt dreaming of pillaging the people of the Empire. The main direction of combat seems clogged with fighting, so Cook darts around the side- via a passage looks like it leads around to the chamber ahead- and then skids to a stop. 

“OGRES!” he bellows. “Oi, bad news!” 

But the pair of ogres are still just barely waking up, bleary-eyed and blinking. There’s no time to think- so Cook hurls shuriken at them, throwing for the eyes in a _blinding barrage!_ Both ogres roar in pain and surprise.

The fight is confused, with several foes awake to begin with and a second wave that comes not long after when those that were sleeping have gathered their weapons and risen to their feet. Led by a goblin prince, the goblinoids fight a delaying action while the ogres gather themselves, try to shrug off the blindness and start to move forward.

But by then it is virtually too late. The party crashes into the enemy like an avalanche, and the Hand forces fall quickly to their onslaught. The ogres are tougher, but by the time they can see again, Cook has issued stern cuts to both of them, and before more than a few more seconds pass, the fight is over. 

The party takes a few moments to catch their breaths and heal, although the enemy only left them with a few minor scratches. Then they search the area- it seems to consist of only the ogres’ bedroom, the guard room and the room in which several hobgoblins had been sleeping. In that chamber, a fireplace blazes. There are a few minor personal effects of the goblinoids and ogres, but nothing of real value. 

The party confirms that the goblin prince they slew in here was _not_ King Morl. “One of his allies, or an heir, perhaps?” speculates Heimall.

The party moves back to the entry chamber and pushes through the other curtain. This one leads to a short hallway, that turns to the right at the end and widens (or perhaps spills into a room). Our heroes again advance, and turn the corner.

The hallway extends just over 40’ before it opens up into a chamber that the party’s light barely touches. Several alcoves open to either side of the hallway along the way. In the chamber there seems to be some sort of depressed area, for the party can just make out the upper body of a figure standing in the depression.

A skeletal figure with three skulls atop its frame.

Vann-La immediately begins to rush down the hallway towards it, and it cackles. 

And ghosts stream out of the alcoves.

_*Next Time:*_ Our heroes fight for their lives as they try to follow Morl’s Retreat!


*At this point, Vann-La’s passive Perception was a 26; add to that the _lantern of revelation_ or whatever it’s called that Torinn has as an at-will utility that pretty much always gives her a +2 bonus while they’re dungeoneering... well, most of the time, if I’m using appropriate secret door DCs I can pretty much count on the party finding them...


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## C_M2008

3 updates in 4 days... you are a prince among jesters.


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## the Jester

C_M2008 said:


> 3 updates in 4 days... you are a prince among jesters.




Don't be too shocked to see me throw a handful of updates in a week a lot of the time. 

Then again, August through September you prolly won't see as much.

Anyway, new update comin' below!


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## the Jester

With translucent, ghostly figures rushing her from both sides, Vann-La skids to a stop and starts swinging. Torinn rushes to join her, his spiked chain whistling through the air as he swings at the incorporeal figures attacking them. Heimall charges past her, roaring, “FOR THE EMPIRE!!” as he rushes at the three-skulled figure.

“Let me prep the situation for you!” Iggy calls, pulling out his _master’s wand of magic missile_ and firing a bolt of force from it. The missile blasts the triskulled undead in the chest and knocks him prone. “Hah!” crows the wizard. “He’s ready for you now, Heimall!”

Heimall continues his charge, but as he gets close, a large, hulking figure rises from where it had been hiding in the pit. It has a long, wicked trident in its arms, which it extends, and Heimall runs right onto it- and is impaled.

Coughing blood, the warlord still manages to jab the skull lord on the ground with _Throat-Ripper_. Then the huge figure hoists him up off the ground. Feet dangling, Heimall stares at his opponent. It has the worst features of some kind of terrible insect mixed with an all-too-human malice. It twists the trident and Heimall groans in pain. 

The skull lord rises to its feet with a clatter. Its three skulls glare. One of them fixes Heimall in its gaze, and he feels a bone-chilling fear gallop into his chest with a nearly physical impact. His lips turn blue with cold and he gasps. With a contemptuous heave, the insect-like creature pushes him off of the trident, and Heimall runs back a few paces.

Behind him, Vann-La and Torinn destroy ghost after ghost, turning them into sprays of ectoplasm. Then the eyes of a second skull glow- and bits of goop from the slaughtered ghosts start to congeal, until one of them rises again. 

“Hey!” exclaims Vann-La. Then she points at the skull lord. “All right, you’re next!” –and she starts advancing towards the end of the hallway.

“I’ve got the ghosts,” Torinn declares. “You get the skull lord!”

In the back of the party, Ligir gasps. “That’s a mezzodemon!” he cries, pointing at the trident-wielding creature. “Heimall, Vann-La, watch out!”

The mezzodemon doesn’t give them time to adjust their approach. Instead, it belches out a cloud of foul vapors that envelopes them. Coughing and hacking, Vann-La still manages to parry the trident blow on her shield, and she starts dancing with the demon, trying to parry its blows while sending a skull-shattering hammer blow at the skull lord. It wails from its two remaining skulls.  

Suddenly, a secret door in one of the alcoves swings open and more adversaries enter the battle, hitting the party in the flank. Three skeletons join the fray. The first two move in towards the heroes at the front, while the third advances on Ligir. 

But behind Iggy is Cook, who springs out of hiding to hurl a shuriken from his distant homeland of Muk Nam at the skeleton. It hits it, and in response, the skeleton- strangely- grabs its own throat. 

And rips its own spine out. 

Which it then proceeds to use as a weapon, swinging it like a whip at Iggy and hitting him with terrific force. 

Meanwhile, the mezzodemon manages to pin Vann-La with its trident, impaling her. It has a good amount of reach on her; she can’t reach it with her hammer. With a scream of anger and pain, she tries to push herself free- and fails! Behind her, the other skeletons engage Torinn, who is still working on the ghosts as well. Cook moves up to flank them from behind- one of them is ripping its spine out like its companion attacking Ligir did- and smashing ruthlessly at them with his frying pan. 

Iggy fires a _magic missile_ as the spine-wielding skeleton moves inexorably forward towards him. He blasts it, but it keeps coming, cracking its bone whip at him and sending him reeling with the force of the blow. Shaking his head, he _dimension doors_ away, between Cook and Torinn. 

In the thick of it, in other words. 

Heimall is pressing the skull lord back against the wall, landing blow after blow with _Throat-Ripper_, and its second skull shatters. The third one keeps reconstituting ghosts, however, which continue to tie Torinn down. At least he has smashed the non-spine-wielding skeleton into powder. 

Vann-La finally shakes herself off of the trident with a horrifying wail of pain. Then, staggering, she swings her hammer at it. _Crack!_ It bounces harmlessly from the mezzodemon’s thick carapace. The Kree warrior grimaces, blood pouring from her chest where the trident had stuck into her. 

Beside her, Heimall slashes his glaive out again- and decapitates the third skull of the skull lord. It collapses in a tumble of falling bone. Gasping, shivering, Heimall turns to flank the mezzodemon, and he and Vann-La press their attack like a _hammer and anvil!_

Iggy pulls out the sunpowder pistol that he looted from orcish pistoleers so long ago and loads it. Glaring at the spine-whipping skeleton, he shouts, “I _always_ have a holdout!” 

_Blam!_ Ligir fires the gun. _Ping!_ His shot deflects harmlessly from the skeleton. Muttering to himself, he pulls and drinks a _potion of healing_ to fortify himself; he has taken quite a beating!

Torinn whips his spiked chain through another ghost, dissolving it into ectoplasmic residue, then whirls and parries an incoming spinal whip crack, redirecting it with his chain held taut. Immediately, the Dragon of Fandelose leaps to meet the foe, ablaze with the radiant fury of his deity. Cook dances in from the side, smashing the leg of one of the spinal skeletons badly enough to turn it into _walking wounded._ and Iggy finishes it off with a _force orb._ The three of them quickly annihilate the other skeleton and turn to the last standing foe: the mezzodemon.

Vann-La and Heimall are still struggling with the demon. It keeps impaling Vann-La and holding her at bay, while most of Heimall’s blows rebound from it. Still, the demon is gushing ichor from multiple wounds. “You fools!” it sneers. “Even if you destroy this body, I shall return to destroy you! I will not truly die- I will just return to the Abyss that spawned me!”

“Whatever,” replies Iggy, and he _magic missiles_ the demon- and it falls. 

With another scream, Vann-La pulls the trident out one last time. Torinn and Heimall hurry over to heal her, and the party pauses to catch its breath.

***

After a short rest, they find that the recessed area that the mezzodemon had been hiding in has a mix of earth, blood and crushed flesh and bone at the bottom. It is unwholesome, to say the least. But Vann-La cautions them, “I see something under there.”

They look at her, disbelieving. “Damn sharp elven eyes,” comments Torinn.

It turns out to be a trap door. They decide to finish searching the area above before investigating it, and carefully approach the secret doors that the skeletons came through. This leads to the 15’x35’ chamber that lies behind the door the party hadn’t yet opened from the front room. The only thing of note in the chamber is a pile of bones and stuff that turns out to be someone who had been ripped literally to pieces. A few serviceable pieces of gear are left, which Torinn and Iggy report are magical. Vann-La lays claim to the bastard sword- “I had been planning to change weapons before long anyway,” she says- while the _elven boots_ go, ironically, to the dwarven Cook.

Further searching turns up no additional exits or secret doors. Only the gruesome trap door remains.

“All right,” sighs Ligir, “let’s get this over with.”

The party returns to the pit area and scrapes through the muck to reveal the trap door until Vann-La can get a grip on the metal ring set into the surface. With a grunt, she pulls it open with a squelching sound. 

A brass ladder descends beneath the trap door. Vann-La peers downward, then draws her sword. “Worg,” she whispers. 

And then she leaps down the hole. 

_*Next Time:*_ Deeper into Morl’s Retreat!


----------



## Baron Opal

the Jester said:


> Then again, August through September you prolly won't see as much.




Another pilgrimage I'm going to miss out on. Drat. One day I too shall Burn.


----------



## senorita

*Hi Guys!*

Hey The Fall Of Civilization is a great topic of Discussion. Really it requires a thorough knowledge of History.I often do that but not good at History I use to acquire knowledge from the history Books and many time i planned to sort out the Consequences for the fall of civilization.


----------



## the Jester

Vann-La descends like a boulder, crashing down on the worg with tremendous force. It lets out a loud yelp, and the Kree warrior hears the exclamations of voices around the corner, speaking in Goblin. 

“They’re goblins down here, all right!” she shouts back up the ladder at her companions.

Torinn is already almost at the bottom, scrambling down as quickly as he can. Vann-La presses the worg back with expert technique, rushing at it in a _tide of iron._ The worg lunges forward, snapping its jaws shut on her left forearm. She pummels it with the hilt of her sword and it dances back. 

A hobgoblin, backed up by a pair of goblins, races into view. 

Vann-La suddenly has her hands full as the hobgoblin charges her with a roar, its spear turning from her armor as it attempts to _lead from the front._ The two goblins are on its heels, and they move to flank the hapless Vann-La.

Then Torinn drops into view, and suddenly his spiked chain seems to be everywhere. The two of them slash at the hobgoblin, who finds himself quite overmatched. He tries to turn the blows of the two adventurers- and fails utterly. As Torinn slaps his chain across the hobgoblin’s arm, one of the goblins cries out in Goblin, “Fall back!” The two goblins backpedal away.

Just then, Vann-La cuts the worg’s head off, neatly ending its threat. She and the Dragon continue to press the hobgoblin, who can’t tries, but cannot disengage from the two of them. “Come back before they kill me!” he cries desperately to the goblins, still in their tongue (which several of our heroes can speak).

“We’re gonna kill you anyway!” shouts Iggy from the top of the shaft, and he shoots the hobgoblin with a _magic missile._

“We’re getting reinforcements!” cries one of the goblins. He rushes out of the room via one of the two exits leading out and skids to a halt in front of a door. Throwing it open, he shouts for help.

_Crap,_ thinks Vann-La. She moves off in pursuit of the goblin, ramming her sword into him from behind and reaching across him to slam the door shut. Behind her, the others are finally getting to the bottom of the ladder. 

But not before she glimpses a pair of minotaurs moving forward in the room beyond, one of them gleaming and shimmering as if made of gold.

The door flies back open even as Vann-La cuts the hobgoblin down and turns to focus more fully on the goblin, and suddenly the battle turns ugly. The golden minotaur creates an _electric field_ that envelopes nearly the entire party, shocking them with terrific jolts of lightning!

Ligir replies as a wizard should: with a _fireball._ It explodes around the goblins and the golden minotaur, and then another minotaur bullies its way forward, gritting its teeth and ignoring the flames. Iggy grits his teeth right back at the minotaurs and hurls a missile from his _necklace of fireballs_ at it. 

*BOOM!!*

It’s not enough, though, especially when more minotaurs push towards the fight. The golden one keeps firing _lightning bolts,_ now that its _electric field_ has worn off, and the party responds as fiercely as they can. 

But they are driven back, bloodied and faltering, until they are forced to turn and re-climb the ladder- or die. Vann-La covers the retreat, and as she scrambles up the ladder herself, the minotaur spellcaster that _isn’t_ golden buffets her with _horns of force._ She is blasted upwards, but loses her hold on the ladder, and starts to fall- 

Iggy invokes his magic, and she manages to grab onto the ladder again as her fall slows to a slow, feathery descent. She scrambles up, desperate to avoid another magical assault from the minotaur cabalist.

Behind her, she hears them roar. She is at the top of the ladder; with a mighty heave, she pulls herself out, sprawling on the muck of pulverized flesh and dirt, and cries, “Shut the door! Quick, block it!” 

The others are ready. They hurl the trap door down, then a couple of them stand on it while the others gather some heavy furnishing from above. 

Gasping, Vann-La rises. “Are you all right?” Torinn asks. 

She nods. “I need to rest and recover,” she groans. “Those guys worked me, especially that golden minotaur.”

“We’ll come back and show them,” Cook promises. “In the morning, after we rest. Oi, I am very sore from this day’s activities.”

A surfeit of heavy objects weighting the lid of the trap, the party retreats, leaving the worg, the hobgoblin and one goblin dead behind them. They themselves are badly battered, however, and even Torinn’s most diligent attentions can’t do much more for Vann-La until she has rested and recovered her strength. 

Still- “We came out ahead,” opines Hkatha. “Killed a few of them, and we all came out in one piece.”

“Not bad,” agrees Torinn.

***

After a good night’s sleep, the party returns to the trap door. Incongruously, Vann-La thinks of the chocolate that Lar-Gonn gave her, carefully wrapped in wax paper and stashed away in the depths of her backpack. Quietly, Hkatha eases the trap door open a crack and peers down. Then he eases the trap door shut again and whispers, “The goblin is down there again.”

Iggy shrugs. “Let’s get him.”

Hkatha throws the hatch of the trap door open again, with a bang this time.

“Surrender!” he shouts, and casts a _cloud of daggers_ on the hapless goblin at the bottom. Iggy follows up with a i]magic missile.[/i] 

The goblin opens its mouth, perhaps to shout an alarm.

“Don’t make me come down this ladder!” Vann-La growls, descending rapidly. 

The goblin draws its sword and gulps, taking a half-hearted stab at the Kree as she arrives. “Help!” he squawks in Goblin.

Another one-two punch from a _cloud of daggers_ and a _magic missile_ is all it takes. The goblin collapses, overwhelmed by the party’s offensive firepower. 

Quickly, everyone descends. No other enemies have shown themselves yet; the party takes a few moments to search the area, finding a chamber holding a well out and around one corner. In there, the corpses of the dead have been stored. The newly-slain goblin wears a fur cloak that the party recognizes as having previously been on Morl.

“I wonder if they slew him,” speculates Heimall. “He failed them, after all.”

“And he’s a cowardly bitch,” Torinn adds. 

“We could ask the next batch of Hand soldiers we encounter, or maybe at least one of them, if we took him captive,” Hkatha suggests. 

“I guess it’s possible,” nods Iggy. “But it’s also possible that he is held prisoner, or paid them off or something. He might not even be here anymore.”

“We didn’t see any sign of where he could have gone,” points out Hkatha.

“Further down,” replies the other wizard. 

***

The next door leads to the golden minotaur and a number of other, less golden-looking, minotaurs. An immediate melee breaks out, with Vann-La trying to engage the golden minotaur at short range. Unfortunately for her, it is quite capable of goring her with its sharp horns.

This time our heroes are present in full force. Vann-la rushes into the thick of things, her sword sweeping in a red arc all around her. Heimall moves up behind her, _Throat-Ripper_ jabbing with deadly precision. The others fire spells from the back.

The minotaurs are forceful, but our heroes are overwhelming, now that they are present in full strength. Vann-La, Torinn and Ligir all focus on the golden minotaur and destroy it before it has time to electrocute the party too much, while Heimall and Hkatha keep the others contained. 

Despite their best efforts, however, one of the minotaurs manages to charge Vann-La, knocking her into a large pile of debris, which promptly collapses and leaves her half-buried. 

From a room on the other side of an open door, some kind of grinding noise has been emanating since the start of the fight. Now another minotaur’s voice calls out. “I tire of this! Bring them in here, I wish to grind them on the grinder!”

“I don’t think we want to oblige them,” says Hkatha.

Indeed not. While the minotaur cabalist tries to push several of our heroes towards said open door with _horns of force,_ they manage to keep from falling into whatever trap the minotaur around the corner has set, chopping down the enemy one by one. Finally the angry minotaur around the corner tires of waiting for victims and charges out and into the fray, horns lowered, and knocks Vann-La from her feet! Bellowing and pawing the ground with one hoof, the minotaur suddenly staggers back as Torinn’s spiked chain whips into him from behind. He whirls in time to take a shot from Iggy’s gun. Then Vann-La rises up behind him and he is completely surrounded. 

“Dragonborn, *git!*” cries Heimall. 

Wilting under a quick succession of blows, the minotaur tries to fall back, but only succeeds in falling. Now only one remains- the cabalist, who seems uncannily adept at evading the spells and weapons of our heroes. Fighting desperately, she keeps moving, trying to reach reinforcements, but our heroes keep cutting her off. A blade slips through her defenses, then a spell. She bellows belligerently, but she is aware that her situation is desperate. Heimall hits her, hard, with _Throat-Ripper,_ leaving a terrible bleeding wound, and she staggers away. But Hkatha quickly strides up close to her and invokes his _fire shroud,_ burning her terrifically. 

She staggers away, but the blood loss is weakening her. Gradually, the cabalist sinks to her knees. Her chin falls onto her chest, and she collapses. 

Panting with exertion, our heroes pause for a few moments to catch their breath and do some healing and binding of wounds. Then they search the minotaurs, who are armed but without any real treasure. 

“We could try to carry that golden minotaur out and sell it,” suggests Heimall.

“It’s not really gold,” replies Vann-La. “Look. It’s brass, with gold leaf on top. We could probably strip the leaf if we wanted to spend hours working on it, but I don’t think it’s worth the effort.”

Examining the area they were in and the adjoining rooms, finding them mostly devoid of interesting things. There are several sets of minotaur bedding, a raised platform and the rough grinding wheel that, apparently, the minotaur had wanted to shove an adventurer’s face into. Iggy says, “I bet they sharpen their horns with that.”

Having fully explored this area, the party heads back to the entry chamber. There is a second hallway that leads from it, which Ts immediately. A left turn leads the party to a long room with several piles of rotten straw and a few scraps of broken wood and rope at the end. Our heroes cannot discern anything about the room’s function, and it has no other exits, so they go back to the hallway and continue along. It Ts again; this time, to the right there are stairs going down. Again, the party turns left and continues along the hall, with jogs to the right briefly before continuing straight. Then there is another side passage, and down each path the party can see a turn almost immediately. 

“It’s a maze,” realizes Hkatha. “It fits. Minotaurs, you know.”

Torinn says, “The question is, do we enter?”  

“Let’s just be careful,” says Vann-La. 

The party advances into the maze of passages. 

_*Next Time:*_ The first maze!


----------



## the Jester

The maze turns out to be crawling with strange beetles with horns that look remarkably like those of a bull. These minotaur beetles are uncomfortably large- about 6’ long, on average. And, as soon as they detect the party, they begin converging to attack them.  

The party at first moves forward to meet them in the larger spaces available to them, but as more of the beetles arrive, they find themselves falling back. The beetles thoughtfully help out by charging into and bowling over several of the heroes at one point or another. But in the end, they are beetles, with roughly the intellect of a stick, and our heroes cut them to pieces. Cook smacks his lips as he looks them over, but the others insist on continuing to move along, so he doesn’t have time to harvest any beetle flesh (or whatever it is that one would eat out of a giant beetle). 

The maze proves to have several small rooms within it, but no exits. The party returns to the entrance, then falls back further to the initial T intersection, just outside of the room from which they entered this level of the dungeon. They keep going, taking the right path (as measured from the entry) this time. The passage turns to the left, and then a wide stairway descends to the left. The passage continues, and branches again just ahead, to the right. 

“Let’s hold off on the stairs until we explore this level completely,” suggests Heimall. The others murmur agreement, and the party heads down the passage to the other branch-

Where two more mezzodemons await, as well as several hobgoblins. 

Immediately, violence breaks out. The first demon strikes at Vann-La, who is in the party’s lead, and skewers her on the tines of its trident. “Not again!” she cries, blood flowing from her midsection as she struggles. This time, however, she is close enough to stab at the demon, but its insect-like carapace turns her blade. 

_Throat-Ripper_ jabs into the demon as Heimall moves into position. “Vann-La, tear yourself free!” the warlord cries, but the elven fighter struggles ineffectively against the skewering tines of the mezzodemon.

Meanwhile, the demon in the back grumbles to itself. The hall is too narrow for the demons to stand together*, so it can only lean forward and jab Vann-La, who is halfway around the corner. Better than nothing, but not the glorious bloodletting that the demon desires.  

Behind the demons, the hobgoblins start to fire crossbows as one of them shouts, speaking Goblin, “Intruders! Imperials!”

One of the many doors along the hall opens up. 

“King Morl! There he is!” shouts Vann-La, even as the goblin king makes an _underhanded throw_ that lands a dagger in Heimall’s chest. The warlord gasps, and Morl slips back out of sight.

“That sneaky bastard,” growls Heimall, as he pulls the blade free of himself and lets it drop to the ground. Blood stains his hand, and Torinn utters a _healing word_.

The party gets down to business.

Their target is in sight- well, just about, anyway. And King Morl keeps darting in and out of view to make _underhanded throws_ at people while the mezzodemons and hobgoblins have them pinned down. When the demons start belching clouds of poison out into the hallway, they seize an early and sudden advantage in the battle. 

Iggy hurls a _fireball_ down the hallway by way of reply, and several of the hobgoblins, caught in the burst, burn and die. 

A quick, vicious fight ensues, with the hobgoblins dropping easily to the party’s might. The mezzodemons are a lot tougher, almost always having either Vann-La, Heimall or both skewered, and often held at arm’s length so that they cannot attack. The party focuses their attacks, and finally, a _cloud of daggers_ from Hkatha finishes one of the demons off. The other suddenly finds itself alone, facing the entire party by itself, as King Morl slams the door to the room he is in shut. 

Quickly, then, the demon falls, and our heroes throw open the door, whereupon Morl surrenders to them. 

Success!

The party binds him, then questions him, demanding information about the . He doesn’t actually know much, however- or so he claims.

”You expect us to believe that?” demands Iggy. “All right, get the pliers.”

“No, it is true, I swear! You must understand,” Morl wheedles, “I am only a figurehead. It was Heshwat the Eviscerator who controlled our army. He needed me to keep the other goblins in line.”

“Sure he did,” replies Iggy, unconvinced.

“I was not the first, since the siege began! I was the fourth!”

That admission convinces even Ligir. “Still, he must know something, if we only knew the right questions to ask,” mutters Hkatha. “Well, we should return him to Fandelose for further questioning by the general’s men.”

“Should we finish exploring this place first?” asks Cook.

“Hey goblin, what else is in this place?” demands Vann-La.

“I don’t really know. I swear,” he squeals, seeing the look on Vann-La’s face, “I just came here for protection. I was just using the minotaurs! There are probably more of them, and maybe other things, I don’t know!”

“We certainly can’t trust anything he says anyway,” Hkatha reasons. “Let’s stick him in a box and check things out.”

The party does just that, shoving the protesting goblin king into a box from one of the chambers they have already explored and then weighting the top with several heavy barrels. 

“Don’t even try to get away!” orders Torinn from without.

“It’s pretty cramped in here.”

“Too bad,” growls Vann-La.

The party keeps exploring, heading down the wide stairs that they had bypassed in attacking the demons and King Morl. The broad stairs drop down into a large circular chamber about 30’ across. Opposite the stairs are a huge set of double doors, and there are two other doors along the wall as well. Within the room itself are two cages of steel bars, each about a 5’ cube. A scrawny goblin is in the chamber, examining a table, which holds the strapped corpse of another goblin, restrained by the wrists and ankles. 

The goblin cowers back and begs for its life. “All right, what are you doing here?” demands Torinn. 

“Why did you kill that guy?” asks Ligir.

“It wasn’t me,” snivels the goblin. “It was the evil... dead... not dead... minotaur mean lord!”

“What do you mean?” asks Torinn. “Describe this minotaur... ‘mean lord’.”

“Well,” the goblin says haltingly, “he is wrapped in bandages.”

“A minotaur mummy!” Hkatha adds a curse. 

Vann-La speaks up. “Where is this mean lord?”

“Through there,” the goblin says, cringing back as it indicates the double doors.

“What about the other doors?”

A shrug. “Storage. And a back way to... to the mean lord.”

“All right, don’t go anywhere.” The party climbs up the stairs about halfway to discuss what to do with the goblin. It turns out that their discussion is academic, however, for when they return, the goblin is gone, and the double doors are ajar. The party retreats up the stairs and changes plans. 

Time to rest. 

They retreat to the store room in which, they find, King Morl is still securely boxed. 

_*Next Time:*_ The party continues to change plans!


*Though I understand that mezzodemons have since been errata’ed to be medium, not large. However, being large makes the skewering tines soooo much cooler.


----------



## the Jester

*What Has Gone Before*
The Six-Fingered Hand, an alliance of evil humanoids banded together under the death knight Arawn, has rampaged throughout the Empire and driven it to its knees. Our heroes fled one doomed city, Chebonnay, and traveled under the mountains to the city of Fandelose. After freeing General Argos from unjust imprisonment set up by Millbury, an aide to the corrupt daVoi family, the party helped prepare the city for the oncoming onslaught and siege- and siege that lasted for nearly six years. Finally, our heroes snuck out of the city and arranged a distraction to draw off the guards of the enemy command tent, and then made a savage assault on Heshwat the Eviscerator, local general of the Hand, and his subordinates. One, Morl, King of the Goblins, fled; and now, with the siege broken, the party has tracked him to the Warrens of Baphomet, a dungeon created by minotaurs to enable the worship of their savage demonic patron. After some hard work and a few minor setbacks, the party managed to capture Morl and lock him in a box, but before returning to Fandelose with their prize, they have determined to continue exploring the Warrens of Baphomet....

***

Though they are nervous about the possibility of the minotaur mummy dropping in on the party nonetheless sets out to take a well-earned extended rest. They have been exploring and fighting for hours; constantly on edge, with enemies potentially coming from anywhere. Now they have retreated to the store room where the Goblin King Morl remains trapped in a box.

“You okay in there?” Torinn raps his knuckles on the box holding the goblin ruler.

“It’s awfully cramped,” is the response. 

“I bet you’d fit better if we cut you up,” snaps Vann-La.

“Well, wait a second. He has a point, honestly,” says Hkatha. “And we want to get information out of him- I’m sure he has some, even if he doesn’t know it.”

“What are you suggesting?” asks the Kree warrior, scowling.

“We could put him in a bigger box.”

***

Morl is grateful enough and makes no attempt to escape when they pull him out of one box and into another. “This is better,” his muffled voice announces, once he is sealed up again.

“All right,” sighs Hkatha, “I’m spent. It’s time to rest.”

“Well,” Iggy responds, “maybe we should get him back to the city first.”

Everyone looks at him.

”There _is_ a mummy minotaur out there somewhere,” he points out. “Best to meet it on our terms, not its.”

“True,” nods Vann-La. Everyone else gradually gives their assent as well, and the party hoists the boxed goblin king and moves towards the exit. However, once they reach the ladder up to the first level of the dungeon, it becomes apparent that they will have to release the goblin king from his box to get him out of the place. After a stern warning, they release him again, and, keeping some of them before and some behind him, they escort him up the ladder.

The rest of the trip back to Fandelose is easy and uneventful. The party interrogates King Morl more as they walk, and the goblin proves to be fairly forthcoming about the refuge that he had sought. Regretfully, he just doesn’t know much. “After you attacked Heshwat’s tent,” he explains, “I fled with a few of my followers. We met the minotaurs, and they agreed to help us. They led us to their warrens, and their leader- the mummy- but we weren’t allowed to go anywhere we wanted, just where they wanted us to. Tensions were rising between us, anyway.”

“Where is all your treasure?” asks Torinn.

“I had to give most of it to my followers, to keep them loyal.”

Ligir thinks, _Ahh, that explains the winter wolf cloak that one goblin was wearing. I knew that I saw it on Morl when we attacked!_

***

Back in Fandelose, Colonel Jaxe takes great pleasure in relieving the party of their prisoner. “Put him in the Black Tower,” he orders the guards that take Morl away. Then he turns to the party and beams proudly at them. “Well done!” he exclaims. “You took out most of the leadership and brought us the rest! But,” he cocks an eyebrow, “aren’t you all supposed to be on leave?”

“We’re working off the clock,” answers Hkatha. “I know, it’s terrible.”

“What are you talking about?” Vann-La snorts. “Hunting goblins _is_ a vacation.”

“Sir,” Ligir asks hesitantly, “is there any word on the army’s pay?”

Jaxe’s face smooths into a mask. “We have made some small initial dispensations wherever possible,” he replies. “We will pay everyone’s back wages as soon as we are able to. Between you and me, one way we are doing this is by gathering the loot and plunder from Hand depots wherever we find them, as well as from destroyed towns and cities. It is distasteful, but necessary, because otherwise, we won’t have the money to pay you folks.”

“I see.”

Vann-La speaks up again. “What about a return to civilian rule of Fandelose?”

“You would have to speak to General Argos about that, but I am sure that as soon as it is safe to do so, he will return the reins of power to the Bronze Council.”

“Do you know when he plans to do that?”

“As soon as it is safe,” Jaxe repeats, “I am sure.”

***

When the party returns to Morl’s Retreat, as they are calling it, Ligir has a new toy. The party waited in town long enough for him to enchant his magical pistol into a _lightning pistol._ “Now it’s even cooler than before!” he exclaims. He practices quick-drawing it from the holster at his hip, and is becoming quite good at it. His studies of the properties of the sunpowder itself are progressing.* He is becoming a crack shot.

It makes him so confident that he takes the lead as the party returns to the chamber where they met the pitiful, cringing goblin that warned them about the ‘mean lord’ of the minotaurs.

He’s back in the room, slouching around. Immediately, Ligir pulls his pistol and takes aim. “Don’t move,” he warns. 

The goblin throws his hands up, surrendering.

Vann-La squints. _Something’s wrong, but what?_ she thinks. Then: _Who cares?_

With one swift motion, she draws and hurls her magical javelin at it. It lances through the air- only to stick momentarily in the air near the goblin. It grunts, and then, in a deep, growling voice, it snarls, “You’re going to regret that.” The javelin returns magically to Vann-La, who is staring aghast at the oni as its face begins to melt. It seems to grow in size, gaining mass, as it reveals its true form: a 10’ tall, blue-skinned humanoid with a demonic, skull-like face. 

“It’s an oni!” gasps Iggy.

And then it attempts to harvest their souls, and a snapping, tugging chain of necrotic energy dances across Vann-La, Cook and Torinn. The dwarf and the elf resist, but Torinn gives a great groan as he feels his essence flow towards the oni to be consumed.

Then it turns and darts out the (open) double doors and around the corner, bellowing, “Intruders!”

“I think it is a ruse!” Cook cries. “We should not follow!” He falls back and takes to the shadows.

Loridell invokes a _sacred circle_ on the group and says, “Maybe we should just advance with a touch of caution.”

At that, Hkatha casts _invisibility_ on himself. Cook, meanwhile, slides forward through the shadows until he can peek around the corner. _There is something waiting there, as I suspected,_ he thinks, and then leaps out and hurls a dagger at it. 

It bounces from the bandaged arms of the form. 

“Here is the mummy!” Cook wails.

Iggy hurries to gain a good enough vantage point that he can see the mummy. The room beyond the double doors, he notes, has four large sets of horns protruding from the wall. _It would really hurt to get pushed onto one of those, I bet,_ the wizard thinks. _Too bad this guy isn’t in a position where I can do that..._

The room has a single exit, a hall leading to a set of downward stairs. At the top of the stairs is an undead minotaur, its fur patchy and rotten, tattered bloodstained bandages wrapping its body. With a few passes through the air and a collection of magic words, Iggy casts a _spectral ram_- but the mummy braces itself and catches the spell on its own horns, standing firm against it. 

Loridell rushes past him, but as she gets close to the mummy, she feels despair wash over her. “We can’t beat this thing,” she groans. She swings her axe with lackluster force, and it just bounces off the mummy. 

The oni, meanwhile, moves down the stairs. At the top, the mummy begins falling back as well. The party starts to press forward, but at the bottom of the stairs, the oni cackles to itself. It squeezes the wound that Vann-La’s javelin caused to it. Several drops of blood hit the floor. 

And suddenly, everything changes. The floor of the chamber that the oni is in turns into a mass of raw, bleeding flesh. The mummy jumps the last few steps and cries, “BAPHOMET!!”

Demons erupt from the floor. 

_*Next Time:*_ The fight gets serious!


*At this point in the story hour, Iggy is 10th level; at 11th, he plans to take a custom paragon path, the Pistol Mage.


----------



## the Jester

Springing from the spatters of blood that hit the floor, the pair of demons is fleshy, well-muscled and vicious-looking. Torinn immediately identifies them as carnage demons, but that designation doesn’t really provide any helpful information to the party. 

Iggy isn’t waiting to see what they can do. He hurls first a _fireball_ into the area, and then follows it up with a globe from his _necklace of fireballs_. The twin detonations shake the bloody room; foul vapors rise from the scene, boiling into the air and making our heroes gag with their stench. 

The oni replies with another wrenching attack on the party’s souls, trying to jerk them free and devour them, and the mummy gestures and a pair of _horns of force_ slam into Iggy, knocking him up the stairs! The minotaur mummy laughs harshly and charges forward, goring the wizard and knocking him back further! The oni, meanwhile, moves out of sight to the side, and Vann-La’s keen ears detect the sound of a door opening.

The two carnage demons lope up the stairs towards the party, but Loridell interposes herself. They claw wildly at her while she hacks back, her axe whirling around her! While Vann-La moves up to stand beside Loridell, Torinn gets in the mummy’s way before it can finish off Ligir.  

Then, behind Cook, the oni emerges from a side door, which necessitates a sudden change in his tactics. Instead of hurling daggers or shuriken from where he is, as he had planned, the dwarf instead somersaults away before he hurls a dagger towards the mummy, wounding it in the knee. 

Suddenly Hkatha reappears, behind the enemy, as he launches a _fireball!_ It catches the two demons and the mummy, none of whom are expecting it; a moment later he follows up with a _scorching burst_. Vann-La moves into the center of the enemies and forces them to _come and get it_, dealing punishing blows against the monsters around her. Hkatha hits one of the carnage demons with a _force orb_ that explodes and sends waves of force out that also slap the minotaur mummy. Loridell leaps up and swings her battle axe mightily, sinking it into the demon’s head. Hot, black blood splatters all over; the demon collapses. Torinn charges in and slays the other one, and then the party focuses on the oni, cutting him down when he attempts to get some distance between himself and them.

That leaves the mummy, who proves to be most troublesome, using either _horns of force_ or his own horns to knock Iggy and Torinn around, and eventually impaling Iggy on the bull horns mounted on the wall in the upper chamber! The wizard screams in agony, writhing on the horns. With a gasp, he _dimension doors_ away from the horns, freeing himself- and almost collapsing with the pain. 

The minotaur mummy roars a challenge and swings its mace, dealing tremendous blows to the party members that dare face it in melee. Vann-La stabs it with her sword, finally bloodying it; it whacks her back, and then she’s bloodied too. The fight is vicious, but now that the other monsters have fallen, numbers will surely carry the day. 

And, finally, they do, as Loridell lops off one of its horns, Torinn hammers it with a _righteous brand_, and Vann-La finishes it off, pushing it into a last-minute _wall of fire_ erected by Iggy with a _tide of iron_.

Iggy sustains the wall for a while to be certain that the minotaur is dead; then the party allows themselves a brief respite to regain their breath, to re-center themselves. Then, a search of the nearby rooms yields a chest with about 4000 gp in it. Iggy whistles. “That’s a lot of money!”

Hkatha snorts.*

***

The “steak room,” as Vann-La calls it, eventually reverts to normal stone again. “I wonder how that gets triggered,” muses Heimall.

Cook says, “Maybe say that name that the mummy said when he went down there, what was it, Ba-”

“Good idea, but probably best not to say it right at the moment,” interrupts Iggy.

“Or maybe,” suggests Hkatha, “you have to spill blood there.”

Iggy shrugs. “Or both.”

***

According to their map, the party only has one more path to explore. When they reach it, it leads into another maze, with an immediate triple-branching at the very start and more side branches visible in two of the directions available. They move down until they have a choice and elect to go right. 

About a third of them start to go in each possible direction. 

They all stop.

“Wait, we said _right,_” says Iggy.

“Exactly. We went right, you guys went left,” replies Hkatha.

“No, _we_ were going right.”

Vann-La frowns. “Well, let’s try again.”

The same thing happens: it seems as though roughly a third of the group believes each direction is the right hand direction. 

“Some kind of maze magic,” Iggy sighs. 

“Let’s go back,” Vann-La says. “We don’t need to go down here anyway. We got Morl.”

The party starts to head back- and about a third of them think each of the three available paths is the right way to go. 

“Uh-oh,” grunts Torinn. 

The party strikes out again, but this time the lead member makes the decision. Everyone else follows. This technique works- but who knows how lost in the maze they will become?

Then again, what choice have they?

As they proceed deeper and deeper into the Maze of Lost Hope, devoted to the demon prince Baphomet, lord of minotaurs, our heroes become increasingly aware of an evil presence that squats on their minds, crushing hope and cheer. As they navigate their way- at least, as best they can- the psychic malignancy grows ever stronger, weighs ever heavier. Soon they are growing short-tempered and angry with each other.

Not long after that, they start coming to blows.

“Wait!” cries Torinn desperately. “It’s this place. It’s influencing us, stealing our hope, filling us with hate and anger. We can’t let it win!”

“If only we could get out of this maze,” groans Heimall. 

“It’s certainly logical, given that this is a minotaur-based place devoted to Baphomet,” muses Hkatha. “But what’s at the center? Another undead minotaur? More beetles?”

“It seems like this maze is the more, er,” Iggy searches for the right word for a moment, “_serious_ one. We navigated the other one without any trouble.”

The party’s anger continues to grow. Iggy, Torinn and Hkatha try to use their knowledge of the arcane to lead the party, while Vann-La keeps a keen eye open for any sign that they are crossing their own path. “Dammit!” roars Heimall, smashing his fist into the wall hard enough that he almost breaks it.**

They stomp on. 

Finally, as the pressure on their minds is just starting to become unbearable, they find a chamber- 

“Careful,” warns Vann-La, halting. “There’s a drop. About... ten feet, it looks like.” She frowns, surveying the chamber. “It looks like a couple of feet of brackish water at the bottom. There are a couple of rocks protruding above the surface, and lots of... fungus, maybe? Something is growing on top of the water, anyway. There’s a door on the other side.”

“What’s that smell?” asks Cook, wrinkling his nose in distaste.

Indeed, a foul, fish-and-cattle stink comes from the chamber. “I don’t know,” Vann-La replies. 

“That no good to eat,” Cook says. 

_That_ makes everyone uneasy. Cook has shown that he will harvest, scavenge, salvage and eat virtually _anything._

“I don’t know about this,” mutters Iggy. “Water, you say?”

“Yeah...” Vann-La considers her options. _If we don’t check this room out, we’ll have to go back into the maze._ She sighs. “I think we should check it out.”

“I’m not so sure,” Hkatha retorts.

Suddenly Vann-La cries, “There’s something in the water!”

Iggy whirls- and casts a _magic missile_ at Hkatha! The other wizard yells in surprise. “What are you doing?” he exclaims. 

“It took control of me for a moment!” Ligir sputters. He whirls to face the water and fires a _magic missile_ where Vann-La indicates the shape in the water is and fires a second _magic missile,_ this time at it. However, it zips into the water and fails to hit the target.

Vann-La, meanwhile, decides that the water is shallow enough to fight in and leaps down with a splash. _I’ll get on one of the boulders. Now, where the hell did it go?_

No sign of it. 

_It’s elusive..._

And then, suddenly, it pops up out of the water with a strange, warbling roar. Our heroes stare at it, aghast, wondering _what the hell it is._ The weird fish-cattle stench intensifies immensely- for the creature is a disgusting mixture of minotaur and some kind fish-like, tentacled sea monster. A bull’s horned head tops a semi-humanoid torso that ends below in a fishy lower body. Powerful, leg-like tentacles squirm beneath it. 

Vann-La strikes. She has been waiting for it to show itself! Her sword sings through the air, bites into the beast’s shoulder. Blood sprays out and the monster screams, then rams its horns into Vann-La and tosses her aside. She flies up and across the room, landing in a heap near the far wall!

Then, glaring at Heimall, the beast hypnotizes him- and Heimall, who had his bow out, pivots and shoots Vann-La in the shoulder!

“Sorry!” he cries immediately. “Damn it!”

“It’s gruesome!” Cook gulps. Then, his eyes widen. “Wait, where did it go?” 

“It’s still right there, what are you talking about?” exclaims Iggy- then his eyes widen. “Wait... it’s gone!”

One by one, our heroes lose sight of it. It doesn’t submerge or teleport; they just can’t see it any more. 

Then, Torinn moves to where he can see it. “Wow, that’s ugly,” he comments. He squints at it, misses it with a _sacred flame,_ and grumbles to himself.

”You can see it?” cries Heimall. 

“Yeah...” The monster hisses in rage at the dragonborn, but nobody else hears it. “I think- it’s some kind of minotaur crossed with a morkoth.”

“What the hell is a morkoth?” demands Loridell.

“It’s an underwater maze-dwelling creature,” Torinn starts, and then Heimall leaps down into the water, completely against his will. “Hey! What are you- oh. Morkoths can hypnotize you. It is said that they lair in mazes- the connection with Baphomet makes sense- and that if you travel their maze, sometimes they can come up behind you and bite out huge hunks of your flesh without your even noticing!”

“So,” Vann-La says, rising to her feet, “it’s not good that we can’t see this thing?”

“And it can hypnotize people,” Torinn adds. He jumps down into the water himself, his spiked chain at the ready. 

“Obviously!” snaps Heimall. He fires his bow blindly, hoping to hit his unseen adversary, but misses. 

From nowhere, an invisible attacker slams into Vann-La. She brings her sword up to guard herself just in time. Then it moves away, charging Torinn and knocking him sprawling. 

Ligir is sweating, trying to force his eyes to see it. _I know it’s there! It just hit my friend! I must pierce its illusion!_ Suddenly- it _is_ there, he _does_ see it! With a grim smile, Ligir casts a _spectral ram,_ knocking it back and away from Torinn. Then Ligir squeezes off a shot from his pistol. The report is deafening, but the bullet zips into the water harmlessly. 

Hkatha can’t see it- but he saw the ram, and he knows how it works. He casts a _lightning serpent_ at the morkoth of Baphomet, and when it strikes, even failing to grasp the foe, it does some good, shocking it (with the presence of the water helping exacerbate this) and slowing it.

Vann-La and Torinn rush back in to get close, and Heimall utters a _commander’s strike_ at Vann-La. She swings and wounds the beast, even not seeing where it is. But in response, it gores and tosses her- then does the same to Torinn, leaving it clear to use its _hypnotic glare_ on Heimall again- who whirls and shoots Hkatha in the leg. “Ow!” shouts the tiefling. 

The wizards pour the spell fire on: _scorching burst, sleep, cloud of daggers..._ several attacks that don’t need the exact precision of knowing where your target is prove remarkably effective. The warriors cluster around, striking when they know where the monster is and falling into defensive stances when they don’t.

The poor morkoth! All this tasty prey, but they keep playing dirty, lighting it on fire and worse. It vanishes from their perceptions, maddeningly elusive, but when Ligir creates a _wall of fire_ that fills a quarter of the room, its options become very limited. It charges Cook, knocking him away and throwing him from his feet, but Vann-La hits the monster with a _disruptive strike_ that is a virtually perfect blow.*** Then she hits it again, this time driving it with a _tide of iron_ and forcing it, squealing, back into the _wall of fire!_ 

The party moves close, and when it tries to come out of the wall, Vann-La stops it cold. It grabs Hkatha and hurls him into the flames, but the Ilmixie just laughs and strides from it, barely injured thanks to his infernal heritage. Then it uses its _hypnotic glare_ to force Vann-La to walk into the flames itself. 

“Torinn, get it!” commands Heimall, and the dragonborn’s spiked chain smashes into the side of its head, dealing a terrible wound. It staggers, and Vann-La roars as she grapples it back into the flames again. 

Hkatha adds another _scorching burst_ to the mix, and that’s it: the beast dies with a smell like burnt burgers cooked in fish sauce. Gagging, our heroes fall back for a moment.

Then it’s time to loot. 

_*Next Time:*_ On Leave!

*Hkatha, of course, is an aristocrat, so a few thousand gold pieces is small change to him. Of course, he’s also deeply in debt.

**This maze was a skill challenge- I’ll post the details for kicks. Once the pcs were in ‘phase three’ of the skill challenge, each character had to make a basic attack at the nearest ally or else lose a healing surge on his or her turn. 

***During this fight, the party kept on critting- this was a crit, Vann-La crits again when she knocks it back into the _wall of fire,_ Cook got a crit, Torinn got a crit, the wizards critted when they couldn’t even see it... Sheesh.


----------



## the Jester

I almost forgot- here's the skill challenge for the Maze of Lost Hope.

*Navigating the Maze of Lost Hope*
*Level 12 Skill Challenge*
This skill challenge will go through three phases: in the first, the pcs must manage to get a grip on themselves and their surroundings, and realize that they are progressively under the influence of an evil force. This lasts until the pcs get two successes. In the second phase, the demonic force acting upon them intensifies, and they must resist its influence as it seeks to provoke them into frenzies of rage. Once they have six successes, the pcs can move to the final stage, where they must find their way to the far side of the maze as the malicious forces grow to their strongest might and deal with the terrifying monster in the Chamber of False Hope.

*Level:* 12
*XP:* 3000
*Complexity:* Special (10 successes to complete). Whenever a pc fails a skill check, see the notes in the Complications section, below. Once phase two of the skill challenge has begun, things get uglier; see Complications for details.
*Primary Skills (phase one): *Arcana, Dungeoneering, Insight, Religion.
*Primary Skills (phase two):* Arcana, Diplomacy, Insight, Perception, Religion.
*Primary Skills (phase three):* Arcana, Dungeoneering, Insight, Perception.

_Arcana (DC 21): _In phase one, this allows a pc to sense some sort of malignant presence. In the second phase of the skill challenge, an Arcana check allows a pc to use his magical knowledge to help ward his mind against the evil influence pressing against him. In phase three, an Arcana check allows the pc to pierce the confusing spell that is twisting their minds.

_Diplomacy (DC 17):_ In phase two only, a pc can use Diplomacy to try to talk an angry companion down. 

_Dungeoneering (DC 21):_ This skill will help the pcs realize that they are being confused and disoriented, and help them get past it. 

_Insight (DC 17 in phase one, 21 otherwise):_ Insight helps the pcs pierce illusions and find their way despite the befuddlement affecting them. It also helps in phase two by helping them become aware of the strange force affecting the party. 

_Perception (DC 25):_ In phases two and three, Perception helps the character to find his way and avoid being further confused. 

_Religion (DC 21 in phase one, 17 in phase two):_ In phase one, Religion helps the character realize that there is some kind of fell influence. In phase two, a character can use his faith to resist the influence of the powers working against the party.  

*Complications: *Once phase two of the skill challenge begins, there are malignant forces working to enrage the pcs. They all begin to grow angry and irritable. If anyone fails a skill check on the challenge, that character makes a basic attack at the nearest ally. If two characters in a row succeed on their skill checks, a random pc grows angry enough that he or she must either make a basic attack at the closest ally or lose a healing surge. Once the third phase of the skill challenge starts, each character must either make a basic attack at his or her nearest ally or lose a healing surge each round on his or her turn (usually from charging, head down, into a wall out of frustration and anger).

*Success: *Once the pcs have achieved two successes, they move to phase two of the skill challenge. Once they have achieved six total successes, they move on to phase three. When they achieve ten successes altogether, they find their way at last to the morkoth. The pcs cannot “fail” the skill challenge, per se; however, failing to succeed can lead them to their deaths.


----------



## the Jester

Typical soldiers on leave drink and whore. They get into bar brawls. They bitch about their commanders and their realms, mock the navy and the enemy, grumble about how long it has been since they have seen their families. 

It is a rare soldier indeed who, confronted by a month of free time, keeps working. Loridell has had enough for the time being; she joins her brothers and sisters in arms in the taversn.

But there’s just so much to do!

Among other things, the dwarves have been having problems with _something_ that was released from deep below the earth in the trap that they triggered six years ago, at the outset of the siege. Although Ligir argues for a return trip to the Feywild to try to find the black unicorn that he has had occasional fleeting contact with, the party (minus Loridell) eventually agrees that the threat to the dwarves must come first. 

They head into the Black Gorge, just outside of Fandelose. The dwarven sentries recognize them- they are, after all, friends of the dwarven Thane and have helped the dwarven operation in the past. They head down to question survivors of the mysterious creature’s attacks, fighting off a band of hideous, red cap wearing fey along the way.

The Dunstone brothers didn’t get a good look at the thing, but one of them says, “It seemed to club us, but I don’t know if it used weapons. It didn’t seem humanoid. And it could vanish at will, almost as if it wasn’t there! It was hard to concentrate around it...”

Cook shudders, thinking of the morkoth of Baphomet. _I hope it’s not another of those creatures!_

But it isn’t. When the party finally finds it, searching in the areas that the monster has struck from, it proves to be some sort of strange, almost worm-like creature with six tentacles. It is equally capable of moving along the floor and the ceiling- and worse yet, it is able to teleport, seemingly at will, and when it does, it distorts reality around it, leaving anyone too close to it dazed.

To top it all off, it can turn invisible. 

But our heroes aren’t called the Heroes of Fandelose for nothing. They take care of the problem and bring the head back to the thane, who- as always- joins them for a dwarven mug of dwarven ale. Long ago, he gave each of our heroes a stein of their own; to this day, they make a point of carrying them when they go to the Black Gorge. 

After the celebration, the party returns to Fandelose. This time, Iggy wins the argument, and the party agrees: they will return to the home of the mad architect Hyswell the Bitter, whom the party slew before the siege. There, they know, there is a crossing to the Feywild; using his _fey crossing_ ritual, Iggy can allow them to cross over, between the worlds. 

***

With the ritual at their beck and call, there is no need to wait for the barrier between the worlds to weaken of its own accord. Instead, once they reach the mad architect’s house, now filling with dust and dead insects, Iggy- an eladrin- easily goes through the requisite words and gestures until a glittering membrane of greenish-amber seems to wash over them.

And ah, but they feel _alive_ all of a sudden! 

Their journey into the Feywild makes their blood sing, makes their brains brilliantly alert, their senses vibrantly acute. The realm itself energizes and affirms; it makes them feel, somehow, more capable.

They are looking for the black unicorn; what they find is a large number of goblin tracks. 

“The Hand?” wonders Heimall.

Ligir shrugs uncomfortably. “It’s hard to say. There are plenty of goblins in the Feywild that _aren’t_ part of the Six-Fingered Hand...”

“Why? What are they doing here?” demands Vann-La.

“This is a whole world. There are all kinds of... unsavory things that live here.”

Vann-La scowls.

The party starts to follow the goblin footprints, but before long a large shadow crosses over them.

A green dragon.

Weapons hiss free of their scabbards. Hkatha clutches his orb; Iggy draws his gun. Cook darts into cover. The party watches for signs of it.

“There,” hisses Hkatha. “It’s circling us.”

It drops out of sight; due to the trees all around them, if it isn’t pretty high up, they can’t spot it.

The wind picks up.

And it flies in to attack from the side, darting in under the tree line. 

Vann-La rushes out to meet it, hitting it with a _steel serpent strike_, and its claws scrabble at her, but her armor prevents her from serious injury. 

Then the chaos of battle takes over. Blows fall; others are deflected from scales or armor, or parried by weapon or shield. Cook buries a shuriken in the dragon’s lower back, leaving it _walking wounded._ “I’m gonna eat your eyeballs, dragon!” the dwarf yells.

The dragon’s eyes blaze yellow. It rises up above the party, and they cannot help but quail. Its very presence is frightful enough to leave Vann-La, Cook, Hkatha, Ligir and Heimall all stunned with terror for a few precious moments, but Torinn uses an _awe strike_ to keep the dragon pinned down long enough for the others to recover... he hopes. 

The dragon breathes, a cloud of toxic gas, green and foul-smelling. It envelops Torinn just as he takes a deep breath, and he coughs madly, with flecks of blood erupting from his nose.* Hkatha and Heimall groan in pain as the gas envelopes them as well. 

But then Iggy, Vann-La and Cook throw off their momentary paralysis. Iggy hits the dragon with a _magic missile_ and Cook makes a _sly flourish_ that sends his dagger into the dragon’s neck. It grunts, then winces as Torinn’s spiked chain slaps it hard across the face. The dragon claws at the dragonborn twice, opening itself up to a blow from Vann-La, and then starts to retreat. 

Vann-La charges across a bank of mossy rocks at it, landing another blow. _It doesn’t even look all that badly wounded,_ she thinks. _Why is it-_

“I am here to impart knowledge,” the green dragon says with a laugh, “if you survive!”

“Don’t worry about us, we’ll be fine!” Iggy replies, firing his pistol. The bullet bounces from the dragon’s thick scales.  Simultaneously, Vann-La rushes up and hits the dragon with appalling force. Unfortunately, this leaves him too close to avoid Hkatha’s _fireball_, which explodes in a _whoomph_ of orange flame! Ferns and bushes blacken and die; a tree catches fire. Vann-La grits her teeth and lets the fire wash over her, assuming a combat stance and letting a _rain of steel_ whip all around her as her bastard sword cleaves through the air!

The dragon laughs, seemingly delighted by the deep cut the Kree warrior’s sword slashes in its side. It breathes another cloud of venomous vapors out, and Vann-La reels back, coughing and gagging. It lays a claw across her, ripping open her chest and breast, and she staggers back a step. Then the dragon slashes her again, this time across the leg, and she stumbles. 

It fixes her with its gaze, and, irrationally, Vann-La backpedals, giving it enough room to spread its wings and take to the air without being assaulted. Leaves shower down from the forest canopy overhead as it breaks through to the sky.

“Follow me!” it cries, and wings away.

“Damn it!” curses Heimall. “It got away!”

“Maybe, but maybe not,” replies Hkatha. “Look.”

Indeed- the dragon flies much faster than the party can walk, and it should be able to easily make its escape. Instead, however, it moves off a ways and then circles- far enough away to be out of range of any of our heroes’ attacks, but close enough to tantalize them- to lure them after it.

“It must be trying to trick us into falling into a trap,” says Hkatha grimly.

“Quick, let’s fall for it,” answers Vann-La wryly.

The party pursues.

***

The dragon leads them on a merry chase. Almost two hours go by before it finally lets them catch up with it.

And when they do, they are disconcerted to find that its face has changed. 

Now its tongue lolls out like a pug’s. Its eyes bulge and are constantly rolling; they don’t seem to focus evenly on anything, nor do they track together. Brightly colored- feathers? Fur? Scales? Our heroes can’t quite be sure- run off the dragon’s back and wings. 

It laughs as they approach, weapons in hands. “There is no longer any need for combat!” it cries. “I have tested your mettle, and found you worthy!”

“Gee, thanks,” Iggy retorts sarcastically. “Give us one good reason why we shouldn’t cut you down now!”

The dragon’s laughter booms through the lush forest again. “I will give you a name, a most important and precious name to you! A name connected to the beginning of your foe...”

“Arawn, right? Yeah, we already know his name.”

The dragon laughs again, and says, “No- Dawn.”

_Who the hell is Dawn?_ wonders Hkatha. A moment later, he voices his question.

The dragon’s response is circuitous. “She is the start of it all! Too many betrayals, and now too many beauties. Ahh, too many, too many. He has been betrayed too many times, and only once. Infinity and solitude. _There are too many of her._ For too long- too short. It seems like forever. Too many betrayals- she betrayed me. _They_ betrayed me! _SHE_ betrayed me!”

“Well, that’s clear,” remarks Hkatha in the following silence. 

“I am a fey oracle,” the dragon retorts. “What do you expect?”

“If you have something to tell us,” Ligir sighs, “please, just do so. If you have advice, give it to us. If you’re just playing around, just knock it off.”

The dragon howls laughter again. “Advice? Aye, here’s a piece of advice for you. _Before you go to Tirchond, you must have the Silver Rose.”_

***

They can’t make heads or tails of what the dragon is trying to tell them, at least not much, at least not yet. There are two things that they keep in mind, though: _the Silver Rose_ and _Dawn._ But what do they mean?

While they think it over, the party decides that they might as well get back to the pursuit of the goblins that they were tracking. They did come from uncomfortably close to the fey crossing into the real world; the chance that the Hand is moving on the Feywild as well as the material plane seems worth investigating. 

The party ends up following a waterway replete with frolicking nixies. The fey confirm that the goblins are in uniforms with a hand motif. Our heroes continue along, and more of the nixies help guide them to a dark passage that leads into the Feywild’s parallel to the Underdark- the Feydark.

The nixie paints a picture of the Feydark as a terrifying, mysterious, deadly place. The Feywild is a lot like the world, only moreso. Trees are taller, more alive, give better shade, harder wood. Wilderness is wilder, more untamed, more dangerous.

The Feydark is deeper, more convoluted, more frightening than the mortal world’s Underdark. It is almost a living thing unto itself. The tunnels might change while a group travels through them, unable to find the way out- because it no longer exists. Worst of all, the rulers of the Feydark are the terrible, deformed giants known as fomorians- equally twisted in mind and body, foul-brained, foul-odored, with crippled limbs and crippled morals.

“If the Six-Fingered Hand is trying to ally with these fomorians,” says Heimall, “we have to stop them. They could be very dangerous allies.”

The party pursues, heading into the tunnel. Their quarry don’t seem to be moving very quickly, so the party hopes that if they move quickly, they might be able to catch up. The darkness quickly closes in behind them, the dappled amber light of the Feywild forest lost far above. Rocks shift treacherously underfoot. Here and there, pools of water or trickles of mud run along the floor or drip down the walls. The smell of loam and earth is gradually replaced by the deep, strong scent of stone. The oppressive sense of thousands of tons of rock above the party presses down on them.

Deeper. Deeper. Further from the sun, from places of hope and joy. 

Until, finally, the party comes into a large chamber with several exits. Something moves towards the party, fast, only half-illuminated by their _light_ spells. 

Iggy doesn’t hesitate. He _shoots from the hip,_ and his bullet blazes out and hits a small creature moving very fast.** It is humanoid, grey-skinned, three-toed and evil-faced, with pointed ears, needle-like teeth and large, glossy eyes. 

“It’s a quickling!” Torinn exclaims.

Behind it, another quickling zips into view- and a trio of hulking, one-eyed creatures move up. 

“And cyclops,” adds Vann-La, whipping out her sword. 

Especially since Iggy already shot one of them in the chest, it doesn’t look like a parlay is going to happen. Instead, a vicious, violent fray ensues, with the quicklings moving with such speed that they are nearly invisible. The cyclops stick to brute force, swinging great battle axes and hurling spears. 

They are strong and wily combatants, but even so, our heroes manage to overcome them after a struggle. The quicklings keep trying to corner Iggy, but fortunately, he is able to _fey step_ and _dimension door_ out of imminent danger. Hkatha uses a _flaming sphere_ positioned very close to himself to keep the quicklings from threatening him without consequence; thanks to his diabolic blood, he is barely singed by the _sphere._

When the battle is over, the party is wounded and their strength is depleted. “We have to rest,” groans Heimall. “But we have to catch up with them!”

“We’ve passed two of their campsites,” says Torinn. “So we’re moving twice as fast as them. We don’t want to come up on them if we can’t take them.”

The party agrees and makes camp. Already they are losing their circadian rhythms; they have no idea how long they have been below ground. They set an uneasy watch after Vann-La finds the goblins’ tracks. Then the rest of them lay out and go to sleep.

_*Next Time:*_ Will our heroes reach the goblins before the goblins reach the fomorians?

*Breath weapon critical hit.

**_Shoot from the Hip_ is Iggy’s paragon path 11th level attack power, which lets him fire a shot _before_ initiative as long as he perceives the enemy and has his gun out and loaded.


----------



## C_M2008

More to come........?


----------



## Baron Opal

Jester needs to realign with this plane of existance. He'll be back.


----------



## Heaven's Thunder Ham

Awesome thread. I hope for more updates!


----------



## the Jester

Haha... this thread is far from over! I'm a long ways behind catching up, I've just had a busy couple of months- moving twice, Burning Man, a 12-day road trip, etc. 

The sad thing is that I now live a couple of hours from the group that makes up the players of this campaign. However, I do plan to visit from time to time, and when I do, I'm sure to run my game! Several of the players have already braced me to make sure. 

The bright side of this is that I'll get to start a new game up here, with old friends that I haven't played with in a long time. Delilah's player (she appears in many of the earlier story hours) is in the area; so is the guy who played Grumpy Fluffbottom, among many others, and the crazy chick who played Maybell Nontrophia (I don't believe that she has actually appeared "on-camera" in any of the SHs yet, but she's been name-dropped once or twice). Other folks are up here too. So we'll see.

The games already run will prolly keep this SH going for another six months or year, and by then I hope to have run another half-dozen sessions with this group. Have no fear- the fight against the Six-Fingered Hand is _far_ from over!


----------



## the Jester

The party’s journey continues through the Feydark. While the caverns beneath the real world are dark and dank, those in the Feydark are completely lightless and dripping with moisture. While strange smells and growths dot the world’s cave walls, the surfaces of the Feydark seem to swarm with strange fungi, and the air is redolent with the smells of the underworld.

Torinn and Vann-La lead the others through a winding succession of tunnels, Cook muttering and periodically harvesting things from the walls and stuffing them into a food bag. At each intersection, and periodically besides, Vann-La bends down to study the cavern floor for signs of the goblins that the party is pursuing. Slowly the distance to the troops of the Six-Fingered Hand continues to close. 

“You know,” Torinn pipes up, scratching the bronze scales of his chin, “if these goblins ally with the fomorians, there really won’t be anywhere safe.”

“Too true,” agrees Iggy. “Listen, we have to stop that from happening. You guys aren’t from here- you don’t understand about the fomorians. They’re evil, insane and _very_ powerful. If the Hand can bring them in on their side, this war were fighting will get even more hopeless. We-“

“Shh!” hisses Vann-La. The eladrin’s mouth snaps shut. 

Ahead, there is a scintillating glow coming from around a corner. 

“What the hell is that?” whispers Hkatha.

The party creeps forward into an open cavern. Torinn stretches his neck forward and peers around the corner- and gasps. His eyes seem to lock on to whatever he is seeing. 

“What’s-“ Vann-La doesn’t have time to finish her thought. Something dark suddenly flies overhead, slashing her with a claw and knocking her prone! The elf gives a surprised cry, and chaos erupts. 

Two dark winged forms keep flying by and attacking. Horns, teeth, claws- all rip at the party. When they move forward into the lit area, they stagger as hypnotic, flowing colors draw their attention in, slowing and dazing them. 

Then, to make things worse, scintillating beams of multicolored light shoot out, blinding both Torinn and Hkatha.

“What the hell is that thing?” shrieks the tiefling. 

“Some kind of snail,” Torinn answers, shaking his head to try to clear it and firing a _sacred flame_ at it. The holy power blasts it, but barely harms it through its thick shell. In the shadows of the scintillating color, the dragonborn can make out- _Does it have multiple heads?_ “I think it has multiple heads,” he gasps. He can’t tear his eyes from the scintillating colors of its shell.

“Watch out!” Vann-La cries. “There’s some kind of plum-colored mold on the ground!”

The snail surges forward into the patch of mold. A burst of russet spores rises up, and those too close gag and cough. 

“Russet mold!” warns Cook, recognizing the stuff by its smell. “Oi, not good to eat!”

If a dwarven cook thinks it’s no good, it must really be no good.

*WHAM!!* 

Vann-La sprawls back with a grunt. Picking herself up, she growls, “It has multiple heads, all right- but they’re _flail_ heads!”

“Of course!” Sta’Ligir exclaims. “It’s a flail snail!”

“Oi, now that’s good eating!” Cook says enthusiastically. “At least, if it’s not too old. Too old, it gets too tough and rubbery. I will make us a good sauce of butter and garlic, and even if it is a little chewy, we-“

“Shut up and KILL IT!” cries Hkatha, blasting it with a _force orb._

Cook slips into the shadows. The two flying things keep making swooping passes, clawing and biting viciously as they go by. The dwarf frowns, shielding his eyes from the shimmering colors long enough to resolve them: gargoyles. _No good to eat,_ he thinks mournfully, then hurls a shuriken at one as it flashes past him. _Thunk!_ A solid hit to the neck, and Cook _chameleons_ himself. Snarling and howling, the gargoyle flies overhead- but cannot seem to find him. 

Finally, the party seems to find their balance. Vann-La roars, _“COME AND GET IT!!”_ The enemies converge on her, only to face a withering series of attacks from the party. Both gargoyles are badly wounded and seem to freeze into a petrified state, while the snail takes blow after blow. Vann-La’s _tide of iron_ cracks its shell as it flails wildly about with its deadly heads. 

Torinn charges in, taking it from the side. His spiked chain cracks forward like a whip, smashing the flail snail in the stump from which its flail heads emerge, and there is a sickening smack. Fluids and grey flesh splatter everywhere; one of the flail heads actually falls off. The scintillating colors flowing on its shell abruptly stop.

Hkatha fires a _scorching burst_ at the two petrified gargoyles. “Those things are regenerating!” he cries. Then the tiefling’s eyes widen. _No effect! They must turn to stone so that they are resistant to damage while they heal!_

But now that the snail is dead, the entire party can turn their attention to the gargoyles. Even in their rocky form, they are soon reduced to rubble. 

After a brief respite, the party hurries past the cavern of the snail in hot pursuit of the goblins.

***

The path heads onward and downward, then twists up a steep slope of scree. Rocks slide out from under their feet, and only Sta’Ligir’s _feather fall_ prevents a potentially deadly fall. They reach the top of the slope and move for several hours down a long, very tall passage. The walls have scintillating luminescent crystals within them; digging them out is a difficult task that proves too time-consuming, given the circumstances. The crystals shed a dim yellow glow throughout the passage, which the group follows for six exhausting hours.

“We should forge ahead without too much of a rest,” Vann-La opines when they take a brief rest, taking a drink from her waterskin.

“I agree.” Heimall takes a deep breath. “If we hurry up, we’ll catch the goblins. If we take our sweet time, we won’t.”

The group continues their journey, finally leaving the tall tunnel behind as they move into a cluster of four chambers, each roughly circular and about 30’ across. 10’ wide passages connect them in a square patters. Makeshift barriers of thick fungal material, hard as wood, make it obvious that this is another checkpoint. 

Indeed- it is manned by a pair of spear-wielding cyclopes and three trolls. A fierce battle breaks out, with blazing explosions of flame raining down in a terrific display of arcane might from Hkatha and Iggy. The trolls hit hard and are hard to keep down, and the cyclopes fight valiantly, but in the end, our heroes triumphantly defeat the last of them.  They leave one cyclops alive to question. 

The cyclops turns out to be named Bortheleze, and once his position becomes obvious to him, he chooses to guide our heroes after the goblins- who he confirms are indeed trying to ally with the fomorian King Thrumbold- rather than face execution. 

“How long ago did they pass through?” demands Cook.

“About a day,” Bortheleze replies.

“And how far away are the fomorians?”

“About four days.”

The party hurries on, force marching for several more hours before finally making camp and resting. After all, they still have a fair amount of distance to close. Once they wake, still tired but ready to go, they move along. They walk through an area of caves full of increasing amounts of fungi, and soon into a great chamber burgeoning with huge mushrooms and puffballs bigger than any of our heroes. 

“This cave is home to a clan of myconids,” explains the party’s cyclops guide. “They will probably not emerge, since I am guiding you.”

“What are myconids?” asks Heimall. 

“Mushroom folk.”

***

The party presses on. If their information is accurate, and if the goblins aren’t hurrying too much, the heroes should be nearly upon them. 

And, as they round a corner passage, they spy the goblins ahead.

_*Next Time:*_ Slap that Hand!


----------



## the Jester

With a roar, Vann-La charges forward. She smites the first hobgoblin a mighty blow, sending it sprawling in a splatter of blood. A _fireball,_ hurled by Iggy from his _necklace of fireballs_, explodes in the thick of the enemy. 

Pandemonium breaks out. Goblins scream in fear and pain, running every which way as Torinn strides into their midst, _splitting the sky._ 

Bugbear overseers shout commands, rallying the Six-Fingered Hand troops, but the party presses in hard and fast. Eldritch flames blast them; hobgoblins scream, on fire, and dance briefly before they fall.

In the chaos, Cook tricks one of the bugbears with a _bait and switch,_ and while the enraged goblinoid gnashes its teeth and bleeds, he slips a velvet bag from its belt, unnoticed even by the sharp-eyed elf. Then again, she is distracted by laying waste to the enemy around. 

They try their best, but the Six-Fingered Hand troops are no match for the adventurers. These are foes that our heroes have battled for years- foes that they have driven away by the thousands, preserving their adoptive home city from a siege of years. Foes that they have slain in numberless hordes, foes that they know almost as well as they know themselves, after all the time that they have shared. 

No small band of goblinoids has a chance against them. Not anymore.  

In less than 20 seconds, Vann-La spits the last bugbear on her sword and watches as dark blood bubbles out of its mouth. The Kree elf sneers as she lets its body fall to the ground. And then the only remaining sound is our heroes’ breath. The only remaining movement to be seen is Cook, checking to ensure that the enemy is all dead.

A brief pause to catch their breath and search, and then the party turns around and starts the long ascent back to the surface of the Feywild.

***

“Remember,” sighs Heimall, “back in the day, when we were fleeing Chebonnay and a single orc gave us trouble?”

Iggy smiles. “Yep. That damned orcish murderer...”

“Before my time,” comments Hkatha.

“It was when we were en route to the tunnels under the mountains,” explains Cook. “We run from the Hand when they come to squish Chebonnay. We try to get away by boat, but oi, they stop us. We had to run overland. We stopped in a village on the way, and this orc took us all on.”

“Then,” Iggy picks up the story, “we went under the mountains and through the xvart city of Xvaangensleff, where we rescued Nowhere Jones from those little blue bastards.”

Hkatha purses his lips. “Who? Oh, wait, wasn’t there a play about him?”

“Yeah, or something,” mutters Vann-La. 

***

“You know what the most interesting part of this is?” asks Sta’Ligir. 

“What’s that?” Heimall replies. 

“These tunnels that we’re ascending are _different_ from the ones we came down in.”

“What do you mean?” 

“Just that,” Iggy nods. “They aren’t the same. They’ve _changed._”

“He’s right,” nods Vann-La. “There are side passages that didn’t exist before, and others that were there on the way down that aren’t anymore.”

“Let’s just hope,” Cook whispers, “that we can still get out. Oi!”

***

After several days of their passage upward, the party is beginning to grow weary and footsore. The pervasive wetness on their skin and in their clothing, the deep darkness, the scuttling of insects and strange cave centipede, the smell of mold and fungus- everything conspires to depress our heroes, to fill them with anxiety. 

Then the noise starts. 

At first only Vann-La can discern it, but as the group moves further up the tunnels, they all start to notice a strange clicking sound coming from ahead.

”What the hell is that?” mutters Heimall. 

Ligir grimaces. “I’ve never heard it before,” he states, “but I’ve heard of it. That clicking...” He trails off for a moment, then finishes: “It sounds like hook horrors.”

Vann-La glances his way. “What,” the Kree asks, “is a hook horror?”

The wizard sighs. “Trouble,” he says.

And he’s right. About two hours later, the party is descending a fairly steep slope. A passage to the side seems to be the source of the clicking. The party edges as far away from it as they can as they move, but clearly they aren’t far enough away.

Three hook horrors emerge as the party is halfway past their cave.

“Oh crap!” exclaims Iggy. 

His reflexes have grown acute with months of practice. Before anyone has a chance to react, his sunpowder pistol is in his hand and he _shoots from the hip._ The weapon’s report is monstrously loud in the confines of the Feydark, and the lead horror staggers from the blow. 

“Get them!” screams Iggy. “They’re coming right for me!!” He yanks a bead from his _necklace of fireballs_ and hurls it. An explosion of fire catches all three of them. 

The front ranks of the party are turning, and Vann-La is already rushing up the slope to engage the horrors. “COME AND GET IT!!” she bellows, and two of them lurch towards her. She swings her blade, but it bites only carapace on the first monster. 

The horrors respond with alacrity and sincerity.

They are strange, almost beetle-like humanoid things with long, vicious hooks at the end of their ‘arms’. One swings both into Vann-La and then hurls her bodily away. She gives a surprised shout and she skids and slides down the slope. Another hooks Torinn and jerks him towards the beasts. The third one sinks a hook deep into Heimall’s side. He screams in pain as buckets of blood begin to pour from him. 

The one that tossed Vann-La away advances towards Iggy.

And while our heroes are focused on the horrors, they fail to note the new combatant coming- drawn in, perhaps by the noise and the light. But when it finally comes close enough, Iggy’s eyes grow wide. 

It’s a lizard, but it is huge- as tall as a dwarf, though not so broad, with long ears. Sparks dance around it. 

It is bright yellow. 

_Oh no,_ thinks Iggy. _It’s one of the legendary giant yellow shocker lizards!_

*“PIKA!!!”* the lizard cries. And-

*ZOT!!* 

_*Next Time:*_ Will our heroes escape the Feydark?


----------



## Rikandur Azebol

Och, my, God. They're doomed !


----------



## the Jester

The snap and pop of electricity surrounds the giant yellow shocker beast. Bolts of lightning arc from one of its shoulders to the other. Once again it voices its strange war cry: “PIKA!”* A sizzling yellow bolt of lightning shoots out from it as the smell of ozone fills the air. Iggy screams and dances as the bolt transfixes him, then staggers as it ceases. 

Meanwhile, the hook horrors continue their relentless assault. The one advancing on Iggy reaches him and lashes out, the hooks at the ends of its arms pulling him in closer to the terrible monster. Dazed from the lightning bolt, the wizard can do nothing to defend himself. The horror looms over him, raising another hook. The second hook horror presses its attack on Heimall, and the warlord is hard-pressed to escape a lethal blow. Parrying one hook with _Throat-Ripper,_ he is unable to fully dodge the other- and it rips a huge wound in his thigh. Vann-La scrambles to her feet and back up the slope towards her adversary, meeting its attack boldly. Somehow, the Kree warrior is able to withstand her attacker’s flurry of hook attacks without being hit. She parries and dodges expertly, using every ounce of skill that she has developed over the years. 

Torinn utters a _healing word_, saving the faltering Heimall. Then the dragonborn begins another prayer, imploring Lester to make him into a _beacon of hope_ even as Cook moves in on the flanks of one of the hook horrors. Catching it between herself and Vann-La, the dwarf gives it a mighty whack with his frying pan, then knocks it _into harm’s way_, allowing Vann-La to land another devastating blow on the creature. 

Sta’Ligir, meanwhile, _fey steps_ away from the horror trying to take him apart. The effects of the lizard’s electric attack are starting to wear off on him, and he glances in its direction. _It’s got to go,_ he thinks. 

The horror that Cook and Vann-La are flanking swings around to show its ire to the dwarf. Vann-La cries, “Don’t ignore me!” and _inexorably advances_ on it. It tries to parry her attack with one of its hooks, but she turns a head cut into a gutting maneuver at the last second, and the beast falls. She keeps moving, smashing into another one. Then she shifts immediately into the _Kree battle dance_ and continues moving, finally reaching the shocker lizard and thrusting the tip of her sword into its shoulder. It screams, “PIKA!!” as blood gushes out. 

And then it releases a _shock pulse_ that explodes all around it, sending bolts of lightning everywhere around it. 

Our heroes throw themselves flat, leap to the side or just plain get lucky. The shock pulse doesn’t hit _any_ of them. The hook horrors aren’t so lucky- one of them is jigged like a puppet by the lightning, and when the shock releases it, it falls dead and smoking to the ground. 

The last hook horror rushes towards Iggy, determined to pursue its prey. “Crap,” the wizard has time to say, and then the horror is close enough to strike, sinking its hooks into his torso and pulling him to it. He cries out in renewed agony- then focuses his mind and casts _fire shroud,_ blasting the horror.

It’s just not Iggy’s day. The flames lick around him in all directions, but the hook horror somehow avoids them all. The wizard squirms, trying desperately to escape- to no avail. The horror’s head, a strange mix of beetle and vulture, leers above him. 

_Oh crap,_ he thinks, as its razor-sharp beak opens. 

And Vann-La charges into it from behind, even as Torinn uses his other _healing word_ on Iggy. The battered, bleeding wizard shakes with the impact of the Kree on the horror that is holding him. It screeches in rage- and glares at him.

Meanwhile, Heimall runs the shocker lizard through as the start of a _white raven onslaught_. It staggers back.

“Pika?” is squeals. 

And then it falls to the ground, slain.

Iggy stares at the hook horror as it tries to bite him. The wizard throws his arms up to fend off the scissoring beak. “Aargh!” he screams, as the thing bites his arm badly.

And then it collapses. The effort of attacking one last time proves too much for it.

With a groan, Iggy pries himself from the hooks. The party staggers together and Torinn and Heimall apply healing, each with their own style: Lesterite prayer or exhortations not to let the Empire down. 

The Empire needs them. It _needs_ them.

***

Almost out. The party is almost out of the Feydark- the Feywild equivalent of the Underdark of the material world. They keep moving, and soon the omnipresent darkness is pierced by sunlight. 

The party emerges, and immediately splits up. Hkatha has several important appointments that he must be in Fandelose for. He should have just enough time to get back to the fey crossing and then to the city. The others stay in the Feywild, to try to follow up on this “black unicorn” that Iggy has mentioned on several occasions. 

After all, this is the most likely place for it to be. 

The party quickly finds a lead- a group of aquatic fey claim that they can help, if the party can clear an obstruction from the waterway upstream. This proves to be a relatively easy task. 

The party’s task accomplished, they return to the nixies, who tell them that the black unicorn sometimes visits an area called Black Mirror Falls. After a night’s rest, the party follows a nixie guide upstream into a canyon. The nixie chatters tirelessly while it leads them to the far end of the canyon, where a tall waterfall drops several hundred feet from above into the canyon. The nixie departs, wishing the group well, and they begin ascending a wet trail along the edge of the canyon. 

And then a black unicorn steps out of the falls about midway up.

“That’s got to be it!” exclaims Torinn.

“It’s beautiful,” Vann-La says. 

The unicorn stares directly at them. Slowly the party advances up the trail towards it. 

“Uh, hello,” Vann-La greets the noble beast as they reach it.**

It tosses its mane and snorts.

“We understand that you’re angry. We were wondering, you know, who you’re angry with. Is it the Six-Fingered Hand? They’ve started sending troops here, to your land, and...” She halted. “How are we going to know what it wants us to know, anyway,” she asks. “This might be more-”

“I can talk just fine,” the unicorn says in Elven. 

“Oh.” Vann-La shrugs. “Okay.”

“So,” Torinn says, “if you’re opposed to the Hand, then-”

“I did not say that,” the unicorn interrupts, “although I am certainly not fond of them.”

“Why not?”

An extraordinarily disdainful snort. “Goblins. Orcs. Gnolls. Need I say more?”

“A good point,” Heimall concedes. 

“So it’s not the Six-Fingered Hand making you angry?” Vann-La asks.

Snort.

”Then who- or what- is? Can we help?”

“The covenant has been broken,” the unicorn announces. 

“Are you mad at _us?_” the Kree tries again.

“Not you. Her. The beautiful sisters. They betrayed us. Again and again.”

“Who are these sisters?” asks Heimall.

”Could it be Garnet?” wonders Torinn. “She’s a goddess, but there are three of her- triplets.”

The unicorn tosses its glossy mane again. “Too many of them. Too many of the same. Each one a betrayal.”

“Are they really sisters?” asks Heimall. 

“They are forgotten by most,” the black unicorn states.

“Why are you telling us this? How can we help?”

“Because you shall go to the Silver Isle. But first you must find the silver rose.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” says Vann-La.

“Find the rose!”

***

In the fey marshes, the party encounters a strange group of fey foes: strange will-o-wisps of light, a form of mist that tries to suck their blood out and a group of large bloodsucking oozes that Heimall recognizes as mutant bloodbloaters, which Cook claims are a delicacy amongst his people. They drive off the wisps, slay the mist and the bloodbloaters, and refuse to give Cook enough time harvest the oozes. 

Finally, they decide that they have spent enough time in the Feywild for the time being.

_*Next Time:*_ Hkatha’s meetings- and an assassination attempt on him!


*Assuming that you have access to a 3e Monster Manual, open to the “shocker lizard” entry. Now imagine the picture yellow. You’ll see exactly what I mean. 

**This is a funny story- Iggy is the one who wanted to seek out the black unicorn, and his player had just gone home before this encounter. We use a “fade into the background” approach to absent players, for the record. So this encounter was pretty funny, since Iggy didn’t exactly take part in it!


----------



## the Jester

Even while on leave from his military duties, Hkatha Ilmixie is a noble. He has obligations to meet on many levels, and he cannot simply ignore them all to fart around the Feywild. Ironically, however, the most important commitment that he has involves General Argos- even if it isn’t a strictly military matter. More... political. He certainly does not want to miss his chance to help guide the ship of state through the turbulent waters of the present times!

So it is that Hkatha, a few days after leaving the others behind the Feywild, makes his way into General Argos’ office. After the obligatory exchange of pleasantries, Hkatha gets down to business. “I assume,” he says, “you are aware of Councilor Willow’s concerns.”

General Argos nods. “She has been most forthcoming in voicing them.”

“You must admit that she has a point. Do you think the time has come to restore civilian rule?”

“I will restore civilian rule once the threat has passed. Remember, though we have destroyed the army attacking us, the Six-Fingered Hand has many more forces in the area.”

“Have you had any word from other cities or forces that may have survived?”

“Other than Grand Marshall Prieve’s legion, no,” the general replies. “That is a large part of the problem- we may be alone. I cannot turn the city over to that fractious council until we are safe. We know that at least some of the nearer cities have been razed or enslaved.”

“Enslaved!” exclaims Hkatha.

General Argos nods. “Northshore, a couple of hundred miles away, seems to have several thousand people being used as labor under the control of Hand forces.”

“Have you considered liberating it?”

“It’s too risky. If we attack them there, other Hand forces will be alerted to our survival. We can’t afford another siege like the last one yet- we need time to rebuild our defenses and, most of all, we need more people. Boys and girls need time to grow into men and women. We cannot replace our forces as fast as the enemy can. If we send a large force to Northshore, we leave Fandelose ill-defended. Although,” he admits, “we are considering certain... options.”

Hkatha changes the subject. “Have you heard of the Silver Isle?”

General Argos nods. “Tirchond, I believe it’s called. But it is far from here. Why do you ask?”

“I think some of our answers are there. We had two different encounters with somewhat oracular fey creatures- first a dragon, and then a black unicorn. Both mentioned Tirchond, either by name or by title, and each mentioned treachery and beautiful women. The dragon also gave us the name Dawn, which seems to be connected to Arawn’s origin somehow. It might be possible to draw Councilor Willow’s attention to Tirchond and away from Fandelose if we give her the right pieces of information.”

Dryly, Argos asks, “Aren’t you supposed to be on leave?” 

“Yes, sir. We are, uh, vacationing. But the Six-Fingered Hand isn’t resting; how can we?”

“I would like a complete written report on these encounters,” the general states. “I want to know everything that they told you.”

“There’s something else,” Hkatha says. “There was mention of a silver rose that we need to get before we go. It seems as though it is somehow connected to the goddess Garnet.”

“There’s a famous gnomish Garden of Delight at the nearby city of Varelose. It was supposed to have a number of unique and wondrous plants there. Unfortunately, the city fell to the Hand some time ago.” Argos smiles. “Since you aren’t using your leave anyway, I’m recalling you from it- you and your friends. I want you to go to this gnomish garden, but we’re going to come up with a cover story for you, so that if we have another Millbury, you aren’t intercepted.”

“Yes, sir!”

***

After fighting their way through strange will-o-wisps and bizarre swamp oozes, our heroes receive a _sending_ from Hkatha: _Our leaves are up. General Argos has a mission for us. Come back immediately._

A few days later, the rest of the party rejoins Hkatha in Fandelose to be briefed on both their real mission- find the rose- and their cover mission: scout Varelose for signs of slaver activity or resistance to the Hand’s reign. The party takes a day to prepare; during this time, Hkatha convinces the party to chip in for the _linked portal_ ritual, and Heimall meets up with the mercenaries he employs under Borgan Tyre, receives their report and buys them several casks of booze to keep them happy (on top of their regular pay, of course). 

A well-rested party then sets out for Varelose the next morning in high spirits. Their excursion to the Feywild was very fruitful, and they seem to have a good sense of direction for their next few days or weeks. 

_And eventually,_ Heimall vows to himself, _we’ll get to you, Arawn. We’ll find you and slay you- just like we slew your general, Heshwat the Eviscerator!_

***

The party travels along less traveled routes, taking a little longer yet hoping to avoid any entanglements with the Six-Fingered Hand. They move through the valley that cuts between a few of the rugged hills off to the northwest of Fandelose, passing alongside a small creek jumping with fish. The summer sun beats down on them from above. Snarls of thick shrubs and brambles wind aimlessly along the valley floor. 

After a time, a small force of strange pygmies of some kind of vegetable matter rise up to block the party’s path. They do not respond to attempts to communicate, instead assaulting our heroes. The party cuts them down with relative ease, despite the presence of a patch of foul-smelling poisonous russet mold.

Out of the small valley and onto a trail, along a rocky ridge and down behind a line of tall pines. The sun is setting by this time, so the party makes camp as the western sky goes crimson. 

In the morning, the party shares some dwarven “rock biscuits”- very hard biscuit-like things that Cook insists are edible- and then breaks camp. The group continues along the trail, which is becoming a mountain road. Of course, this means that there is a mountain on one side and a cliff on the other.

Up ahead, a curve; and from around it, the party can hear snarling and growling noises. “Maybe we aren’t the only ones using the road,” Torinn says. 

The party draws back, and Captain Ligir casts _invisibility_ on Cook. “Now sneak up and see what’s there, then come back and report,” he whispers. 

“Oi, okay,” the dwarf whispers back, then creeps away noiselessly. A few moments later, his voice murmurs, “There is evidence of gnolls around the bend, but they seem to have moved somewhere else. There is another curve just ahead that they could be hiding behind.”

“Let’s check it out,” Vann-La says, drawing her sword.

The party advances. Indeed, there is garbage and gnoll feces evident. “They were just here,” mutters Heimall. “Where are they?” 

Vann-La glances at the steep mountain face leading up. “They climbed,” she says. She begins to pursue. Heimall joins her. 

Then the rain of arrows starts.

_*Next Time:*_ Barbarians from heaven!


----------



## the Jester

In the hills of the Western Provinces live a people much mocked by the folk of the cities. These hill folk are large, broad-featured and flat-nosed. Their skins tend towards rocky grays or earthy brown tones. Standing much taller than most humans, these folk are known for their mountain liquor, called moonshine or white lightning, and for being good at all manner of physical sports. Called _goliaths,_ these folk are said to have once been human, but generations of interbreeding have led to them becoming their own kind. It is said that the blood of giants courses within the veins of the goliaths- an adulteration so strong that, eventually, it left them a separate species from either of their progenitors. 

Of course, maybe that is all talk. 

Shakgar doesn’t really care about any of that. His rage blazes within him. His brother will be avenged.

Shakgar is a powerful figure, hulking and huge, garbed in shaggy hides and rugged boots. He is one of those aforementioned hill folk, and he is hunting. He has been on the trail for seven days now- since the Six-Fingered Hand swooped down on his village, killing and burning. 

Shakgar’s brother, Keelgar, died in the raid. The fire in Shakgar’s heart kindled to life, burning as hot as molten iron in his chest. Thinking of his brother’s murder, his teeth clench and his neck muscles tighten like metal wires wound together to form a thick cable. 

He has almost caught up with them- the damn gnolls. They are dropping down from the hills, heading lower, towards the plains. No doubt they hope to escape any retribution from the goliaths. Shakgar has carefully kept himself concealed from them, stalking them as they traversed the rugged foothills along a narrow path. 

Following the gnolls up a saddle and then along a descent that turned their path into a mountainside road with a long drop on one side, the barbarian was pleased when they stopped and began setting up an ambush of their own against someone ahead of them. Several of the gnolls scaled the cliff edging the path they are on, ascending to a ledge about 30’ up, while the others dropped back and prepared for combat. Shakgar grinned to himself and began climbing up higher, above the gnolls’ elevated position. As they positioned themselves to strike, so too did Shakgar.  

***

As he attains the ledge, reaching it first because of his _boots of spider climbing,_ Heimall immediately sees a gnoll. “Gnolls!” he shouts, although the party already has a pretty good idea of that. Vann-La joins him at the top- or at least the level- almost immediately, springing forward with her sword whisking free of its scabbard. A _tide of iron_ pushes the gnoll back towards the edge of the cliff- and a deadly fall.

Below, the gnolls around the corner start shooting arrows. The _invisible_ Cook darts around the corner and flings a shuriken into one of the gnolls’ face. It howls in pain and manages to loose an arrow at him, but the dwarf tumbles back and avoids the shot. The other gnolls don’t even see what happened.* Then Iggy steps up to the corner and launches a _fireball_ into their midst with devastating effect, burning all the gnolls. The stench of burnt fur fills the air, and the gnoll that Cook hit collapses. 

The party has an initial advantage, despite the gnolls’ clumsy attempt to gain surprise and ambush them. They press it. Vann-La keeps advancing, pushing her foe towards the edge of the cliff, while Heimall lunges forward like a viper, thrusting with his magical glaive. Torinn is still climbing. Below, the others are wreaking havoc amongst the gnolls below. Recognizing the emblem of the Six-Fingered Hand on their foes, our heroes are merciless. 

And then, a very strange thing happens. 

***

Shakgar pulls forth his greataxe. His mouth begins to froth as he gnashes his teeth. His body starts to shake. With a roar, he lunges forward, intending to leap down upon a gnoll from above. 

His foot catches on the way, and instead he sprawls face-first down the hillside in a shower of dirt and rocks.

***

The newcomer, whoever he is, arrives dramatically in a hail of gravel. He bounces and flips to a halt in a cloud of dust, coughing and with his face all skinned up.

_He’s huge,_ thinks Vann-La as she runs another gnoll through. 

“Who are you?” demands Heimall, even as he and Vann-La catch another gnoll with a _hammer and anvil_ maneuver. The huge figure shakes his bald black head and rises up. He starts moving immediately towards one of the gnolls, picking up speed appallingly fast. 

“I’M GONNA DUNK ON YOU!” he howls, his grip shifting as he swings his axe at his target.

*SPLORCH!*

The gnoll’s head flies away from its crumpling body, and Shakgar roars and charges at the next one.

_Barbarians from Heaven,_ thinks Heimall, blinking.

Torinn finally manages to attain the ledge, cursing and grumbling. He spits lightning at the last remaining gnoll on top and then, with a heavy sigh, starts climbing down the slope again as fast as he can. 

It takes only seconds for the gnolls to break.

***

“So,” says Iggy, “thanks for your help. Now, who are you? Talk!” 

Shakgar glares at the wizard. “Shakgar!” he announces.

“Is that your name, Shakgar?” asks Heimall.

“Shakgar!”

“What are you doing out here, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Avenging my brother.” The goliath’s voice seems to boom from the great coliseum of his chest. “Those, and others like them, with the symbol of the hand, came and attacked my people.”

Torinn says, “They are called the Six-Fingered Hand. They are our foes, as well, Shakgar. Perhaps we can join forces.”

“We have already won great victories over them,” Heimall asserts. “We are seeking allies, always, to help fight them. Why not join forces?”

“We _can_ kill more of them together than apart,” Shakgar admits. “Very well. Do you know where there are more of them?”

“Pretty much everywhere.” The warlord shrugs.

“We’re actually looking for something to help us fight their leader, ultimately,” Torinn says. “Then, maybe a trip to Northshore, where a bunch of our people are enslaved by some of the Hand’s forces.”

“I will join you,” Shakgar decides, “especially since it involves killing these Hand bastards.”

_*Next Time:*_ Our heroes reach the ruins of Varelose!


*Cook has the utility power that lets him re-hide after he breaks hiding 1/encounter. IDHMBIFOM.


----------



## the Jester

With their newfound friend Shakgar (who eats quite a lot, Cook notices) moving restlessly with them, the party spends the next four days hiking towards the ruined city of Varelose before it finally hoves into view near the top end of the valley that their mountain trail spills out into. Once a thriving metropolis, the skeleton of the city shows signs of having been largely put to the torch. Long-dead bodies, undisturbed for years, lie about; clearly, the city’s people were put to the sword. The encamped armies of the Hand must have devoted time to rapine and pillage, from the looks of things. 

But three years have passed since the sack of Varelose, and even from a distance our heroes can see that a few brave and hardy souls have returned and rebuilt a life. They have to live somewhere, after all. Vann-La watches for a time; she reports that the people she has spotted have been isolated or living in small clusters of a few dozen people at most; the party surmises that larger groups might draw unwanted attention.

“I would guess that there are about 200 people living here now,” Vann-La says as she surveys the ruin. 

Hkatha informs the party, “In its heyday, Varelose had a population of somewhat over 10,000.”

“Look at that,” Vann-La says, pointing. “A ruined cathedral. And that’s the remains of the city’s keep, over there. And check out that tower- it’s got some kind of dark haze surrounding it.”

“Well, we probably want to stay away from that,” opines Torinn. 

The party moves into the city, making at least passing efforts to do so unseen. They notice the sign of the Six-Fingered Hand carved or crudely painted in a number of locations. At least one of the crude paintings is far more recent than the others, left within the last few months, and Vann-La suggests that even the smaller groups of survivors are subject to periodic Hand marauders.

“Should we just approach some of the survivors?” wonders Iggy. “Maybe some of them know where this gnomish garden was.”

Heimall nods. “We should let them know we’re out there as an outpost of the Empire that still stands against the Hand. We should get as many of them as possible to go back to Fandelose. They’ll be safer, and they will be able to contribute to the defense.”

“I wonder if there are any gnomes left here.”

“Now _that_ is a very good question,” replies Hkatha. “If there are, they would certainly be able to help us.”

***

Before they entered the city, Vann-La had marked a route to one of the small groups of survivors that they saw. Now they approach those folk, quickly showing that they are not Hand agents and, in fact, are here to help. They direct the survivors to journey to Fandelose, but they also question them.

“Do you know about the gnomish Garden of Delights that was in your city before the Hand came?” asks Heimall.

“Sure,” the peasant replies. “It was at the keep. A long time ago, this city was the capitol of its own kingdom. The god-king established the garden in his back yard, full of wondrous plants and trees. It was said that he even had a Tree of Heaven for a while.”

“Wait a minute,” objects Torinn. “I thought this was a _gnomish_ garden.”

“Yep. The ol’ god-king was a gnome.”

“Do you know anything about that tower with the black haze around it?” Heimall inquires.

“I know enough to stay away from it. It is inhabited by a terrible necromancer named Krezjarl.”

“That probably explains the weird black haze,” comments Iggy. 

Shakgar grumbles, “When are we killing something?”

“Oi, let’s go to the ruined keep,” says Cook. 

But it doesn’t even take that long for Shakgar to get his wish. Midway to the hill upon which the keep perches, an ambush comes from alleys to both sides of the party! Ogres, brownscale lizardfolk, a hobgoblin, a kobold- obviously, these villains are agents of the Six-Fingered Hand! 

The ogres rush in, only to find Vann-La and a roaring Shakgar in their way. The brownscales hang back, firing bows and using their excellent mobility to stay away from the front line. Then Heimall crashes forward with an _inspiring war cry_ and engages the hobgoblin. The kobold, whose body seems strangely warped, hangs in the very back and attempts to use strange arcane powers against the party, but keeps missing with them. 

Our heroes begin to advance relentlessly, pushing the ogres and hobgoblin back towards the archers and the kobold. Iggy, at the back of the party, starts hurling arcane blasts into the enemy, then gestures and a pair of magical hands erupt from the floor, grasping two of the brownscales and smashing them together. 

The ogres roar and smash their clubs, but armor, shields and skill turn bone-shattering blows into just bruising ones. Soon the first ogre falls, then the next. The archers keep shooting Vann-La desperately, but Heimall and Torinn heal her. The kobold keeps doing weird stuff that seems to empower his allies, so Heimall grants Shakgar a _knight’s move_ to get him into position and then grants him a _commander’s strike_ that finishes it off. 

Then Heimall rushes up on the lizardfolk archers and runs the first one through. The party continues their relentless advance, and only one of the doomed brownscales manages to escape.

The party stops to catch their breath. “Are we worried about the escapee?” asks Hkatha. 

“Let him bring more,” Shakgar says, his dark face breaking out into a broad smile.

“Oi, there could be a lot of them,” Cook points out.

“Not really,” Vann-La declares. “We would have seen any large groups of troops when we surveyed the city. They were probably just a small scouting or raiding group, detached from a larger force somewhere else.”

Shakgar looks disappointed. 

“Oi, well, let’s keep going towards that garden. Maybe there will be some herbs that I can take to cook with. Or perhaps some good bugs or grubs.”

***

The ruined keep is atop a large hill, probably artificial. It was once magnificent, with three sprawling wings enclosing an open courtyard with stables and a jousting range. Now the walls have large holes in them, and some sections of the main building have completely collapsed. 

Behind the ruin is the Garden of Delight. Huge, wildly-overgrown hedges and a riot of different plant types grow within, and at the back is a large rose garden within the larger garden.

“There,” the Kree says. 

The party makes their way towards the rose garden, but then Vann-La raises a hand. “Hold it,” she advises her friends. “See those there?” She points out three large red plants. Each has a central mass with several large, thick stalks coming up from it; and the top of each of the stalks has a multitude of dewdrop-like blobs extruding from it.

“What are those?” asks Cook. “Are they good to eat?”

“No,” says Vann-La. “But they might eat us.”

_*Next Time:*_ The Garden of Delights!


----------



## Mathew_Freeman

Poor old Malford. All that hard work in previous campaigns, all come to naught.


----------



## the Jester

Mathew_Freeman said:


> Poor old Malford. All that hard work in previous campaigns, all come to naught.




So it _appears._


----------



## the Jester

Vann-La hurls a javelin at one of the giant sundews, but it goes wide. 

There is no response. 

“Do you suppose they are sentient?” wonders Hkatha. He calls out in Elven (figuring that it is the language that intelligent plants are most likely to speak): “We come in peace! Hello?”

There is still no response.

Vann-La and Shakgar move forward cautiously as Cook fades into the shadows, sneaking around the side somewhere. The Kree’s perceptions are exceptional; as she moves forward, she detects a tremor in the ground, so faint that she is certain that none of her companions is aware of it. “There’s something underground,” she calls.

The sundews jerk into motion at just that moment. One flails out without appalling reach and misses Vann-La. The second starts shambling slowly towards her. The third is closer, and it heaves itself forward, also lashing out at her.

She hurls another javelin, hitting it with a _disruptive strike,_ and it misses her.

“_Come and get it!_” she howls, and the sundews roll closer to her. She strikes all around her, hewing at the sticky plants. Behind them, a _flaming sphere_ appears, courtesy of Hkatha, and the echo of Iggy’s gun barks in the air. 

Then Shakgar, proving once again that he really likes to attack from above, leaps over a copse of trees and lands next to one of the sundews, bringing his axe down in a blur of motion. Sticky sap splatters all around him. The sundews flail about, trying to drag the heroes down and make the Garden of Delights their final resting place.

“Oi, look!” Cook emerged from his hiding place a moment ago in order to fight, and now he jerks his head to the southeast, where a small, suspicious-looking bank of fog is rolling towards the fight. “Something else is coming!”

“And there’s _still_ something underground!” Vann-La shouts. The vibration is increasing.

Sta’Ligir slays the first of the giant sundews with a _magic missile,_ but even while he does so, one of the others whips its tendrils out, grabbing Shakgar and pulling him through a thorny row of roses. “Aargh!” the barbarian roars, and enters into a _silver phoenix rage_. 

Simultaneously, the underground threat emerges as three ankhegs burst forth from beneath our heroes’ feet!* Cook, Vann-La and Shakgar are all thrown from their feet as the huge insectoid monsters tear into them. 

“It’s up to us wizards!” Captain Ligir calls over to Hkatha.

“You already took out one of these things,” Captain Hkatha replies. “Now it’s my turn!” His _flaming sphere_ rolls forward into one of the other sundews, scorching it. The plant quivers and tries to draw back, but the sticky sap on it catches fire. The thing makes a loud hissing sound as it starts to boil, and it goes limp, dead.

Meanwhile Cook leaps to his feet and manages to push his ankheg friend back a few paces. “Need breathing room!” he cries.

Heimall says, “Let me see if I can draw it off of you for a moment!” He jabs his magical glaive at the ankheg, but it rears back and the attack misses. The ankheg darts forward, biting at him, but the links of his armor take the blow and prevent him from being harmed. He swings the butt of the glaive around and strikes the monster, but it isn’t out of fight yet.

Shakgar, meanwhile, is being dragged off by the last giant sundew. With an enraged howl, he cuts it in two and then scrambles up, panting and looking for a new target. He sees Cook tumbling into flanking on the bug that is trying to chew on Heimall and rushes forward to join the fun, even as the fog bank rolls closer. As it closes around him, it begins to burn his skin. _Acid!_ he thinks, and it just pisses him off even more. 

Torinn bloodies one of the ankhegs with his spiked chain, and the beast burrows back into the earth. But a few seconds later, it comes back up and bites him, knocking him from his feet. “Damn it!” the Dragon of Fandelose roars. “_All bets are off!!_” He strikes the ankheg with his chain, wrapping it around the beast’s neck, and then gives a great tug, drawing the spikes of his chain ruthlessly through the monster’s chitin. Bug juice sprays all over, and the first of the ankhegs falls!

Iggy and Hkatha focus their arcane firepower on the plant shrouded by fog. The fog lifts as it really gets into the fun, trying to devour any meaty figures nearby. The flames of the two wizards’ attacks don’t seem to bother it terribly at first, but this soon changes as they keep pouring it on. Meanwhile, Shakgar slays the second ankheg with a _devastating strike,_ and then Vann-La takes care of the fog-spewing plant with a _steel serpent strike._

“Shakgar!” cries Heimall. “In the name of the Empire, _destroy that bug!_”

And with a final terrific blow, the goliath does so.

Panting, our heroes clean the sap and bug juice off of their weapons. Those that the sundews hit take a few moments to pour dirt onto their stickier surfaces, hoping to cover the sap so that it doesn’t hinder them too badly. Iggy and Hkatha step up, using their arcane might to clean the worst of it off of their allies.

Torinn, meanwhile, walks to the rose garden. At least one section of it has seen better days, what with having had a raging goliath barbarian jerked through it. Even so, it doesn’t take long for him to find a large, healthy-looking rose bush with but a single rose growing on it.

A single _silver_ rose. 

“Hey guys,” the dragonborn calls, “I found something over here!”

The others walk over to the rose. “That looks like a silver rose to me,” nods Hkatha.

“Do we just pick it, or what?” wonders Heimall.

“Oi, this garden may have wondrous herbs for cooking in it,” Cook says, and starts to wander about, searching for them.

Torinn suddenly jerks as if he had been shocked. “Did you hear that?” he exclaims.

“What?” asks Iggy.

“The rose!” Torinn looks at his friends. “You _didn’t_ hear it?” At their blank looks, he exclaims, “It spoke to me!”

***

The Silver Rose of Garnet doesn’t seem inclined to speak to anyone else, at least initially. According to Torinn, it sounds like three voices speaking in unison, all three of them female. Also according to the dragonborn, it wants him to pick it. So he does, and he affixes it to his cloak like a pin. 

“It is a strong and holy relic of Garnet,” he reports to his companions. “Even though I don’t worship her, it will function to channel the sacred powers of my god- Lester- and it might be able to aid us greatly.”

“Well, we need it before we go to Tirchond, at least according to that unicorn,” Heimall says. “Does that mean it’s time to go there?”

“We don’t have a way to get there,” answers Hkatha.

“Maybe,” Cook suggests, “we can find coordinates for a teleport circle there.”

“Not a bad idea,” Iggy says, “if we can figure out where to get them.”

“Well, now what?” asks Heimall. “We’re here to scout, at least ostensibly. Maybe we should check out that tower and the haze around it.”

The party debates for a few moments. Some of them think they should simply head back to Fandelose; others favor going to Northshore in order to free the enslaved people there. After some discussion, they decide to check out the tower, then report in to Colonel Jaxe via _sending_ (as General Argos is probably very busy, and has requested that the heroes follow the chain of command when contacting him) and see what he says.

At one point, someone mentions the name of Arawn (the death knight who leads the Six-Fingered Hand). Torinn sputters, “Hold on- the Rose knew him!”

“What?” exclaims Iggy.

“One of its bearers was involved with him,” Torinn reports, clearly listening to a voice that only he can hear. Then he gasps.

“Her name was Dawn.”

_*Next Time:*_ Our heroes investigate the tower!


*Please note that these were one of my own ankheg versions, not the level 3 types in the MM2- in fact, this encounter happened well before the release of the MM2 and includes two monsters that appeared in it. The versions of the ankheg that I used were 15th level (ankheg earthshakers, for those of you who saw them in the Monster Project) and 10th level (the greenvise fogger, see _Vines_ in the MM2).


----------



## the Jester

I think we're due for a roll call post:

*Vann-La*, Kree (elf) fighter/dreadnought 12
*Sta'Ligir*, eladrin wizard/pistol mage* 12
*Shakgar*, goliath barbarian/bear warrior 11
*"Cook"* (Bum Po), dwarf rogue/flying blade adept 11
*Hkatha Ilmixie*, tiefling wizard/Ilmixie highborn** 11
*Heimall Heinrickson*, human warlord/combat veteran 12
*Torinn*, dragonborn cleric/pit fighter 12

*Homebrewed paragon path.
**Reflavored turathi highborn. The Ilmixie line is a long-established line of pcs in my campaign, with a lot of fun history behind it. Likewise, Torinn's god, Lester, is an old pc. For that matter, so is Garnet- though the player's last game with me was in 1987 or 1988!


----------



## Rikandur Azebol

My my, our PC's seem to grow muscles. 

You write great as ever Jester. What kind of personality the Rose possess ?


----------



## the Jester

You will certainly get more of a picture of the _Silver Rose of Garnet_ over time. It's the first artifact that I used in 4e (although not the last!).

That said, here's another update.

***


“Dawn. That name again- what does it mean? What does it mean to _us?_ And more importantly, what does it have to do with Arawn and the Six-Fingered Hand?”

_You know of her?_

“Yes. We heard her mentioned by a... by an oracle, I guess. In the Feywild.”

_She is a wonderful person._

“She’s still alive?” 

_I have no idea, actually. My sense of the passage of time is not very good._

“And she dated a death knight?”

_What?_

“Arawn- he is a death knight.”

A long pause, and then the _Silver Rose of Garnet_ speaks again, a whisper in Torinn’s mind that only he can hear.

_Oh dear. No, he was a man when I traveled with Dawn. They loved each other so much. I fear that something terrible has happened to him. Are you sure?_

“He is the leader of our enemies, the Six-Fingered Hand. Do you know of them?”

_No._

Torinn sighs and opens his eyes. “It is definitely talking to me,” he reports. “It sounds like it knew Arawn before he was a death knight.”

“Oi, how long ago was that?” asks Cook.

The dragonborn shrugs. “I don’t know. It doesn’t seem to track time very well.” He takes a deep breath and speaks inwardly again. “What can you tell us about him?”

_Little. She met him not too long before I moved on from her possession. He was a strong, good man; he made her very happy. They were very much in love._

“Maybe,” Torinn says aloud, “whatever happened to Dawn is what drove Arawn to become a death knight. The _Rose_ says that he was a good man, at least when they met.”

“I thought that the dragon said that Dawn betrayed someone,” Hkatha interjects. “Right? Something about elven sisters betraying too many people or something?”

_Dawn was a human,_ the _Silver Rose_ tells Torinn.

“Dawn was a human,” the cleric relays to the others.

“Then who are the elven sisters?” wonders Vann-La. 

“Maybe they betrayed Dawn and Arawn,” suggests Cook. 

“Well, the _Rose_ doesn’t know.”

“It doesn’t really matter,” Vann-La states. “It doesn’t change the fact that we need to destroy Arawn and his damned Six-Fingered Hand or civilization will perish.”

***

_What are they doing?_ 

_Standing around talking,_ the shorter gnome signs back. They are communicating using a complex language of gestures and silent body language, one that makes no noise whatsoever. This is a vital skill to have developed over the years of Hand despoilment. _Now they are moving towards the lich’s tower again._

_The _Rose_ is in the right hands, at least._ The silver rose holy symbol clasping his cloak is clearly an emulation of the one in Torinn’s possession, beautifully crafted yet unequal to the real thing. 

Silently, the pair of gnomes moves through the hidden underways of the city, cutting straight through the series of long winding streets through which our heroes tread. They reach a good vantage point from which they can gaze upon Krezjarl’s Tower unseen.

_I hope they succeed,_ the shorter gnome signs. 

_Yes. Dawn’s goodness is an example to all of us who serve Garnet. I have no doubt that she would be elevated into a Saint, if only her spirit were resting._

***

The tower is square, squat, wide, four storeys high. A window on the top level is shuttered closed. The door into the tower is bound with wide bands of bronze and graven with threatening-looking glyphs and characters. A large, heavy knocker of brass is in the center of it. About 25’ up the side of the tower, multiple vents in each wall allow strange puffs of orange smoke to escape.  

“What’s up with that door?” wonders Heimall.

Hkatha examines the arcane glyphs graven around the door. “It is basically the magical equivalent of a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign. I don’t think they actually do anything- I think they are just here to look threatening. It looks like whoever placed them was probably a necromancer.”

“Good!” Shakgar declares. “Something to kill!”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Heimall says. “He could just be here, hurting nobody, minding his own business.”

Shakgar just snorts. 

Torinn knocks on the door. “Hello!” he calls. “Is anybody home?”

The door opens, and the heroes are looking into a large, square room with several human corpses hanging from hooks on the back wall. A trio of scrawny-looking creatures, grotesquely sewn together from the body parts of many others, stands in the room, a seeping chill emanating from them. Behind them, two pale figures with nails driven into their eyes seep black fluid and moan and weep out a dirge. 

Shakgar grins savagely at Heimall. “I told you so!”

“Vann-La!” shouts Heimall. “Get in there! Git!!”* Even as the Kree warrior springs forward, Shakgar enters a _stone bear rage_ and, frothing at the mouth and roaring like a bear, he crashes forward, landing a terrific blow against one of the enemy. Cook rushes in on his heels, unleashing a _blinding barrage_ at the foe. A _fiery burst_ explodes behind the undead, lacing fire across their backs, courtesy of Hkatha.

Inevitably, our heroes push forward, smashing the undead to bits. The weeping undead ululate in despair as Torinn turns the group of enemies, pushing them back and annihilating one of the undead sewing projects. Then Hkatha’s _shock spheres_ and _blinding burst_ go off. Two undead remain, and Shakgar tears through them both. 

“Not bad,” Hkatha quips. The party tries to take a moment to catch their breaths, but suddenly a gloomy, incorporeal figure appears, phasing through the ceiling for a moment before darting back through.

“Crap,” sighs Iggy. “Get ready- I think we’re about to have company.”

Indeed- for the ghostly figure slips down the stairs that rise up the wall of the square tower, followed by a ghastly figure, gaunt, dressed in rotted finery. A great man-shaped contraption of wood, stone and metal clanks along beside him, and he is surrounded by a cloud of stirges. 

“Who disturbs Krezjarl the lich?” the figure hisses.

“Crap,” Iggy repeats.

_*Next Time:*_ Hurray, I got to use a lich in 4th edition!


*_Knight’s move_ and then _commander’s strike_ combo.


----------



## Mathew_Freeman

Fantastic set of updates, Jester, really enjoying them!

Next year I'm planning on coming to Gencon Indy, if you're going and running something I really want to reserve a space at your table. I've been reading your stuff for years now and always enjoyed it.


----------



## the Jester

Mathew_Freeman said:


> Fantastic set of updates, Jester, really enjoying them!
> 
> Next year I'm planning on coming to Gencon Indy, if you're going and running something I really want to reserve a space at your table. I've been reading your stuff for years now and always enjoyed it.




If I go, I'll be happy to save you a space. Unfortunately, I'm not too likely to go- Gencon usually conflicts with some of my other commitments. If you ever make it near me in northern California, though, I'll arrange a special session for ya! (That goes for any of my other readers, too!)


----------



## Rikandur Azebol

Tempter ... You work for the Devil don't You ?


----------



## the Jester

Ligir bows. “I am Captain Ligir of the Imperial Army,” he announces. “We, uh, do not mean to disturb you, but if you work with the Six-Fingered Hand, we shall destroy you!”

The combat lulls- perhaps only for a taut moment- as the party takes in the lich, certain to be a very deadly opponent. There is a chance here, perhaps a very slim one, that such a battle can be held in abeyance.

“The Hand,” sneers the lich, “is no friend of mine.” Its eyes flash with cold blue light. “But if you seek to trouble me, I will do them the courtesy of destroying you.”


“What about the corpses in the bottom of the tower?” demands Torinn. “Did you or your agents kill them?”

“I have no need to kill the residents,” Krezjarl replies. “Enough of them die without my help. When I have need of a body, I send minions out to find one. Those,” he gestures at the cadavers hanging from hooks, “are preserved and are far less fresh than you probably expect.”

“If you are not their ally,” Hkatha says, cutting off Vann-la before she can give her own answer to Krezjarl (which is bound to be considerably cooler than the tiefling’s), “then perhaps you would be willing to work against them?”

“I am not interested in politics.”

“This is far more than politics!” exclaims the tiefling. “This is genocide! Look at what they have done to this city. When they came here, they burned, killed and raped.”

“Indeed,” the lich agrees with a nod.

By now, the taut moment has stretched so far that it snaps. The combatants step apart and lower their weapons, still glaring at each other, but no longer fighting. 

“You were here?”

“I was, but not as you see me now. I was still alive then.” 

The lich’s pronouncement takes Hkatha aback. 

“In fact,” Krezjarl continues, “it was my need to be unmolested by them that led me attain my transcendence. I became a lich because they would not desist in trying to draw me forth into battle with them until I was no longer a human.”

“You could have helped fight them,” says Torinn. “They can be beaten. We are from a city that held out, beat back their army and prevailed.”

“Indeed? Remarkable. _This city_ certainly couldn’t hold them back. It was a lost cause. I was not interested in throwing my life away.”

“But you were a citizen of the Empire?” Heimall asks.

“I was.”

“Do you still consider yourself one?”

“Does the Empire still exist?” counters Krezjarl.

“Yes,” Heimall answers firmly. “As long as Fandelose stands, the Empire stands. But we need allies. We need everyone that we can find to band together to keep them driven off. We-”

“I am not interested in fighting goblins,” sneers the lich. “Tell your people to stay away from my tower. My interests involve experiments in my laboratories, not petty battles. But if they leave me alone, I will leave them alone.”

“Perhaps,” Cook says, “we could continue our discussion over a meal?”

Krezjarl stares at him.

“I am a most skilled cook,” the dwarf explains.

Krezjarl cracks a ghastly smile. “Your cook is a dwarf? You are very brave people. I have many old spices and herbs in my tower.” He nods. “The kitchen is on the third floor, dwarf.”

***

As always, the party is somewhat dubious of Cook’s efforts, but Krezjarl seems amused by the situation. He clacks his jaw- perhaps the equivalent of smacking his lips, given that he has none?- and expresses quite an interest in sampling Cook’s viands.

At the top of his tower, Krezjarl has a viewing scope. When they peer through it, distant objects seem much closer. While Cook prepares the meal, everyone else spends some time looking through it, examining the surrounding lands as best they can. There are no large concentrations of troops that they can see, although Northshore, a city to the south of them along the banks of Lake Belwur, is visible, and there is some sort of large enclosure outside of it. “I think that there are people in there,” Vann-La says, “maybe forced workers? And there is a lot of greenery in there. I bet that enclosure is full of farms, and the people are forced to work them for the Hand.”

The party eats from old, cracked dishes that the lich hasn’t dug out in years, cleaned first by _prestidigitation_. The meal is somewhat bizarre, as Krezjarl eats, but the food merely falls through his skeletal form. After the main course is served, Vann-La unwraps a package and offers him a piece of chocolate.

“What a delicacy!” the lich exclaims. “Of course I shall have some!” He chews it up, and chocolaty smears end up all over the lower part of his skull and his phalanges. 

All in all, a pleasurable- if bizarre- meal.

***

“What about trade?” asks Heimall. “Surely there must be something that you need?”

“Glassware,” the lich says. “Vials, bottles, jugs, containers of all sorts.”

“I am a representative of the Heinrikson clan, and we deal in many trade goods. I will see if they will send a representative to you to start trading. We must reestablish commerce and regain the lands claimed by the Hand if we are to have any hope of rebuilding.”

“I am not especially interested in helping you, but I do need the glassware,” the lich admits. “I will speak to your merchants. But warn them- I will destroy them if they attempt any treachery.”

“I assure you,” Heimall replies, “if we were going to fight you, we would do it here and now.”

Krezjarl laughs.

“Do you know anything about death knights?” asks Vann-La. “We have to destroy one.”

“Yes,” replies Krezjarl. “Their souls are bound to their weapons. To truly destroy one, you must also destroy its weapon.”

“We mean to kill Arawn.”

“You are quite ambitious,” Krezjarl observes. “He has four other death knight lieutenants.”

“What!”

“Indeed.”

“What about sigil sequences?” Iggy queries. “Do you have any you would be willing to share?”

“No.”

“Then perhaps you know where there might be some?” asks Hkatha.

The lich smiles at him and licks a little chocolate off its fingers. Then he says, “There was a great library in Northshore. It is possible that there are a number of them recorded in its remains.”

***

It looks to be about a week’s journey to reach Northshore, which (our heroes determine) should be the party’s next destination. When it becomes obvious that the lich is tiring of their company, the party leaves. It is full dark by now, but that’s okay. They put a fair amount of distance between themselves and the tower before they make camp, and before they go to bed, Hkatha _sends_ a report to Colonel Jaxe. His reply: _Examine situation in Northshore. Prepare for liberation. Tell the people to come to Fandelose. Will have troops on the way._

In the morning, they head south.

***

Three more days of travel, and they encounter a small group of survivors, including a man whose hands have been severed. The party tells them of Fandelose’ triumph over the Hand, and discovers that the survivors are from Northshore. 

“How did you get free?” asks Iggy.

“We were rescued,” replies one of the survivors, “by Summer.” 

“Who is Summer?”

“We’ll take you to her.”

***

Summer turns out to be a tough-looking woman wearing a pair of horns, somewhat feline in appearance. Vann-La discerns that she is not exactly human; in fact, after some study, she decides that Summer must be what is known as a _shifter_- a person with lycanthrope blood in their background. Less than a full shapechanger, a shifter could take on minor aspects of its ancestral lycanthrope. She tells the party that she has helped rescue dozens of the people of Northshore from their enslavement, but as many as a couple thousand remain, forced to serve the Six-Fingered Hand. “The general is called Sharm the Terrible, and he is a vicious kobold,” Summer continues. “He is responsible for much misery.”

“Well, we mean to end his reign,” declares Heimall. “In the name of the Empire!”

“You must have an army with you, to be so ambitious.”

“There’s one on the way, but I see no need to wait for it. We will destroy this Sharm the Terrible. We’ve already killed another of the Hand’s generals- Heshwat the Eviscerator. I use his glaive.”

“It may not be the right time,” she says. “One of Arawn’s lieutenants is there right now, checking up on things.”

“One of the other death knights?” asks Iggy.

“_Other_ death knights?” exclaims Summer. 

”Yeah, he has four lieutenants. We just found out about them.”

“Regardless of who it is,” Torinn says, “we’ll slay him and free Northshore.”

Vann-La nods. Summer looks the group over. “You look like you mean it,” she says. “But you could probably use my help.”

“Welcome aboard,” replies Iggy.

_*Next Time:*_ To free Northshore!


----------



## the Jester

For the record, the newest pc in the group is:

*Summer*, shifter warden 10


----------



## the Jester

The heat of the summer day beats down on the party as they move along, footsore and weary. The afternoon is long and clear, bright with the overhead sun.

“Look,” Vann-La says, pointing into the distance behind them. “Did you see that? Something is glinting in the distance- it could be someone in armor or something. It’s definitely metal, though.”

“You have really sharp eyes,” Torinn comments, as nobody else caught a glimpse of it. The party proceeds, casting frequent backwards glances. Indeed, whatever the metal thing is, it seems to be drawing closer. “Do you have any better idea of what it is?” the dragonborn asks the Kree warrior.

Squinting, she replies, “I think it’s a single figure in armor.” Then, she exclaims, “No- not in armor- it’s a warforged!”

“Then it is probably an ally,” muses Heimall, “although they have been playing their cards pretty close to the vest, so to speak.”

“We don’t even know what they have been up to, since the end of the siege,” Cook points out. 

“There’s one way to find out,” Ligir says. “Let’s wait and talk to it.”

The party takes cover beneath an oak tree, both from the sun and from the figure behind them. Soon enough, the warforged overtakes them. They step out to hail it.

“Hey there, what are you doing way out here?” calls Iggy.

The figure stops and surveys them. It looks slightly different from the majority of the warforged that the party freed from the Cathedral of War just before the siege of Fandelose started, as if it were a slightly different model. “Hey there,” it says. “I’m on a mission, but hey, I can’t share the details. Gotta keep moving, very important, don’t want to miss it, hey!”

“What is your name?” asks Vann-La. “Do you work for NC17?”

“Sure, not exactly, kind of doing my own thing, hey! Not to worry, not to worry, we’re on the same side, but listen, I gotta go. Oh, I’m 240Z, but it doesn’t really matter at the moment, gotta go! The sooner the better, hey hey!”

“Here,” Torinn says, “take these.” The cleric of Lester hands the warforged his spectacles, with their darkened lenses. “Lester go with you.”

“Sure, gotta go,” 240Z replies, already starting to walk off at a brisk pace. 

“What is that thing? Do you trust it?” asks Summer.

“Well, I don’t know about this particular one, but its _kind_ are our allies,” Heimall muses.

“Oi, let him go. He is not interfering with us. Why should we interfere with him?”

“Let’s hope you’re right,” Hkatha murmurs as the strange warforged walks off into the brown grass, kicking up a trail of dust behind him.

***

Several days ahead on our heroes’ journey are a series of plateaus, Summer tells the others. She notes that they are artificial- according to her, there is no natural explanation for their presence. Heimall declares that they are probably the sites of a series of legendary fortifications and armories. “I wonder if anything useful is left up on them,” he muses.

“You know this area pretty well,” Torinn says to Summer. She just smiles in response.

The plains are empty of people, but over the next six days, the party sees many rabbits and groundhogs, several small herds of antelope, dozens of different species of birds and many others. They find the tracks of a herd of horses- unshod, notes Vann-La, and Summer assesses them as either feral or wild. 

”If we want some, we could probably track them and hunt them down,” points out Shakgar. “But they probably couldn’t carry me anyway.”

***

The dominant predators of the area are fierce, flightless birds with heavy, axe-like beaks. The larger specimens are known as terror birds. Inevitably, they come to poke their beaks at our heroes and see if these new forms on the plains are suitable prey.

They are not. 

With devastating efficiency, our heroes put them down. “The meat is tough,” says Shakgar, “but edible.” Summer nods agreement.

“Oi, I can cook it until it is good and tender,” threatens Cook.

“Tell me again,” sighs Summer, “why you have a dwarf for a cook?”

***

The sound of crickets playing their legs calls out the change from afternoon to evening. The first plateau looms ahead of the group. Vann-La’s keen eyes spy signs of life upon it. She concludes that whoever dwells atop it must go to great lengths to avoid being seen.

“It doesn’t sound like the Hand,” notes Torinn.

Heimall says, “More likely, it’s some survivors.”

With a shrug, Shakgar says, “Let’s go see.”

The group starts to ascend a narrow trail that switches back up the face of the plateau, but in short order Vann-La halts them. “There is something following us,” she says. 

The group looks. A man-sized figure, dressed in archaic-looking full plate armor and wearing a greatsword across its back, is starting to climb the trail below them. “Let’s find a wider spot to stop, in case it comes to blows,” suggests Heimall. He gestures ahead. “Maybe at that landing up ahead.”

The party moves to the landing, which is built into a natural shelf along the plateau’s face, and turns to wait for the figure that is following them. It is making no effort at concealment, closing the distance openly. When it reaches them, it halts, studying them. 

It appears to be a clockwork man of some sort, made of metal rather than flesh and blood. A patch bearing archaic Imperial insignia is fastened to each shoulder of his armor. “You are not to be here,” it says. Its voice is male, but mechanical. “Go.”

“Who are you?” demands Heimall.

The figure does not reply. It merely draws its sword. “Withdraw from the plateau,” it orders. “You are not cleared to be here.”

”We are on the business of General Argos, of the Imperial Army,” Torinn says. “I’m Major Torinn, of the Imperial Marines. We are commissioned officers-” 

“This is your last warning,” the figure says. 

“Who are you?” Vann-La asks again. “By what right are you barring our passage? Who do you work for? Put your sword away!”

The figure starts forward, and Vann-La hits it with a _tide of iron,_ but it parries her blow. Iggy yelps, turning _invisible_ even as he draws his pistol. 

The sword-wielding mechanical figure moves with unbelievable grace, hitting Vann-La with a _devastating strike_ and following up with another attack, but the Kree warrior manages to parry that one. Then it drops into a deadly stance that Vann-La recognizes all too well: it is a _rain of steel_.*

“Two can play at that game!” she cries, and enters her own _rain of steel_.

Seemingly from nowhere, a shuriken flies out and hits the figure in the knee. Cook emerges from hiding. “He’s not going nowhere!” the dwarf calls.

However, the figure doesn’t really _want_ to go anywhere. It lays about itself with its sword, doing immense damage and stunning Vann-La with a _followup strike_. As it does so, a momentary vision of another face flickers across its visage as if superimposed.

Summer studies their attacker carefully. “This thing is supernatural!” she tells them. “It isn’t just a powerful mechanical warrior- I think that it is from another plane!”

Some of our heroes’ attacks deflect off the strange swordsman’s armor. Others he parries, deflecting them harmlessly and offering up _counterstrokes_ that send their victims sprawling. Its _flawless katas_ slice into Shakgar, Torinn and Vann-La, over and over again, and it keeps one of them stunned pretty much constantly (although which one it is varies from moment to moment). Even Iggy’s spells don’t seem to be able to hit it!

Iggy gasps. “Of course,” he says. “This thing- it must be a sword saint, from the cult of the Sword Emperor!” He raises his gun again. 

“Your mastery of the blade is superb,” gasps Vann-La as she parries another of its blows and watches in disbelief as the blade springs away to swat one of Iggy’s bullets out of the air before it can hit. 

A few of our heroes’ blows manage to sneak in; Torinn nails it with a _lance of faith_, Shakgar with a _stone bear rage,_ Vann-La with a _flanking assault._ Cook keeps darting in and out of the shadows, throwing shuriken from hiding, and a few of Iggy’s spells do some damage despite missing. Finally, Vann-La manages to bloody it.

Unfortunately for our heroes, _they_ are already nearly out of healing abilities, and the sword saint just keeps throwing more deadly attacks their way. But then Cook tricks it with a _bait and switch_, pulling it into a position where Shakgar and Torinn are flanking it. 

Heimall cries out, “You must see that we will defeat you! Stop, throw down your weapon and we can talk things out!”

“Never,” the figure replies, the strange face flickering across it again. It is a human face, with plain features and shaggy brown hair. It is gone almost as soon as it appears. It begins to execute another _flawless kata,_ but Heimall rams his glaive in with a _disruptive strike_, staggering the sword saint.** 

The others attack with everything they have, but their blows turn from its armor again. It hacks into Shakgar’s side, bloodying the goliath, then stuns him with a _followup strike_. It raises its greatsword to finish him off-

And, suddenly, a shuriken hits it in the eye. 

The sword saint topples to the ground with a crash like cymbals. 

***

The top of the plateau does indeed have survivors on it. However, they are not as pleased to see the party as our heroes would have thought.

“We saw you fighting from up here,” cries one of the peasants. “All those explosions- don’t you realize that the Six-Fingered Hand can see them from miles away?” 

Another of the refugees wails, “You have drawn them to us!”

The first speaker continues, “We have already seen one group headed our way. Probably about 20 strong. We have no weapons or armor, and only a few of us can fight at all. We came here to hide, not fight!”

“Oops,” mutters Ligir. 

_*Next Time:*_ Ornithopters!

*The sword saint was a solo with half normal solo hps and roughly double normal damage dice. So some of its attacks included: 

*[Melee] Powerful Blow* (standard; at will) *Weapon:* +22 vs. AC; 2d10+7 damage, and the target is marked until the end of its next turn.

*[Melee] Devastating Strike* (standard; recharge 5 6) *Weapon*: +22 vs. AC; 8d8+7 damage. 
*[Melee] Flawless Kata* (standard; at will) *Weapon*: The sword saint makes up to four powerful blow attacks against different targets.

*[Melee] Followup Strike* (minor; at will) *Weapon*: Only against a target that the sword saint has hit this turn. +20 vs. Fortitude; 4d8+7 damage and target is stunned until the end of its next turn. 

*[Melee] Counterstrike* (immediate interrupt; when targeted by a melee attack; at will) *Weapon*: The sword saint makes an attack on the triggering creature: +20 vs. Reflex; 2d10+7 damage, plus the target is either knocked prone or takes a -4 penalty on the triggering attack (sword saint’s choice).

**He has magic armor, umm can’t recall the name, that is basically spell storing armor for martial characters; Vann-La, being a multiclassed ranger, put _disruptive strike_ in there for him. Heimall didn’t just hit here, he got a critical hit.


----------



## the Jester

From their elevated position, our heroes make the size of the enemy force to be a couple of dozen. They are still miles away, but- as they are Six-Fingered Hand troops- could operate very well in the dark.

“We have time,” says Cook. “Let us rig traps. We will kill them with deadfalls, and rolling boulders.”

“We don’t have that much time,” replies Iggy dubiously. 

“Oi, we have enough.”

The party sets to work as evening comes on, first surveying the path up the face of the plateau and then moving piles of rocks, positioning large stones and crafting triggers that will cause them to rumble down at the enemy. The party only has a few hours, but- thanks to the abundant loose rock all over the face of the plateau- they manage to create a series of terrifically deadly traps. They work in the dark, trading the difficulties of doing so for the knowledge that the Hand troops approaching won’t be able to see their efforts until it is too late.

They work up until virtually the last minute- until the enemy is only a couple of hundred yards away. Though they cannot see them in the distance in the starlight, the party can hear their foes as they approach. Finally, having done all that they have time to do, the party retreats about a third of the way up the plateau’s face, planning to stay above and ahead of the enemy.

The Six-Fingered Hand squad reaches the bottom of the plateau. After a few minutes of searching in the dark, they find the ascent and begin their march upwards. 

About ten minutes later, they reach the first trap. 

Our heroes let the lead element go past, waiting for the main group to be under the trap. Then they trigger it, a slide of rocks starting with a large boulder and growing to include a rain of smaller stones. Goblins and kobolds scream as the stones pelt them, smashing skulls and breaking arms and legs. Into the chaos Hkatha and Iggy hurl flaming spells. Then the party retreats upwards, waiting until the enemy below them has recovered from its confusion and continues its ascent- to the next deadfall. A scene almost identical to that at the first trap ensues, differing mostly in that fewer of the Hand troops survive the initial assault, and this time our heroes rush their remaining enemies, cutting them down without mercy. 

Ensuring that none of the enemy survive to spread word of their presence, our heroes then re-ascend the plateau to the group of survivors, who are in an uproar. Their safe haven, where they fled to escape the ravages of the Hand, has been discovered. Surely, now that the Hand knows of them, it will come to crush them. Has it not already sent a probe to test their strength?

“Those guys were the only ones that saw us,” predicts Captain Ligir, playing up his military position to the peasantry. “We killed them all. Anyone else that saw us is either too far away to respond or else figures that those guys have it under control. After all, how long has it been since anyone has taken out one of their scouting squads like that?”

“What you all need to do now,” interjects Captain Heimall (also playing up his rank), “is go to Fandelose. You’re right, they _do_ know that you’re here, and they will come for you in time. But you can go to Fandelose. There are walls, there is food and shelter- we _fought off_ the Hand’s army. We defeated them. We can offer you sanctuary- you, and any other Imperial citizens.”

“And your alternative,” Major Torinn (playing up his role as ranking officer) says, “is to wait for them to come for you.”

The argument lasts deep into the night. The party’s reasoning is sound, and in the morning the peasants begin to leave. Our heroes leave, too, heading southward- continuing their journey towards Northshore. They come to another of the plateaus in the afternoon of the following day.

“Should we bother to check it out?” asks Hkatha.

“Yes,” Hkatha replies. “There might be more survivors that we can recruit to go back to Fandelose.” 

Once again, the party searches the base of the plateau until they find a path heading upward, concealed from casual observation, but not from a diligent search. They start to ascend. After they have gotten about 100’ up, Vann-La halts. “Look back there,” she says. “Someone is coming our way: a small group, looks like armored figures.”

“Should we wait for them?” wonders Cook.

Hkatha shrugs. “Why not? Best we don’t lead them up there without knowing what is hiding at the top. We don’t need to spoil any survivors’ hiding places again.”

“It is an effective way of getting them to move to Fandelose,” Torinn comments wryly. 

It doesn’t take too long for the six figures- all of them warforged- to reach the trail leading up the plateau’s face and to close the distance to our heroes. Though not immediately hostile, they move with relentless purpose. 

“Hi there,” says Torinn.

The lead warforged speaks. “We are searching for another one such as us, a solitary one. Have you seen it?”

“Why do you ask?” Vann-La replies. “What do you seek with him?”

“It is a renegade,” the speaker says. “We must find it and stop it before it achieves its goals.”

“Is it working with the Six-Fingered Hand?” 

“What are its goals?” asks Heimall. 

To Vann-La: “No.” Turning to Heimall, the warforged continues, “Its goals concern only our own kind. It is irrational. It calls itself 240Z.”

“Well,” admits Hkatha, “we did see the warforged of which you speak, and we spoke with it briefly. But it didn’t tell us where it was going, or what it was doing.”

“Yeah, it left in a hurry, too,” adds Iggy. 

The warforged start moving without another word, passing through our heroes and further up the face of the plateau. 

“Creepy,” comments Iggy.

“I really don’t know if I trust the warforged anymore,” mutters Hkatha.

Iggy scoffs. “Any more? They made it pretty clear from the start that they were pursuing an agenda of their own, and it just had something in common with ours- the survival of Fandelose. I don’t know if we should have ever trusted them.”

Heimall glances to the west, where the distant sea has half-swallowed the Sun.* “It’s getting dark. Let’s keep moving and get up to the top.”

The warforged quickly disappear above them. The living weapons are moving quickly, while our heroes, at the end of a long day’s journey, are tired and footsore. They take their time; it seems unlikely that the warforged will molest any survivors, and so there is no real urgency to reach the top at the same time as them. When the party finally gets to the top, they find more peasant refugees awaiting them. This time a small group of about a half-dozen stand behind a barricade of hay, pitchforks and hoes held like weapons in their hands. 

“Hello,” calls Heimall. “I am Captain Heimall Heinrikson of the Imperial Army. We are from the city of Fandelose, where we have not only held out against the Six-Fingered Hand- but where we have defeated it.”

While Heimall speaks, Vann-La mutters to Iggy, “I don’t see any sign of the warforged.”

“I wonder where they got to?” the wizard replies. 

Heimall sooths the crowd with his smooth tongue, reassuring them that there is hope for the future of the Empire and then offering them that hope: Fandelose. The others pitch in, each adding another piece of that future possible. Soon the pitchforks and hoes are propped back on peasant shoulders as the beer is passed around, and everyone is a friend. 

Though the party asks after the warforged, the people living on the plateau haven’t seen them. “Are there any weird features or military buildings up here?” asks Hkatha.

“Well,” says one of the locals, “there is a really big locked building that nobody has ever gotten into. It has been up here longer than we have.”

***

“Oi, this is a pretty good lock,” declares Cook. His thieves’ tools click inside it as he works to open it. The building it locks is extraordinarily large- the size of a large castle. 

”I could help with that, you know,” offers Iggy.**

_Click._ “I got it.”

The door is exceptionally large. “Maybe it’s some kind of warehouse,” suggests Torinn. He, Heimall and Vann-La together heave the door open, and find that there is pretty much a single huge room inside the huge building (although two small side rooms exist, they hardly count when compared to the central hanger). Within that expanse are a large number of... winged vehicles of some sort.

“What the hell?” asks Iggy.

The party moves in and looks the things over. They are indeed winged. “Do these things fly?” Vann-La says.

“They just might,” replies Hkatha. “I think they are ornithopters.”

“What’s an ornithopter?” 

Hkatha points at the vehicles.

“Right,” says Iggy.

***

The two other rooms are an office and a wardrobe. The office is clearly an Army office; there are tons of documents present, which our heroes start looking through. They quickly determine that the documents that exist are unimportant, designed to obfuscate whatever was going on here. However, the wardrobe turns out to have a very interesting selection of uniforms- an elite unit called the Eagles, with some very interesting insignia, goggles, caps, downy jackets, warm scarves and high gloves. 

“Time for a fashion upgrade,” says Hkatha.

Most of our heroes loot some elements of the Eagle uniforms to add to their ensemble. The uniforms are of noteworthy quality. 

“Well, what about these things, then?” Iggy points at the ornithopters.

”I think we ought to issue a _sending_ to Colonel Jaxe,” opines Heimall. “We should inform him of what we’ve found and see what he says. These may be a valuable resource for our fight against the Six-Fingered Hand.”

“Hey,” Torinn says, his head inside one of the cockpits, “there are levers in here!”

“You should probably get out of there,” Heimall recommends, “before you end up going off the edge of the plateau.”

Torinn pulls his head out of the cockpit and looks thoughtful, but his eyes linger on the levers.***

“_Sending_ first,” insists Heimall.

“Shouldn’t we know if they work before we report in?” asks Torinn.

The party looks the flying machines over for signs of obvious mechanical damage, and to their chagrin, they find it on most of the ornithopters. Of the two dozen machines, only ten seem to be in good repair. 

“All right, what about the _sending?_” says Heimall.

Torinn climbs in the cockpit. “Let’s just see what happens,” he calls out. “I’ll be careful.”

“God dammit,” the warlord sighs.

Torinn quickly discovers that the ornithopter is powered by a collection of levers, hand pumps and foot pedals. He starts to wheel forward, but hits the brake before he picks up too much speed. Still, it takes a disconcertingly long time for the big machine to come to a stop, well outside the hanger. “I think whoever flies this would have to be able to exert himself continuously for the length of their flight,” he tells the others. “It seems to be poured by, well, my arms and legs.”

“You are full of strength and stamina,” Iggy points out. 

“Hell with it,” Torinn says, and starts pumping the pedals and hand pumps. The ornithopter begins to roll forward again, and this time the Dragon tries to increase his speed rather than decrease it. There is a path outside the hanger that leads towards the edge of the plateau. 

_Makes sense,_ he thinks.

The ornithopter shoots off the edge of the plateau.

_*Next Time:*_ To Northshore!

*On Cydra (my campaign world), the Sun actually orbits the island of Forinthia at a mean distance of roughly 780,000 miles, so it really _does_ go into the sea at night. Of course, our heroes aren’t on Forinthia, they are on a continent several thousand miles to the west of Forinthia (Dorhaus). 

**He is, after all, a multiclassed rogue. 

***As a cleric of Lester, the god of adventure, Torinn loves to pull them levers!


----------



## Asha'man

Awesome. The sense of history and shared experience you get, using a single setting with many of the same players for so long, is really something special.

For some reason, the renegade warforged got me thinking about Master Control...

(And is there any activity in your 4e Plots and Places thread? It seems to have dropped off the face of the forums)


----------



## the Jester

Asha'man said:


> (And is there any activity in your 4e Plots and Places thread? It seems to have dropped off the face of the forums)




I haven't posted anything there recently, but I'll give you a peak at some upcoming bad guys shortly.


----------



## Mathew_Freeman

Asha'man said:


> Awesome. The sense of history and shared experience you get, using a single setting with many of the same players for so long, is really something special.
> 
> For some reason, the renegade warforged got me thinking about Master Control...
> 
> (And is there any activity in your 4e Plots and Places thread? It seems to have dropped off the face of the forums)




Master Control could still be around in one form or another, given the time-span between the last campaign and this one. Scary thought.


----------



## the Jester

A vertiginous drop!

The ornithopter plummets like a stone, racing towards the distant ground. Torinn pumps his arms and legs frantically, and the machine responds, its wings starting to beat. 

Leaning back in his seat, the dragonborn cleric grits his teeth. At the speed he is falling, a crash would probably be lethal. 

The nose of the ornithopter edges up, and the ship starts to speed out away from the edge of the cliff as well as just down. _Come on, these are _levers!_ If Lester’s blessings ever fall upon me, it should be now!_ 

The ornithopter’s fall continues to angle away from the cliff, further and further, until, only a few dozen yards above the ground, it levels off at last. Torinn whoops with pleasure, pumping his arms like mad, as he starts to ascend.

***

“He made it!” exclaims Heimall.

“Hey, look at this,” Ligir calls from inside the hangar. “This one has room for two. Well, as long as the second person was a halfling or something.”

The party goes to look while the ornithopter bearing Torinn wobbles around the sky. Indeed, several of the ornithopters have a small compartment at the back, in which a smaller person could sit, albeit in a cramped position. “There’s no way any of us could fit in that little hole,” comments Hkatha. “Look at that hatch. I bet you could drop things out of here- maybe oil or acid or something. You could store small packages, or maybe bladders of liquid, in these little runnels here.”

The party goes back outside and watches Torinn’s ornithopter as it flies around. Torinn, in his cockpit, is taking in the view as best he can and trying to assess the tactical situation nearby, but from the distance he is at, it’s hard to tell much. Still, he can make out Lake Belwur to the south, and the smudge of a city along its nearest shore. Then he banks left and heads towards the nearest other plateau. 

His arms are getting tired by the time he gets to it; but his suspicions are confirmed. At the top of the plateau is a flattened area long enough to launch (or, he presumes, land) an ornithopter squadron. “So,” he mutters to himself, and banks back around towards the plateau where the others are. 

***

Meanwhile, both Vann-La and Shakgar have also taken flight. Each has a similar, harrowing experience as he or she plummets from the cliff; but each also quickly gets the hang of the vehicle’s operations. 

When Torinn’s ornithopter flies back towards them and begins to descend towards the runway, Vann-La follows- and only then do any of the aloft heroes think about how one lands an ornithopter.

The answer, it turns out, is roughly; without skill; but well enough to walk away from. Both Torinn and Vann-La are bruised by their landings, and Torinn nearly crashes his ‘thopter into another of the airships in the hangar; but it is worth it. Flight! The power of flight!

“We definitely need to tell Colonel Jaxe that we found these,” says Heimall. “Let’s do a _sending._”

“I’m on it,” replies Hkatha. The Ilmixie unpacks his spellbook and begins laying out the materials necessary. 

“Where’s Shakgar?” asks Torinn. 

“He’s still flying,” Iggy responds with a sigh, “buzzing overhead every minute or so.”

***

Hkatha issues a _sending_ updating Colonel Jaxe. The reply is immediate: _We know about the ornithopters. Send peasants here if possible. Proceed to Northshore. Scout. Sending force, should arrive in two weeks._

“Well, we have our orders,” says Hkatha afterward.

Shakgar buzzes overhead again.

”I guess we have to wait for Shakgar before we do anything. Do you think we should take the ornithopters?” queries Torinn.

“We’d be pretty visible,” muses Heimall. “It would be hard to escape notice. So much for a subtle approach.”

“We are known for our subtlety,” the dragonborn replies ironically.

“A half-dozen of us against a couple of hundred troops of the Six-Fingered Hand? No problem!” Summer snorts disdainfully. “Subtle might be better.”

“We’ll proceed on foot,” Heimall agrees with a nod. “We won’t do the slaves at Northshore any good if we’re attacked and killed before we even get there.”

Shakgar keeps buzzing them for hours.

***

Northshore, when the party reaches it a couple of days later, proves to be a large ruin with a section at the edge of town that is still in use. Our heroes make a concealed approach at first, scouting out the situation. A large walled enclosure is full of slaves tending crops and minding herds of animals, overseen by a variety of Hand guards. This is adjacent to a large fortress that looks like it has been converted to the use of the Six-Fingered Hand. 

“This is very interesting,” notes Cook. “You see how the people are farming in the pen?”

“They have goblin overseers,” points out Summer.

“Look how inefficient the construction is. The barrier looks weak. There are few guards.” Cook snorts. “Goblin incompetence.”

“I’d guess there are a couple of thousand people here,” murmurs Heimall. “And maybe three, four hundred troops.”

“Still too many,” says Iggy, “for a frontal assault.”

Vann-La shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not.”

“It looks like the barracks are along the edge of that fortification, on the ruin’s edge. And there are towers along the edge of the enclosure- crude work, but no doubt the Hand mans them.” Heimall frowns. “And what’s that noise?”

The party pauses to listen. Distantly, they can hear the roar of a crowd. 

“We’ll probably find out what that is once we’re inside. We might be able to sneak in,” suggests Iggy. “Look around, scout things out.”

The cook smiles. “Oi, that is my specialty!”

“And we can check in after a little while by _sending,_” Hkatha says.

***

Cook sneaks up to the enclosure. There seems to be a single main gate, at the far end of things from all the barracks. Scratching his head- this is an odd and inefficient arrangement for the troops- Cook walks the perimeter, looking for unguarded entries but seeing none. There are several other smaller gates, as well as one leading from the interior of the pen into the fortress. He returns to the main gate, trying to be sneaky. Unfortunately for him, one of the goblins on the wall spots him.

“Hey!” it yells in Common. “You there! Dwarf! Don’t move!”

Cook remains where he is. _Oi, I suppose this is as good of a way to get a look inside as any,_ he thinks wryly. A few minutes later a squad of Hand troops has surrounded him.

”Who are you?” growls a kobold. 

“He must be an escaped slave,” one of the goblins says, speaking in Goblin- which (thankfully) Cook knows. 

“No!” Cook declares. “I am a flesh merchant. I trade in slaves. I saw your worthy effort here” –gesturing at the enclosure- “and thought to come see if you might be interested in making additional purchases from one such as myself.”

He’s a quick-thinking, smooth-tongued dwarf, and he thinks his story is believable. But the kobolds and goblins laugh harshly. 

“Let’s take him to Sir Unleafe for questioning,” one of them sneers. “If there really are free dwarves in the area, he must be informed.”

_Uh-oh,_ thinks Cook. _I hope the party contacts me with that _sending_ soon, or I may be in trouble!_

***

The death knight- Sir Unleafe- is a chilling figure, with yellow-white flames dancing in the sockets of his eyes. He wears soiled robes, with a huge greataxe strapped to his back. He is at the edge of a high balcony above a large arena. The arena’s floor is littered with various dangers, including large bonfires, pits and bear traps. Suspended above it, a pair of platforms swing by each other. Several slaves are on them, and several more are down below; clearly, they are being forced to fight one another.
“He says that he is a slave trader,” says one of the goblins.

Sir Unleafe turns his burning gaze upon Cook. The dwarf gulps through a constricted throat. “Where are you from?” the death knight demands.

“Uh, I am from the far east,” Cook starts, “but I operate from a base, uh, under the mountains around here.”

“You are a liar,” the death knight pronounces. He reaches behind him and unlimbers his axe, which gives off black smoke. “How many of you are there? How many are here? And where are they?”

”I am alone,” Cook stammers, “and please do not kill me!” He starts to sob, putting on his best show- but the death knight is clearly unconvinced.

***

After waiting an appropriate amount of time, the party stands guard while Hkatha conducts a _sending_ ritual. The tiefling sends, _Cook: how is it going? Any luck?_

Cook’s response is immediate and chilling: _Death knight is here. I am in the far side of the fortress. COME NOW!_

“Uh oh,” says Hkatha. 

***

The enclosure is wooden; once again, the lackluster quality of construction favors our heroes. They smash their way in quickly. Slaves on the inside stare at their arrival, but they don’t even slow down. A group of guards cries out, but Iggy and Hkatha destroy them in a coordinated pair of explosions. 

“To the fortress!” cries Heimall. 

Other Hand troops take note and start to intercept the party, but are hacked down by the heroes. 

“Who are you?” cries one of the slaves. 

”We’re the Heroes of Fandelose!” replies Torinn. “And I am the Dragon!”

***

Sir Unleafe sneers again and draws his axe. “Show your neck,” he commands Cook.

”Oi, I am afraid not,” the dwarf replies. 

The gig is up. He is alone, facing a death knight and his lackeys. The door behind him is shut, and guards crowd his retreat. Ahead (and some 50’ down) is a coliseum whose stands are crammed with hundreds of goblins, orcs, gnolls, kobolds, ogres and lizardfolk, and whose floor is littered with danger.

Cook does the only thing he can: he flings himself forward and over the edge.

He lands hard on the top wall of the stands of the coliseum above the mass of Hand soldiers, somersaults to give away some of his momentum and comes to his feet balanced on the wall in a single smooth motion. Then he turns and grins up at the death knight.

Who steps off the edge and falls after him. Landing less gracefully, but nonetheless on the wall not far from Cook.

“Eek!” cries the dwarf, and leaps further down- into the stands. 

***

Vann-La hurls her javelin, and it smashes into the chest of an oncoming hobgoblin. The snarling goblinoid warrior is knocked back and off his feet into a pool of blood, and then the magical javelin rips itself free and rockets back to her hand. 

“Forward!” cries Summer, ripping open the door to the fortress. The party storms in, surprising a half-asleep kobold guard. Heimall’s glaive rips his throat out. 

They storm the fortress, slaughtering enemies left and right. An alarm is raised, but- at least so far- the local Six-Fingered Hand troops doesn’t seem to be able to muster a coordinated response. 

“Ogres!” cries Summer, leaping forward and stabbing with her longspear. She and Heimall for a wall of long weapons, barring the lumbering brutes from a quick assault on the rest of the party, and then Shakgar and Vann-La close to the front. The ogres roar and swing their huge clubs, but by focusing their fire, our heroes swiftly slay them, then resume their march onward. 

After a brief but decisive battle against some kobold archers backed by gnolls, our heroes find a stairway up. They move up it, cutting through more opposition on the way, and then burst into an opulent balcony overlooking a huge arena.

***

The crowd around Cook reacts to his presence in a predictable way, trying to cut him down or grab him. He tumbles away, leaping out of the middle of the seats and into the walkway between groups. 

His hands flip beneath his vest, then back up. Something glitters between each pair of his fingers for an instant. His hands twitch, and shuriken fly out into the crowd, sinking into eye after eye after eye. Over a half-dozen of the Hand troops fall. Screams echo.

Cook glances up at the death knight, who tilts his head back and unleashes a shrieking call unlike anything the dwarf has ever heard before. A chill runs down his spine- as something answers. From the far side of the coliseum, where a path runs out, a pair of gates flies open and fire and smoke belch forth. An immolated horse rushes through with a terrifying, predacious-sounding neigh. 

_That’s his mount,_ realizes Cook. 

More Hand spectators- _troops, just off duty,_ Cook reminds himself- rush at him. He whips his dagger out and parries a wickedly serrated scimitar blow, kicking his goblin attacker and fouling up those immediately behind him. 

The death knight, he notes, is mounting up.

***

“Is that a nightmare?” exclaims Iggy. “Holy hell, it is!”

“Guys,” Summer says, nudging Vann-La’s shoulder. “Up there.” 

“Up...?” Following her ally’s gaze, the elf growls a curse in her throat. Giant skeletal bats are entering the area, coming (presumably) is response to the alarm. 

A few arrows come their way, but for the moment, they are largely unnoticed. And from their vantage point, they can see Cook- running for his life, and leaping out across open space to land on one of the platforms, suspended by chains, over the floor of the coliseum.

“That must be Sharm the Terrible,” Heimall says, pointing at another balcony, where a kobold with two scimitars is preparing to pursue Cook.

“There are a lot of bad guys here,” notes Summer.

“Good,” replies Vann-La. “We won’t run out of targets.”

_*Next Time:*_ Sir Unleafe and Sharm the Terrible!


----------



## the Jester

Cook runs and leaps for one of the large platforms suspended over the arena. He stretches out and lands on it, momentarily causing it to tilt alarmingly, but catches his balance. The slave already on it drops his crossbow and pinwheels his arms, but he, too, manages to stay on the platform. 

The dwarf looks down. Below- in the coliseum proper- the ground is littered with spikes, fires and other things that would be very bad to land on. Behind him are the death knight, his nightmare and dozens of troops. And behind them- on the balcony that Sir Unleafe had been on when Cook was ushered into his presence- the rest of the party bursts into view. 

“Oi!” hollers Cook. “Over here!” Waving frantically, he catches their attention- and then gasps in pain as a crossbow bolt hits him in the leg. To his surprise, the slave on the other platform is the one that shot him! “What are you doing?” he cries. “We are here to save you!”

But more arrows from below are whizzing through the air, singing as they deflect from the platform. A few arc overhead; more miss completely, as the platform slowly swings out and over the coliseum. 

Meanwhile, the rest of the party begins to descend, with Iggy falling off the balcony and landing dazed, while Vann-La and Heimall climb. Shakgar simply leaps, not caring about the fall, and the others follow after the first wave. From the top, Hkatha hurls a _fireball_ into the audience. It detonates with a tremendous boom and the smell of burnt flesh. Iggy follows this with one of his own, and panic rips through the Six-Fingered Hand troops. 

Sir Unleafe wheels his mount around and glares towards the party with burning eyes. “You there! Come over here to die!” he calls, his voice like an inferno.

Vann-La retorts, “You don’t say that when the Imperial Marines are here to kick your ass!” 

The two charge each other.

Hkatha, meanwhile, tumbles down from the top of the balcony, landing on his feet without harm below. Then he races towards the death knight. 

***

Sharm the Terrible snarls and stabs one of his attendants in rage. The kobold female gasps and dies, sliding from his wickedly curved knife. “These interlopers are spoiling my games!” he snaps. “I have had enough!” 

He begins to make his way towards the fight, drawing both of his scimitars in a single motion. This situation has made him even fouler tempered than he was before. _Bad enough that Sir Unleafe is here,_ he thinks. _He wanders these lands for Lord Arawn, keeping an eye on our operations throughout the region. But to be here, now, when we are attacked- and my troops are behaving disgracefully! I will have them decimated!_ He curls his lips back, showing his teeth in a snarl. _If I survive, that is. Sir Unleafe is... not known for forgiving failure. Perhaps, if these invaders harm him enough, I can... eliminate him._ Sharm the Terrible begins to drool at the thought. _If he were gone, who would oversee this region for Arawn? Heshwat the Eviscerator is dead, and the other generals in the area are old, fat or complacent. Surely he would choose me. Sharm the Terrible has always been loyal. I have worked hard. I reduced Northshore, Brelana, Sebell and three other major cities. I have slaughtered thousands and enslaved thousands more. Surely he would choose me! And how would he know if I finished off his wounded lieutenant?_

He leaps forward into the fray, attacking one of the invaders- a large, formidable-looking dragonborn- from behind.

***

Vann-La roars as she swings her maul into the death knight, crunching into his ribs beneath his guard. Sir Unleafe shouts, “I swear I shall destroy you!” and strikes back, landing a series of punishing blows against the elf with unerring accuracy and surrounds her with a cloud of shrieking souls.* She staggers, and he raises his axe to strike again- but she manages to land a _disruptive strike_ first, bloodying him, before his axe descends and slices her along her own ribs, pulling her into a _profane duel_ and bloodying her. 

Sir Unleafe leaps from the back of him mount and presses his advantage. The two continue to slash and pummel each other with mounting intensity while the rest of the party tries to deal with the other enemies all around, including the two skeletal bats that swoop in from the back and assault Hkatha and Heimall.  

***

Cook springs off the platform. 

It is a long way down.

When he lands, he tucks and rolls, feeling a stab of pain in his right ankle. He grimaces, but as soon as he is back up he darts to the side wall of the coliseum, crouching down into the shadows. 

The arrival of his friends has precipitated a panic amongst the Hand troops. _What a few shuriken and knives cannot do, the dramatic explosions caused by the wizards can,_ thinks the dwarf with a grim smile. _It just takes something a little more visible to panic these monsters... and I prefer to strike from the shadows, unseen._

Cook takes a moment to observe. For some strange reason, the stands empty into the base of the coliseum at the end farthest from the gates, requiring any fleeing spectators to run through the hazard-strewn floor before they can escape. _A foolish design,_ muses Cook, _if it were designed with the health and  convenience of the Hand in mind. Yet... what if the slaves designed and built this to make it as inconvenient and unhealthy as possible? And why would the Hand do the work themselves, when they have so many slaves to do it for them?

In fact..._ A slow grin spreads on Cook’s face. _That might explain a lot of the layout of this area- the enclosure looks relatively easy to escape, but hard to reinforce. The fortress seemed to have inconvenient halls and passages within it, and none of the typical features that dwarven engineers would have put in to repel invaders. This whole area- this whole arrangement- the slaves have subverted it, to make it easy for them and hard for their oppressors!_

If he weren’t being sneaky, Cook would have let out a belly laugh. As it is, he keeps his mirth to himself and begins creeping towards the gate house. 

***

Torinn invokes a _beacon of hope,_ and Sharm the Terrible reels back, weakened by Lester’s holy might, while our heroes’ flagging strength is boosted. Heimall uses a _knight’s move_ to get the dragonborn into a flanking position, while uttering a _commander’s strike_ that permits Vann-La to land another punishing blow on Sir Unleafe.

Not far away from them, Unleafe’s nightmare mount charges forward and crashes into Iggy for an appalling amount of damage even as the skeletal bats slash at the wizards with their bony talons as they fly by. “This isn’t good!” Iggy exclaims, and _dimension doors_ away. He casts a _scorching burst_, but the disorientation that his teleportation caused makes him miss.

Hkatha is left to fend for himself. He ducks as one of the bats flies by, suffers a flaming hoof to the shoulder from the nightmare, which rears and prepares to crash down full upon him; but in the instant before it does so, the other bat snatches Hkatha and drags him up into the air- and out of the way. He groans, feeling blood soaking through his tunic and uniform. Its talons squeeze him, and his head swims for a moment from the constricting pressure on his lungs.

Then the pressure relents. Hkatha gasps in a breath of air- and realizes that he is falling.

With a bone-crunching crash, he lands not in the stands surrounding the coliseum, nor even on the coliseum floor. Instead, the bat’s aim is perfect, and the tiefling drops straight into one of the pits in the floor of the coliseum. He groans again and shakes his head, then looks up. 

He swears. 

And starts to climb.

***

Another shuriken flies out and takes a goblin in the throat, and Cook pushes his way in the guard house. His throwing stars are everywhere; his left hand holds a dagger, with which he deflects the few blows that the confused, surprised and demoralized Hand troops can muster. 

Another few shuriken, another few stabs, and the gatehouse falls quiet. 

Quickly, Cook binds his wounds, and then he turns to the windlass that opens the gates at the bottom of the coliseum. Grinning again, he begins cranking it.

***

Outside, the audience is in a stake of confusion and panic. Their leaders are under assault, their games have been interrupted and their coliseum is on fire. 

When the gates begin to creak open, they finally see a way out, and the milling crowd suddenly becomes a massive rush. Goblins and kobolds- the smaller of the Hand forces- are trampled. Gnolls and orcs, hobgoblins and lizardfolk, all join in the massive press towards the exit. Audience members are forced by the mass of bodies over the edge; they fall into the hazards in the floor of the coliseum below. Some die in the fall; some to the hazards that they fall upon. Others find themselves suddenly attacked by their slaves, some of whom were armed in order to fight in the games. 

“Slaves of Northshore, rise up!” yells Cook. “The time of your liberation has arrived!”

***

Vann-La strikes again, gasping with the effort, and Sir Unleafe collapses to the ground in a smoking pile of soiled robes and bones. 

Sharm the Terrible gives a howl of combined rage and pleasure. _He is out of the way, and I do not even need to lie about not having been involved!_ the kobold gloats, then spins into a _kobold whirlwind,_ his scimitars slashing all around him. Torinn cries in pain, staggering back; then the nightmare, billowing smoke, charges in at him as well. He swings his spiked chain around him, clearing some space, and Heimall, Vann-La and he focus their attacks on the deadly kobold. 

Vann-La smashes Sharm the Terrible’s shoulder with her maul. “Take that!” she cries. In return, Sharm draws an X on Vann-La’s torso with her two scimitars, then _double attacks_ Torinn, dropping him. Unfortunately for the Six-Fingered Hand, the dragonborn pops up again immediately, using a _healing word_ to fortify himself.**

“Damn it, go down!” swears Heimall, stabbing out again with his glaive. Sharm’s eyes widen as he recognizes _Throat-Ripper._ 

“You are the ones who slew Heshwat the Eviscerator!” the kobold exclaims.

“That’s right,” replies Heimall, “and you’re next.”

***

Finally pulling himself out of the pit, Hkatha invokes a _flaming sphere_ and sends it down into the crowd. The ball of flame rolls through them, increasing the panic. Screams echo everywhere. It is total chaos. 

Arrows are still flying through the air, especially from a group of brownscale lizard folk, notes the wizard. The two skeletal bats are still swooping at the heroes- one has taken to harrying Iggy, the other to assaulting Cook. Hkatha winces as a _prismatic burst_ explodes with blinding force near the center of the fight; then, he sees several arrows sink into Cook with seemingly impossible accuracy. The dwarf drops like a sack of gravel. 

With a gesture, Hkatha sends his _flaming sphere_ towards the archer lizard folk, and he quickly begins to make his way across the arena floor towards his fallen companion.

***

Sharm parries, dodges, whirls and slashes; cuts, ducks, feints and strikes. 

But there are _so many_ of the foe...

_Heshwat,_ he thinks, as another blow to the face rattles his teeth and knocks several loose, _now I understand why you had so much trouble with these people!_ He tries everything, tumbling back, hacking and slashing; but now he is on the retreat, as the invaders press him harder and harder towards the edge of the coliseum. 

_“All bets are off,_ you scum!” cries Torinn, his spiked chain slashing against the kobold and the nightmare. Sharm is weakening, and he knows he can’t take much more of this unceasing assault. He tumbles back again and gets to his feet just in time to see the blue-skinned elf cow coming for him. He tries to raise a scimitar to parry, but it catches on the bench-

*Crunch!*

***

An arrow pounds Hkatha in the shoulder, and he spins around and almost loses his footing. There is blood on the floor of the coliseum, soaking the sand. With a gesture, the wizard sends his _flaming sphere_ rolling into the midst of the archer formation again; he curls his lip as one of them catches fire, shrieking, and tries to flee. But he has nowhere to go; instead, he collapses, his screams slowly dying.

Another hail of arrows lances out towards him, arcing over the crowd. He throws his hands up and gasps a quick incantation, and a barely-visible _shield_ of force springs up, deflecting the incoming missiles. 

Hkatha continues to limp his way towards the archers- who are virtually the only organized resistance that remains- and grins as Torinn leaps on them from above, crashing on top of one of the brownscales like a meteor. He begins laying about himself with his spiked chain, and Hkatha keeps adding chaos with his _flaming sphere_. 

***

With Sharm the Terrible slain, our heroes surround the nightmare and start the grim process of slaying it, stabbing and smashing at it even as it whirls around, spilling demonic smoke everywhere. Flames spring up in its wake as it tries to break free of their assault, but Heimall calls for a _white raven onslaught_ and the party keeps it penned between them. It screams in rage, a horrific noise full of hate, but there is no escape for it. Heimall uses _Throat-Ripper_ and tears off its head. Spurting liquid fire, the beast keeps moving for another few moments, flailing blindly around at everything nearby, but then it finally collapses. 

There is no time to stop and catch their breath. Torinn and Hkatha are still fighting down below, finishing off the archers, and the others move to join them.

But where is Cook?

***

The slaves are rising. Using whatever weapons they can find- and there are many scattered about, after the slaughter that our heroes brought to town- they express to the Six-Fingered Hand exactly how much they appreciate the last five years of slavery and servitude. 

They were born free, citizens of an Empire that may or may not still exist. Then their freedom was taken from them, stolen by the man-eating humanoids that have terrified and lorded over them for years. When the Hand first came, these people- for the most part- were peasants, not warriors. They were not forced to fight. But now, although not forced, they fight for their lost freedom. They pick up whatever stick or stone is handy and attack the orcs near them, slit the throats of the kobolds, run through the lizard folk. 

Northshore’s time has come.

***

The two skeletal bats wheel about and fly off into the distance. The roar of the crowd, the sounds of panic and fighting are everywhere. 

“Here!” cries Hkatha. “Torinn, Heimall, one of you- come help! I found Cook, and he’s dying!”

“Gather around, quick!” orders Torinn. The party clusters around; and the dragonborn tilts his head back and utters a prayer to Lester. 

Wounds knit; Cook gives a startled cough, and his eyes fly open. He spits dirt and blood and groans. “Oi,” he says weakly, and drags himself to his feet. “Did we win?”

“The death knight and the kobold are dead,” pronounces Heimall. 

“We got his horse, too,” adds Torinn.

_*Next Time:*_ Sigil Sequences! 

*Sir Unleafe swore his _oath of enmity_ against Vann-La, allowing him to roll each of his attacks against her twice.

**Blast, only in retrospect do I realize that he should have stayed down. He had regeneration going, but it doesn’t work once you’re at 0 hit points or below- a technicality that I missed. Oh well, I’m sure Heimall would have just _inspiring worded_ him on his next turn anyhow.


----------



## the Jester

Time to get to work.

The party has now achieved one of their goals in Northshore- the defeat of the Six-Fingered Hand in the area. The destruction of one of Arawn’s death knight lieutenants is a bonus. They seal the deal, so to speak, by using a _disenchant magic item_ ritual to break his black greataxe down into residuum, which they cheerfully collect for future use. 

But they have another, hidden agenda here.

Northshore, before the coming of the Hand, was famous for its library. If the party wants to carry the fight to Arawn on the Silver Isle of Tirchond, they need to find a way there. From what General Argos knows, it is thousands of miles distant across the sea. Their only hope of crossing that vast gap in a reasonable amount of time is to teleport there; and to do that, they must find the coordinates- the sigil sequence of a teleport circle somewhere on the island.

To that end, they hit the books.

They find the book with startling speed.* It is old, in very poor shape, nearly falling apart. It is a hand-written copy of an ancient treatise on teleportation magic, penned almost two thousand years ago. It discusses teleportation theory in depth, but Iggy and Hkatha determine that most of the underlying theory in the book has since been discredited. It is ancient and out of date. In the days in which the book was penned, teleportation was apparently seen as a much higher-order sort of magic than in the modern day; and there are many references to things like “blind” teleportation, with no destination coordinates, which is patently impossible over long distances. 

Regardless, the book has the coordinates for 15 different teleportation circles in it; unfortunately, only eight of them still exist. Annotations beside the others in a second hand (not the original writer’s) indicate that the others are non-functional or destroyed. 

The eight remaining teleport circles have the following notes on their destinations:

1. “This circle leads to Tirchond, specifically to the Terran Hold in the Undercollege of (something smudged and illegible) below the Shining City. The dwarves of the Terran Order have shown great distress concerning the planar flux of late and (more smudging) help in determining the origin of the (part of page is torn).”

(“Excellent!” exclaims Hkatha. “This is just what we want!”)

2. “This circle has been placed with heavy wards by Imperial mages, protecting it from the undue influence of the druids. It leads to the Magnificent Desert, which is infested by the cactus folk and is very dangerous, even without considering the obvious hazards of being in a land which has been Awakened.”

3. (In a different writing style from most of the rest; clearly an addition after the original text.) “VERY DANGEROUS. Unwise to transition to these coordinates. Only one returned from foray; badly wounded and insane. Signs of acid. Other plane?”

4. “This circle was placed on Aerisa by the Kree elves to expedite trade with (a large section is smudged) friendly spider (more smudging)”

5. “Placed by the great elven druid Thaemeolon, this circle is near the top of a great mountain of unknown location. The view is incredible, and even seasoned mountaineers are amazed by the difficulty of any climbing attempts. Not even dragons can soar to the peak, so violent are the winds.”

6. “In one of the odder (a few smudged words) is underwater, on a broken stone shelf. Though it is not certain exactly where this circle is, it is known to be very far to the north- the Sun is significantly (smudged bit)...mains.”

7. “This circle leads to the Merchants’ Concourse in Bemvia City, a wonderful place for supplying oneself, but a 25 gp fee for using the circle applies.” In a different hand, a notation in the margins reads, “Erratic! Overgrown- fey zone?”

8. (A smudged area obscures the beginning of the entry, though the coordinates can just be made out.) “...tion is advised. He will eat unwary travelers.” In another hand, a note has been written- “Old cloud castle- now ruled by djinni- eternal storm”

“This is what we were really here for,” says Iggy. “Now what? We could teleport straight to Tirchond now...”

“No,” opines Torinn, “we’re better off if we go back to Fandelose first. That way we can leave the book behind, in case we fail, and someone else can try again later.”

Nobody can argue with the dragonborn’s logic, so the party sets out, leading a component of the liberated Northshorers. After five days of marching, they encounter the advance scouts of the Fandelosian force coming to aid them. After boasting about their victory to the commander, one Captain Varpos, they turn the once enslaved people over to him and pick up their own pace. Another few days, and they reach Fandelose, where they report in to Colonel Jaxe.

He is most pleased with their success, as well as with the wisdom they displayed in coming back before launching their assault on Tirchond. The colonel recommends a place about a day out of town for the _linked portal_ that they are going to create; that way, if someone gets the coordinates and tries to backtrack the party, they won’t emerge in the middle of the city. “And we’ll station a squadron of men there to guard it, just in case.”

***

“Finally,” Shakgar says vehemently. “Shakgar is impatient and wants to fight!”

“You aren’t the only one,” agrees Vann-La.

The circle has been scriven. The party is gathered around it. The guards are present and on duty, keeping a nervous eye on things. 

Iggy and Hkatha perform the ritual, and the way opens. The circle flares with light, blazes with energy as the portal appears. Ligir draws his pistol. And the party steps through. 

***

They appear in a dark room, illuminated only by Iggy’s _light_ cantrip. It stretches away ahead of them, and near the far end a catwalk stretches across the chamber, 15’ up. The two wavering, insubstantial forms on it don’t have a chance to react before Iggy _shoots from the hip,_ blasting one of the ghostly figures immediately and following it up with a _magic missile._

A rattling sound behind them... Vann-La whirls around and gasps. A great collection of bones is raising a sharp appendage up to strike at the party. “Look out!” she cries, and strikes with amazing speed. 

Torinn _turns undead,_ and both of the spectral figures on the catwalk writhe in the energy of his faith. To his surprise, though, the bone creature doesn’t react at all- it doesn’t even flinch. “That thing isn’t undead!” he shouts. 

Iggy glances at it. “It’s a bone golem!” he cries. Ignoring Vann-La, it rumbles forward. The Kree elf smashes it again, preventing it from moving further, but hisses in pain as its sharp bones stab her arm. Meanwhile, the two things on the catwalk...

...draw _pistols..._

...and start shooting at the party’s own gunslinger. 

Iggy screams as phantom bullets blast into him, weakening him. “Don’t let them hit you!” the wizard warns. 

Everyone else is busy, however; the bone golem, in the midst of the party, is laying about itself with bone spurs, tearing into them. Vann-La keeps it from moving further forward, while Heimall, Torinn and Cook work with her to crush it to pieces. But the two pistol wraiths remain focused on Iggy, staying distant and firing _grave shots_ at him that suck away at his vitality.**

“A little help!” he cries, casting a _magic missile_- but missing.

“We’re kind of busy,” Heimall retorts, slamming _Throat-Ripper_ into the bone golem with a _viper strike._ 

“I’m under serious fire here!” Ligir shouts back, as two more phantom bullets hit him. 

“Be there in a minute!” 

The wizard grimaces and casts a desperate _lightning serpent_, but the pistol wraith- now cackling evilly- dodges aside. A few sparks catch it, slowing it; but it keeps up a steady stream of fire at Ligir. In desperation, he _dimension doors_ up onto the catwalk to make it harder for them to fire at him- but they just phase through it down to the ground and keep shooting at him. Iggy groans and collapses as two more bullets hit him. 

Torinn utters a _healing word_, getting the wizard back on his feet; but clearly, it won’t last long. _We need to help him,_ the dragonborn thinks, _and quickly, or else this is going to turn uglier than it already is!_ 

Unfortunately, the golem seems to have other ideas, shredding Vann-La, Cook and Heimall with its bone spurs over and over again. But then Cook slips in under its guard and, giving it a _fool’s opportunity,_ tricks it into slamming itself! The golem hits with a perfect blow, and it shatters into thousands of pieces!***

Suddenly free to turn on the pistol wraiths, the party unleashes a storm of violence. Heimall drags one of the wraiths away from Iggy with a _skirmish ploy,_ and the rest of the party charges forward to engage the other at close range, with preventing it from shooting its gun with impunity. They flit back up through the catwalk, and Iggy, with a gulp, rushes off the catwalk and through an opening on the side that turns out to wind around, down and back into the room. “Hey!” he shouts. “This is how you get up on the catwalk!” 

_Blam! Blam!_ More pistol shots ring out at him, and he ducks behind the corner for cover. Peeking out, he fires his pistol back- and finally hits one of the damned things! _About time,_ he thinks, ducking back behind his cover. 

Armed with Iggy’s revelation, several of the heroes rush to the side passages- a matching one on the other side proves to also lead up onto the catwalk. Meanwhile, Cook stays below, throwing shuriken. The wraiths, back to back, keep firing, although their preferred target (maybe because he too has a gun?) is out of sight. 

He pops out long enough to hit them with a _fireball,_ just before Torinn, Vann-La and Heimall rush in to bracket them. The two pistol wraiths try to drop down through the catwalk again, but the three heroes manage to reduce one of them to ectoplasmic goo as it flees. The other lands in front of Cook, who stabs it. Suddenly it is _walking wounded._ 

Vann-La leaps down at it. As it rises, the others dash down the side halls and rush towards it as well. It cackles, but clearly the tide of battle now favors our heroes. 

Another pistol report, and Iggy shoots it again. It staggers, shifts, and tries to shoot back, but its aim is off, and its _grave shot_ misses him again. 

Then Vann-La hits it again, and it dissolves into ectoplasm.

Silence, other than the gasping for breath of the party. 

“Wow,” says Iggy, massaging his wounds. “Now I know how the bad guys feel when I shoot them.”

***

After a short rest to catch their collective breath and regain their wits, the party takes a closer look at the room. 

The far end holds a large door; the two side passages that lead up to the catwalk each lead away beyond it. They decide to start with the western hallway. Several doors lead out of it; two of them lead to rooms that have partially collapsed walls, allowing our heroes to peer into the rooms beyond. These prove to be ruined barracks, crowded with dwarf-sized bunks made of stone (which have been partially destroyed). The party explores them; they are adjoined by a mess hall, latrines and a kitchen. A search of the kitchen turns up a bag containing a pound of salt and a jar holding 2 cups of honey. Cook chortles gleefully and puts them in his kit. All the other food that was once in the place has spoiled, but the dwarf finds a few new pots and pans worth taking. “Oi, dwarves cooked here,” he declares upon inspecting the items. 

The barracks themselves are a destroyed mess. It is obvious that some sort of large, powerful creature tore through here at some point. Several dwarf bones- though no full skeletons- are in here. “What do you suppose happened here?” wonders Vann-La, but nobody has an answer at this point. The latrines are simple affairs, just holes in the ground. Cocking her head, the elf says, “There’s water down there.”

“We dwarves try to put our privies above water, to carry away the waste,” Cook explains. “And this complex is clearly of dwarven make.”

There are no other exits from the area, so the party returns to the hallway and investigates the final door in it. Opening it, they find a room that was obviously once used for battle practice and sparring. There are mats on the floor, a row of practice dummies set up to receive charges, and five thick poles bristling with metal poles and rods. 

Amongst them are a pair of strange-looking creatures that, at first glance, our heroes take to be some weird race of elves. With silvery-grey skin and strange hooked spurs on the backs of their hands, they are plainly not like any elves that our heroes have ever seen.

Immediately, as our heroes open the door, the strange elves vanish.

“What the hell?” exclaims Iggy. “What were those?”

The party moves cautiously into the room, Vann-La’s acute senses searching for any sign of them. There is none- until they reappear, out of nowhere, and one of them does so _right where she is standing._

“AAARGH!!” they scream together, as they are blown towards opposite sides of the chamber by their fleeting coexistence.

“What the hell?” asks Iggy again.

The strange elf-like creatures attack.

_*Next Time:*_ In the Terran Undercollege!


*Their Perception check to do so was off the frickin’ charts. Somewhere in the low 50s, iirc. Vann-La rolled very high, and everyone aided her.

**2 hits, each of which did damage and sucked out a healing surge. Ow!

***Cook got a crit on it, and that was ugly for my poor bone golem. On the other hand, it was beautiful to see his first use of his new 13th level power work so well!


----------



## Mathew_Freeman

> The party moves cautiously into the room, Vann-La’s acute senses searching for any sign of them. There is none- until they reappear, out of nowhere, and one of them does so right where she is standing.
> 
> “AAARGH!!” they scream together, as they are blown apart by their fleeting coexistence.




Am I reading that right? Did Vann-La just get killed?


----------



## the Jester

Mathew_Freeman said:


> Am I reading that right? Did Vann-La just get killed?




Whoops, not quite clear!

Sorry- they were not blown apart as in blown to bits, they were blown apart as in blown in separate directions. I'll have to rephrase that...


----------



## Mathew_Freeman

the Jester said:


> Whoops, not quite clear!
> 
> Sorry- they were not blown apart as in blown to bits, they were blown apart as in blown in separate directions. I'll have to rephrase that...




Just read the rewrite - that's much clearer! I did wonder why you weren't making a bigger thing of it.

Awesome stuff as usual - if I don't see another update from you before Xmas then have a good one!


----------



## the Jester

Whatever the freakish, elf-like creatures are, they move with impressive speed, slashing at our heroes with the spurs on the back of their hands. These spurs prove to be fairly deadly; but when the greyish-silver creatures manage to flank or otherwise gain combat advantage, they become significantly more deadly. Worse yet, the things are able to blink out of existence and then reappear a few moments later, and- as Vann-La has already learned- when they reappear in the same place as one of our heroes, the consequences are painful for both of them.

The fight is on-again, off-again as the two creatures appear and disappear over and over again. Two more of the things enter the room, drawn by the sounds of the combat, and our heroes are suddenly having twice the fun with the damned elusive creatures. 

Yet while the strange elves are present, our heroes do manage to land a few blows here and there, wounding the four creatures. Soon Vann-La, angry and frustrated, starts to use a new tactic: when one of the creatures vanishes, she moves to its last location and waits for it to reappear. 

This strategy, while fairly effective, is also painful. 

However, Torinn and Heimall are there to help absorb the worst of it. With their _healing_ and _inspiring words_ to help make the damage manageable, a few more of our heroes start to do the same. 

Finally, the tide has turned decisively in their favor! But, sensing the danger, one of the elf-things instead elects to flee. Our heroes, still bogged down with the other two surviving enemies, cannot pursue quickly enough, and the creature escapes. The other two, meanwhile, are finally cut down.

“They didn’t bleed,” Heimall notices at once.

”Maybe they are some kind of undead,” Torinn says, “but if they are, I’ve never heard of them.”

The party rests for a few moments, recouping their strength and doing some healing. They then send Cook down the passage that the second pair of bad guys had emerged from. He reports back almost immediately: “Just around the corner is a room with a most clever dwarven innovation in it. My people sometimes enclose a room with a heated pool of water in it. Both the water and the steam are very soothing, and you go in there for purposes of relaxation. It is called a _sauna_. There are no exits from it, either.”

“It might be a good place to rest,” Heimall suggests. 

The party goes into the sauna and conducts a thorough search. It is as Cook told them: a steamy room, about 20’ by 30’, dominated by a shallow, hot pool of water. Some discussion ensues about the merits of resting in the sauna versus spending precious reagents to use another _linked portal_ to return to the circle outside of Fandelose. At this point, they are close enough to the circle that they arrived in that it would be easy to use it to transition home; but, as Torinn points out, that won’t always be true. 

The party collectively shrugs. No need for a final decision until the time comes, after all. They return to exploring. 

There is still another exit from the room in which they fought the strange (possibly undead) elf-things: a short passageway ending in a door. They throw it open, and find themselves looking in at an empty, disused classroom. The room is full of chairs that sit alongside long tables. The professor’s desk is at the head of the classroom. There is a large chalkboard covering most of the southern wall, and upon it are sketches of several strange-looking creatures: a sort of lumpy, trilaterally symmetrical creature, shaped vaguely like an inverted pyramid with three arms and legs, whose mouth is stuck on the top of its head; a more-or-less tube-shaped creature with fins and eyes all around its circumference, with little boring claws sticking out from the sides; a red-hot worm; and a humanoid creature consisting completely of stone. A few very basic notes are under each- the first is called a xorn, and the notes indicate that it eats metal and gems. The second creature, a khargra, “swims through earth like a fish”. The notes beneath the worm call it a thoqqua, and note that it is a combination of fire and earth, and that it can burn its way through solid bedrock. The final creature is apparently an earth archon- which, according to the notes, is a “Primordial elemental soldier from the early epochs of the multiverse”. 

The party searches the area. The desk proves to hold a bunch of academic records as well as a smooth piece of blue and white rock. This does not appear to have any special properties, but our heroes take it nonetheless. 

Time to start opening doors. 

The classroom has a total of five doors leading into it. The party came from one; they open the door to its left. This opens on a long hallway leading off into the dark.

“We might as well look behind the other doors first,” Cook suggests. 

The next leftmost door opens onto a small office. A plaque on the desk reads “Professor Hammerhead.” The room has a small chair and desk, but much of the area is hemmed in by shelves covered in rocks and stones, each meticulously labeled. One shelf holds a small collection of books, which Ligir goes to examine while everyone else looks at the desk and the stones.

“Hmm,” Cook says, “I do not think that there is much value in these stones, compared to their weight. We might be able to get twenty gold for them, but...”

Heimall nods. “It’s not really worth the effort.”

The desk holds mostly more academic papers, including grade books, and a few more stones and papers about stones. 

“This is interesting,” Iggy remarks, from the area of the books. “These are mostly geology, but this one is about some supposed elemental plane of earth. I mean, _only_ earth.”

“Weird,” says Torinn.

Hkatha rubs his chin. “I guess that must be an antiquated, disproven theory.”

“Yeah,” nods Iggy. “But you’d think they would have known it wasn’t right. Even back in those days, they knew how to plane travel.”

“Weird,” Torinn says again.

The next door opens to a 20’ square room with only two noteworthy features: a lever, and strange metal tracks on the walls in the four corners.

“A lever!” exclaims the dragonborn. 

“Don’t pull it yet,” Heimall cries. 

“I won’t- but I will pull it eventually.” Torinn grins a toothy grin. 

The lever is in the upward position; the party examines it closely, but cannot tell what it does. After some debate, everyone else steps out of the room while Torinn remains inside and pulls the lever downward. 

The door swings closed and locks. 

Torinn tenses, but nothing further seems to happen. He easily switches the lever back up, and the door unlocks and swings open.

“Huh,” he says, puzzled. 

The party discusses the strange lever. “We could all stay inside, and see if we can tell what’s happening,” suggests Torinn. 

“Before we do that, I will try to disable the door,” Cook says. “That way we have a way to escape.” The dwarf sidles up to the door and examines it for the closing mechanism. Soon he is working merrily on it with his picks and tools. A few moments later, he announces, “The door will no longer close.”

The party- albeit with some misgivings- throws the lever again. 

Nothing visible happens.

“Wait for it,” Heimall urges. 

Nothing....

“Hey!” exclaims Vann-La. “Look!”

“What is it?”

“The room is moving downward, but very slowly.” She points at the entryway. “There is a very slight lip there now.”

Everybody looks, and she’s right. They stare fixedly for a few moments, and can detect their downward motion. 

“We shouldn’t do this yet,” says Heimall. “We’ve barely begun exploring this place, and we don’t even know where we are. We’re underground on Tirchond somewhere; we could be miles, or even hundreds of miles, from Arawn.”

“Good point.” Torinn throws the lever back up, and the room very gradually rises back up. “But at least we know the way down, now.”

The final door out of the classroom leads to another hallway. They close it and return to the first door that they checked. Vann-La had seen another door down that hall, and so it seems ever so slightly more promising. 

That door, placed in the right-hand wall only a few feet down, proves to lead only to an old storage closet holding brooms, mops and other cleaning supplies. With a shrug, they continue on. 

Ahead, the hall opens into a room. As they approach, the chamber lights up, as if by magic. 

“Whoa,” says Heimall, “what is all that?”

“It looks almost like an art gallery,” suggests Hkatha. 

Indeed- but what strange art. 

Three large alcoves each have their own display; four more displays are set about the floor. The first alcove has a plaque that reads, “Dwarven art tends to be long-lasting and practical. To a dwarf, excellent engineering is art. Dwarves excel at working with metal or, especially, stone, and include great works of art as part of massive bridges, stone cathedrals or defensive works.” The objects on display include bricks fashioned to appear as a series of overlapping hammers and anvils, a shield with a fierce dwarven face upon it whose eyes are set with chips of granite and whose beard is beaten iron, a crossbow with exceptionally fine engineering, composed entirely of stone (even the string!), a mug etched with gems and gold on one face and a fierce dwarven thane on the other and a mosaic scene of a dwarf hero slaying a dragon, made all of chips of stone of different colors. 

The second alcove has clearly been defiled and obliterated by magic. Fused wreckage is all that remains, with several objects collapsed into ruin as if they were of extreme age. In other areas, piles of dust are all that remain. 

“Someone,” says Hkatha, “was a very harsh critic.”

Ligir leans down and stirs the dust with his finger. “This looks like it was magically disintegrated, whatever it was.”

“That’s pretty powerful magic.”

The third and final alcove is dedicated to kuo-toa art and has clearly been looted. A plaque reads, “Kuo-toan art is usually religious in nature. Almost all kuo-toans revere Blibdoolpoolp, their dark goddess of underwater evil. Thus, kuo-toan art shows themes of the ancient glory days when they ruled the seas, their vengeance upon the creatures of the upper world, their return to power, and, of course, the cruelty and majesty of their goddess.” Most of the display is gone, not destroyed, but removed or stolen. Only one item remains, a giant sheet of polished rock 3’ thick and 10’ on a side- it nearly fills the back wall of the alcove- carved with glyph-like images of evil kuo-toan armies overrunning both aboleth and sea elves and returning to the surface world, while their weird lobster-headed goddess Blibdoolpoolp gloats in the background. 

The four displays on the floor are weirder. The first is a curved piece of bone almost 15’ in length that has been smoothed and worn with strange bumps and whorls. The plaque next to it reads, “Aboleth art is usually incomprehensible to non-aboleth. Furthermore, those with active psychic abilities sometimes find aboleth art to induce megrims.”

The second display is on the east wall and consists of two poles of bone lashed together with skulls atop them, forming a ‘gate’ shape. A skull with the lower jaw distended downwards, painted in vivid red, tops the display. The accompanying plaque reads, “Grimlock art is strange, as they are blind and yet it incorporates vivid pigments. The answer to this mystery is simple: the pigments, while nearly scentless to elven or dwarven noses, have a very strong scent to the grimlocks. The vivid color is a simple coincidence.”

The third floor display includes some crude dolls, as well as wooden shields splashed with bloody, six-fingered hands. The plaque reads, “Goblin art is usually not very sophisticated, though there are exceptions. Shields are usually painted with the clan’s image, such as the Bloody Eye or Broken Tooth. However, there are exceptions, such as the Six-Fingered Hand shields seen here. The Six-Fingered Hand was a group of various types of humanoids that joined forces to fight against the elves and dwarves of Tirchond, but their alliance could not outlive their leader’s destruction.”

“What the hell?” says Heimall.

“That sounds like Arawn is already dead,” Vann-La says. 

“More weirdness. This place is kind of weird,” Torinn declares. 

The final display is a large piece of stone, flat on the ground, that has been artfully sculpted. Most of the sculpture is abstract, adding strange patters or scales to the stone; in ten places, little miniature beholders have been sculpted. The plaque reads, “Powerful eye tyrants use their disintegrating eye rays to sculpt the stone around them into pleasing shapes. They can thus configure their lair to look like whatever they desire. In combination with their ability to fly, this makes beholders VERY DANGEROUS opponents in the field. Even in the case of a neutralized beholder held in captivity, such as we have here, one should always maintain a posture of EXTREME CAUTION when dealing with a beholder.”

“Such as we have here?” Heimall says. “They have a beholder captive here??”

“That’s not good,” remarks Vann-La, “since this place seems abandoned and haunted by monsters. And _something_ disintegrated the art in that alcove.”

_*Next Time:*_ Our heroes keep exploring... and their worries have just begun!


----------



## the Jester

Our heroes have gleaned all that they can from the art gallery. There are yet more exits from it, and they have not explored everything behind them yet. 

“This place must be pretty big,” remarks Iggy.

Cook nods. “Oi, my people sometimes build complexes that fill entire mountains- and this place is dwarf work.”

The party returns to the classroom that they had previously seen. They still have one door that leads to an unexplored area to check. While they are there, they stop to eat lunch, since there are an abundance of chairs and desks. It makes for a comfortable meal; while they are there, Vann-La pokes through more of Professor Hammerhead’s papers and notices that the last entries in any of the dates material are from roughly ten years ago.

“So this place was some kind of college,” muses Hkatha, “and something happened to it a decade ago that shut it down.”

“Yeah,” says Iggy, “but what kind of college is underground?”

“A dwarf one,” answers Cook.

Once they are ready, the party moves on. The final door out of the classroom leads to a hall that opens onto a large area whose far and side walls are unworked. The natural wall is striated in colors, with nodules of crystal and the nubs of stalactites growing from the ceiling near it. Water trickles down from the ceiling 20’ overhead in many places.

Iggy draws and fires.

Near the center of the chamber are three creatures that the party recognizes as xorn from the sculptures in Professor Hammerhead’s office. Up on a ledge 10’ above floor level is a creature that looks more or less like a walking boulder. It is this that Ligir fires at, and the bullet hits. The creature gives a surprised grunt.

”Galeb duhr!” he cries. And launches a _fireball_ into the xorn.

“Right,” sighs Hkatha, “let’s make sure we piss them _all_ off so that we can’t talk to _any_ of them.”

”There’s another one,” says Vann-La, “on the ledge at the far end of the room. But I can’t tell what it is- it’s low to the ground.” And she draws her sword and charges forward alongside Summer and Torinn. They start to duel the strange, trilateral monsters; but the elf keeps one eye on the other ledge. 

Rocks start to slide down it- _a swarm of rocks?_ wonders Vann-La- vibrating and rattling. They roll towards Vann-La, and she can feel the ground vibrating around it. “It’s some kind of living tremor!” she cries, and as it moves near her, the trembling ground slides beneath her feet. She pinwheels her arms and manages to avoid being moved too far; but even so, she can feel the shaking ground all around her, and realizes that it will be very difficult to move too close to it. 

Meanwhile, two of the xorn each take a bite at Torinn. Each misses. The third one seems to try to bite his armor, but it also misses.* “Hey!” he cries out. “Watch out, they eat armor!”

Summer _thunder steps_ over to the living tremor and attacks. Sudden frost erupts in the air around her as she assumes the _form of winter’s herald,_ jabbing her spear into the pile of rocks. “I hurt it,” she announces. “It doesn’t seem resistant to weaponry- or cold!”

The galeb duhr, meanwhile, remains on its perch. It gestures, and a great hand erupts from the earth in front of Heimall. The galeb duhr clenches its fist, and the earthen hand grabs the warlord. He struggles valiantly, but every time he frees one limb, a great finger of rock folds over it. All he can do is curse. 

Vann-La turns and charges towards the galeb duhr, rushing up to the ledge. She engages it with her sword, and Heimall cries, “Vann-La- _git!_” She strikes again; Heimall keeps struggling to get free to no avail. “Git!” he cries again. 

With Vann-La gone for the moment, Torinn finds himself the only one attacking the xorn. _At least Summer is close enough to soak up some of their attacks,_ the dragonborn cleric thinks wryly. 

Indeed: one of the xorns bites her, while the others attack him, each making three attacks- one with each of its claws. He replies with a _righteous brand,_ while Summer unleashes another frenzied attack on the tremor that knocks it askew. 

To top it off, Heimall finally manages to break loose of the earth hand, which recedes back into the ground. The galeb duhr is clearly not happy with this, nor is it happy with Vann-La in its face. It tucks itself into a ball and rolls down off the ledge, bouncing into Torinn with a loud *Crunch!* 

Meanwhile the living tremor manages to shake the ground sufficiently to knock Summer from her feet. Vann-La rushes in, but not too close, and then tosses her head and cries, _“Come and get it!”_

The xorn, tremor and galeb duhr all advance towards the blue-skinned elf. 

*BOOM!* Iggy tosses a _force orb_ right into the middle of the bunched-up bad guys, and Heimall calls out, _“Surround the foe!”_ 

The party has achieved a sudden and deadly advantage. Their wizard hammers the group of earth creatures with spells, while Vann-La, Summer, Torinn and Heimall all rain blows on the creatures. The galeb duhr falls first, followed by the living tremor. The xorn elect to flee down into the ground, but Vann-La even manages to slay one of them with a deadly blow as it tries to escape. The other two, however, get away.

“That tremor thing was tough,” Vann-La exclaims.

The party looks around the chamber for anything of worth or interest. There are a lot of stalagmites, but nothing else. A second passage leads from the room, and they follow it to where it turns left. At the elbow of the corridor is a door. They first follow the initial hall around, finding that it connects with the magic circle room; then, opening the door, they find two passages, one to the right and one heading straight ahead. They choose to move forward first. 

The hall spills out into a large, deep alcove in a larger room to the right. However, it appears that the larger area has sunken into a mudpit. The party cannot see the bottom from their location. 

Summer edges forward to get a closer look, the others moving close behind. Torinn strides to the edge just after her.

The bottom is filled with muddy water. The warden studies it for a moment, and suddenly a large head pops up- and lets out a terrifying, ear-splitting roar.

“Aargh!!” cries Summer, reeling.** 

Then what the party at first took to be a simple muddy rock starts to writhe, and tentacles lash out, one grabbing Torinn most forcefully.

“That’s a roper!” shouts Heimall, appalled. 

“Not for long,” Vann-La says, and hacks at the tentacle holding onto Torinn. It jerks and withdraws; below, the roper snarls angrily. 

“What’s that other thing?” asks Torinn, casting _weapon of the gods_ on Vann-La’s sword.

“It’s a dire bunyip,” Summer groans, shaking her head- 

And it roars again. This time, Vann-La, Summer and Torinn are all caught by the roar, each screaming in pain.*** The roper lashes out at Vann-La with a pair of tentacles, bloodying her and dragging her into the pit. “Uh oh!” she cries. “A little help?” She starts up her _rain of steel,_ and as the dire bunyip lunges at her and attempts a _drowning worry_, she instead manages to pull off a _disruptive strike_ that spoils its attack!

Summer, meanwhile, is barely still standing. She holds back, catching her _second wind,_ and Torinn, recognizing a good time to use one of his newer powers, casts _mass cure light wounds_. Thus bolstered, the party starts to strike back, largely leaping into the pit to fight in terrain that heavily favors the enemy.**** It is what they have to do, though, if they don’t want to just feed the monsters Vann-La. 

A terrific struggle ensues, with the dire bunyip tearing into our heroes, trying to force them under the water to drown and ducking under the water to escape the worst of their blows. The roper lashes and bites at our heroes, tearing open great wounds. The water and mud turn red with all the blood being spilled.

But as always, Heimall and Torinn keep the party members on their feet, and soon Torinn lashes his chain out one last time at the dire bunyip, smashing its head and brains to bits. 

The roper, clearly seeing which way things are going, cries, “I yield!”

“It speaks?” exclaims Torinn, swinging at it. 

“Apparently so,” Vann-La says, as she smashes it across the eye with the flat of her blade. The roper sags, unconscious. 

“You didn’t kill it?”

“It yielded,” the elf explains, “and we need information. We don’t know what’s going on here, where to find Arawn, or how to get out.”

“You’re going to trust that thing?” asks Iggy.

“No- but I _am_ going to question it.”

“We have already shown that we can kick its ass,” Torinn points out. “When it wakes up, if it gives us any trouble, we’ll just kill it.”

“Fair enough,” nods Ligir. 

***

The roper is very helpful when questioned. It tells the group that the dungeon they are in is called the Terran Undercollege, but that it has been a dangerous area out of so-called civilized control for about a decade. “There are two wizards that are fighting over this place, but I don’t know much about that,” it claims. “I came in from the Underdark, and the bunyip you slew came in separately, but we worked well as a team when it came to killing prey.”

What it tells them jives with what they already know, and even if they don’t learn much, the bit about the two wizards contesting the area is something. 

“Do you know of the Six-Fingered Hand?” Heimall asks.

“Who?”

“Never mind.” _Interesting. It seems that our concerns are not as widespread as we had assumed._

The party leaves the roper alive, and continues exploring.


*These are xorn of my design, from before the MM2 came out, and they have an attack that can damage or destroy your metal gear. 

**That’s 56 points of aargh, to be precise. Oh, and have some dazed (save ends) with that, will you?

***53 points each this time. For the record, I just got lucky: the dire bunyip’s roar is a recharge 6 ability, and I rolled a 6 on round 1 (vs. round 0, the surprise round). 

****Each mud pit square cost 3 squares of movement to enter unless you have swamp walk or a swim speed- neither of which our heroes had. The dire bunyip is all good in the water, and the roper doesn’t really need to move- it has a reach of 10, for Christ’s sake!


----------



## the Jester

The other hallway quickly leads to doors and more passageways. Our heroes take to the right and find another bunch of the silver-skinned elf-things guarding a stairway up, alongside a terrible dwarven construct called a slaughterstone eviscerator. After a fierce battle, joined by a night hag from a neighboring room, the party overcomes their adversaries. 

But it is a way up, and presumably out! The party heads up- but, to their disappointment, it leads merely to another dark chamber.

“Wait,” says Cook. “There is too much unexplored behind us. We should make an area safe in case we must rest here.”

This seems logical, so the party descends and goes back to the strange art gallery in order to follow the other passageway, one that they have not yet explored, exiting the chamber. This proves to cross over a large cavern _below_ the passageway- it functions as a bridge. The ceiling is 10’ above the walkway, which is 40’ above the floor of the chamber itself, visible in the glow of Torinn’s sun rod. Bats hang above the party; below them, our heroes can hear the buzzing of strange, subterranean insect life. A rich rotten smell rises up from the lower area. Strange fungus grows abundantly on the floor of the cavern. A pool of water completes the chamber. Water drips down into it from the ceiling above. 

The passage continues into the wall beyond the great cavern, and our heroes march out. After roughly another hundred feet, the passageway T’s; the right hand branch thrusts out about 10’ into another huge open chamber, and again the passage is located 40’ up in the air. Since it is so close (the left-hand passage turns right in the distance), the party steps out to the hallway’s final span and looks into the chamber. 

Below, faintly lit by phosphorescent fungi, is a vast cavern. Milling restlessly around at the bottom is a mass of something... Torinn moves forward, casting light from the rod down below. It is a thick herd of bison-like beasts: rothe. The room is covered in fungus of all kinds. Moreover, half-devoured, rotting rothe corpses are spread throughout the room in about a dozen places. 

“Cheerful,” comments Heimall.

Something in the shadows moves- and takes flight!

“What the-“

Suddenly the ground pitches, hurling those close to the end of the hallway to their feet and nearly tumbling them off the edge! 

“What just happened?” exclaims Hkatha.

Vann-La cries, “Gargoyles!”

“Those aren’t gargoyles,” says Ligir, “those are _margoyles!_ Except for that one wearing a cape- and I think it somehow made the ground quake!”

Indeed. The cape-wearing gargoyle hurls _stone bolts_ at the party, and periodically it makes the ground twist and buck beneath them, trying to push them off the edge. The margoyles fly in and try to mash our heroes into the ground, attacking with tremendous fierceness. Both Shakgar and Heimall end up pitched down to the ground below, and the herd of rothe spooks and begins stampeding around them. 

The fight is fraught with danger; the enemy can fly about the room, easily evading the party’s melee attacks. Even so, our heroes eventually prevail, slaying the gargoyle and margoyles. They take the cape- which Iggy, after a few moments, proclaims to be a _cloak of resistance +4_- and search the ledge that had been the lair of the monsters. There they find 1450 sp and 285 gp. Not bad for half an hour’s work!

“We should probably search down below as well,” comments Shakgar.

“All we’re going to find is dead rothe,” says Iggy.

“It’s worth a look,” opines Summer.

Their search actually turns up a secret door. “Told you so,” Shakgar says with a chuckle.

The secret door leads to a narrow passage that ends in another secret door. This opens on the floor of the other huge cavern that they passed over. So they return, then get back up on to the passageway and follow it back the other way. 

The passage turns and empties into a room with a large number of beautiful crystal formations growing in it, resembling nothing so much as a bed of flowers. Then it connects to the night hag’s room. 

“Now what?” wonders Summer.

“We can go up those stairs,” says Iggy.

“We still haven’t fully explored this level,” notes Vann-La. 

“Do we need to?”

“Oi, before we do anything,” Cook declares, “we should freshen up. Iggy and Hkatha, do you not have the magical ability to remove the dirt and grime from us? Would it not be better if we smelled more pleasant?”

“Good point,” nods Hkatha. The two wizards use their _prestidigitation_ to clean everyone up; only Shakgar does not seem refreshed by the act. 

“Where,” wonders Torinn, “is Arawn? Do we need to go up- or down? Is he in this dungeon?”

The discussion resumes. Hkatha states, “If we go up, maybe we’ll be at the surface and will be able to tell more about what’s going on.”

“I bet he’s at the bottom of this place,” says Heimall. 

“I wonder what this place was.”

Torinn cocks his head. “You know, it kind of reminds me of tales of Lester’s old School of Adventures. Maybe this whole place is a testing ground for adventurers.”

“It’s possible. A strange concept, but possible.” Iggy strokes his chin. “Why don’t we check and see whether the way up gets us anywhere? We know where it is, and it’s got to be faster than that elevator going down will be.”

“Let’s do _something,_” growls Shakgar.

Up the stairs it is, then. The party goes back to where they fought the slaughterstone eviscerator and its fellow guards and ascends. At the top, they find themselves in a 30’ square room. The walls resemble a concrete of soil, stone, clay and pebbles mixed together, along with bits of other stuff, including bones and tattered bits of leather. 

“Ugh,” comments Torinn.

”This place has been reshaped by magic, I can sense it,” Iggy mutters. Torinn and Hkatha nod agreement. “And it seems... distasteful to me.”  

Then, suddenly, the walls to either side bulge- and gruesome grey arms extrude from both of them! Rotten and foul, clearly not alive- a terrible stink now bubbling from the walls themselves- 

“Ware the walls!” shouts Vann-La.

“They’re undead,” shouts Torinn. “So-called living walls!”

Something steps through each wall: a hulking abomination of fleshy parts sewn and bolted together. 

“Crap,” moans Iggy. “Flesh golems.”

_*Next Time:*_ Our heroes try to fight their way up!


----------



## the Jester

Imagine the sight: a grotesque figure composed of mismatched body parts riveted together to make a hulking figure. One arm came, perhaps, from an ogre, while the other is scaly and clawed. Flesh golems- automatons, magical constructs energized by powerful dweomers. And behind them, from the horrific living walls, arms reach out, clawing, grasping, imploring; all the while the charnel stench gags our heroes and makes them want to vomit. 

A grey arm locks onto Cook’s wrist. He shrieks in fear. “Oi, no!!” 

Then another clamps on his ankle. They pull him towards the wall- and inside. His cries cut off.

“COOK!!” shouts Vann-La. 

Others pummel Heimall and Torinn, and then the walls start to move inward, closing in on our heroes behind the golems.

“All right, you bastard!” the Kree warrior howls. “_COME AND GET IT!!_”

The enemies close, and she hacks about her with brutal efficiency, slicing all of them.

But there isn’t a drop of blood. None of the ghastly things are alive. 

Heimall hollers, “_Beat them to the ground!”_ 

The party is a well-oiled machine. Walls? We don’t _care_ if they look like walls. We’ll bowl them over just the same! In seconds, both walls and both golems are sprawling on the ground, and then our heroes attack with all their might. Cook manages to escape the grasp of the wall that has him in time to avoid a fate worse than death, and then our heroes thoroughly turn the tide. 

Once they have the advantage, they are certainly not giving it back. 

Soon their unliving foes have been slaughtered, but not without cost. All of them are wounded except for Summer. They gather about while Torinn and Heimall administer some healing, and then decide to look around a little. The chamber that they are in has a single exit (not counting the two alcoves that the golems were in, previously hidden by the living walls, or the stairs back down): a hallway that almost immediately branches into a four-way intersection. The right hand way ends in a door after about 20’; the left hand and forward paths each lead out of sight. 

Summer says, “Let’s do the door first.” Vann-La nods. The two of them- in the lead- approach the door, intending to simply throw it open, but they find that it has a label on it, both in Dwarven and in Elven.

“CAUTION!” it reads, “Do not enter when equipment is in use! Always wear protective gear when operating equipment.”

“Interesting,” mutters Ligir. 

“What do you suppose is behind there?” wonders Vann-La.

“There’s an easy way to find out,” Heimall replies. 

They open the door and find themselves looking into a large chamber dominated by some sort of great machine. Off to the side is a control panel; Torinn, spying the levers upon it, makes an immediate bee-line for it. 

The machine itself is huge; in all, it is nearly 40’ long and nearly as wide. The front of it faces the wall, and consists of three humungous piston-like devices about 15’ long and nearly 5’ in diameter. These connect to some sort of metal box that is in turn connected to a large glass tub that makes up the majority of the machine. The tub is full of what appears to be water. From the bottom of it, three glass pipes about 10’ across seemingly feed more water in from somewhere beneath the floor and double as supports. A metal valve, roughly 4’ in diameter, is set into the floor below the glass tank. 

“That can’t be real glass,” declares Hkatha. “How could it support all that weight?”

Iggy examines it closely and tries to scratch it with a dagger. “_Glassteel,_” he says in wonder. “I thought that secret had been lost.”

“Not to these guys, apparently,” replies Torinn from near the control panel. Surprisingly, he hasn’t touched anything, and when the others take a closer look, they can see why. He is still studying it.

The control panel has several gauges, levers and wheels on it. At the top, repeated in three places, are two signs. The first is a red sign that reads, “CAUTION! Always use protective gear when operating the Pounder. DO NOT APPROACH the Pounder or its accessory components while in operation or after operation for at least one hour!” The second reads, “TRAINED OPERATORS ONLY!” There are three gauges, labeled (in Dwarven) “water pressure”, “temperature” and “steam pressure” (all have red zones at the high end of the scale). There is a small wheel, labeled “Stage 1”. (This opens or closes the valve.) There is a large lever and a button, labeled “Stage 2”. (The lever opens the door into the steam chamber and the button activates the fan that helps drive the steam into the chamber.) Finally, there are three levers, which activate the three pistons; these are labeled as “Stage 3”. 

“Hey,” says Iggy, “maybe you shouldn’t touch anything there...”

But Torinn is speaking too, calling out to the party, “Hey, everyone move away from that thing...”

And he reaches over and turns the small wheel. 

The metal valve beneath the glass tank swivels open. Immediately, a whistling starts up and the party can feel the air in the chamber start to move. 

Simultaneously, there is a flash of golden light and several creatures appear. Torinn immediately recognizes seven of them as angels; Iggy pegs the last two as a type of elemental consisting of ice with a fiery core- chillfire destroyers. And before our heroes can react- 

The lead angel- _An angel of protection,_ realizes Torinn- speaks from its faceless head, its voice somehow emerging aloud nonetheless. “Good afternoon. You are in a restricted area. Please show your student or faculty identification cards immediately.”

“We have our faculty cards, but we left them back at the office,” Hkatha bluffs.

“Surely one of you must have at least a student ID.”

From the now-open valve, a stream of superhot air emerges, blasting the tank of water. Everyone in the room can feel the air warming pleasantly. Torinn, at the controls, notes that the water pressure and temperature gauges are starting to climb.

“We all do, they are just not handy,” Hkatha says. 

“I’m sorry, but as you know, this is a restricted area,” the angel replies. “That is not acceptable. Please produce appropriate identification.”

“I’m an administrator,” Cook says. “There is no need for trouble. You do good work, but now it is time to go. These people are okay, I say so.”

“Please produce appropriate identification,” the angel persists.

The gauges on the control panel continue to climb. The temperature gauge seems to stop rising a little below its red zone, but the pressure keeps rising. _Hmm,_ thinks the dragonborn. 

The angels and elementals attack. The chillfire destroyers pile on Summer, while the angels rush at Torinn, catching him slightly off guard. He was, after all, trying to monitor dangerous equipment! 

The battle is fierce and violent; Torinn annihilates an angel of valor almost immediately, and Heimall and Vann-La rush to aid Summer before the warden is overwhelmed.

“No need to worry!” she assures them, lashing out with a _thorn strike_ and pulling one of the chillfire destroyers closer to her before assuming the _form of winter’s herald_ and bashing it again.

“Vann-La,” cries Heimall, “strike down the enemies of the Empire!”

“But we don’t have our student IDs,” the Kree protests.

“Just _GIT!_” 

The sound of clashing swords is backed with the screaming whistle of superheated air. Torinn stays near the control panel, using both his priestly powers and his vicious pit fighter tactics to keep the enemy from overwhelming his position. When he sees the pressure gauge hit the red zone, he spares a moment to reach over and yank the lever marked “Stage 2” down, then press the stage 2 button.

Vann-La bloodies one of the chillfire destroyers, cracking it open, and waves of blazing heat roll out around it. She grimaces and crashes into it with a _tide of iron,_ knocking it back into the control panel. “Hey, watch it!” cries Torinn, but then he gets distracted by an angel of battle, which actually lands on the panel. 

Naturally, in doing so, the angel kicks _something_, but Torinn isn’t sure exactly what. So, as soon as Vann-La pushes it off the panel, the dragonborn takes another look- it was the lever! He throws it again.

The steam pressure gauge hits the red, and he pulls one of the stage 3 levers for good measure. 

With a tremendous boom, one of the pistons hammers forward, smashing into the wall. It retracts and strikes again in an instant, and again, setting up a punishing rhythm loud enough that our heroes can barely hear themselves fight. 

Iggy casts _Bigby’s grasping hands_ and starts grabbing angels all over the place even as Torinn, beset by an angel of battle on one side and a chillfire destroyer on the other, is knocked unconscious. But even so, soon the last angel of battle drops to Heimall’s _guileful strike_ while Summer pulls their injured comrade out of the thickest part of the fray and away from the baking heat radiating from the elementals. 

The angel of protection dies trying to bull rush Cook into the pistons, and then it is only a matter of slowly grinding the elementals down. Finally, the _grasping hands_ slay it, and our heroes pull back out of the thunderous noise of the room.

“We should probably go somewhere a little quieter and rest,” yells Vann-La. “Or maybe turn that machine off.”

“What?” shouts Torinn.

_That noise is bound to draw some attention,_ thinks Vann-La, and she’s right, for at that moment, a group of eladrin and a dragonborn with three drakes come into view, weapons at the ready. 

_*Next Time:*_ Our heroes take a captive and learn a thing or two!


----------



## the Jester

“Who are you?” Heimall blurts out.

Two of the eladrin exchange a glance. One says, “We're students.”

“Well,” amends the other, “we were. But who are _you?_”

“We're from far away,” Heimall begins.

The dragonborn signals to his drakes and they leap to the attack. The eladrin are taken off-guard by this, but quickly recover, two of the three of them assuming a dance-like stance that Iggy recognizes immediately. 

“Bladesingers!” he exclaims.

The two swiftly move in and begin a series of cuts and thrusts at Vann-La. She roars in defiance as one blade slices her forearm open, and then the Kree springs into action, lashing out all around her. General chaos ensues as the two sides clash.

But of course, nothing is ever that simple.

Although it isn't apparent at first, the eladrin and the dragonborn are just _barely_ on the same team at all. They are working together, but they are hardly what one might call chummy. In fact, they don't usually help each other out at all. As one falls from one side, those on the other almost cheer.

There is another hidden factor, too: the third 'eladrin' is nothing so simple. Instead, as he draws his sword and strides into the battle, he stands revealed as some kind of undead eladrin. Even when Torinn strikes his body down with a _righteous brand,_ the creature's spirit rises, refusing to stay dead!

But between the mighty blows of Shakgar, Summer, Heimall and Vann-La and the powerful prayers of Torinn, the enemy cannot withstand our heroes' furious assault. Soon Shakgar unleashes a _feast of violence_ that slays the spirit, and all of the enemy lies slain, save for the dragonborn, whom our heroes take alive.

“These are students?” exclaims Summer. “I'd hate to meet the teachers!”

“Yeah,” mutter Heimall. “Except, why the heck are students still here at all? We need to question that prisoner.”

Indeed- for our heroes know, really, nothing of what is going on here. They have deduced that they are in some kind of university or college, and that they are underground; but from all appearances, the place has been overrun by monsters. How deep are they? Even when they find their way out, where is Arawn? They have many questions and little to go on. On the other hand, the party's ritualists have a number of methods of divining guidance. Even so, what method of supernatural vision could be superior to a first-hand account of the events leading up to the current... situation? Even if a ritual could answer a few questions, surely it would leave as many, if not more. Questioning a prisoner, on the other hand, could produce prodigious amounts of intelligence- and any new questions that arise can simply be asked of the same subject. Thus it is that our heroes revive the dragonborn after Hkatha and Torinn shut down the immensely loud machine in the room nearby.

“What's your name?” asks Heimall, once the dragonborn is conscious again.

“I am called Apathis,” the dragonborn groans. He sits up cautiously and finds himself relieved of weapons and armor. Still, he is alive, which is perhaps more than he should have expected.  

“And are you a student here, too?”

The dragonborn sneers. “No,” he admits, “I am a mercenary.”

“Then what,” Heimall asks, “are you doing here? Who is your employer? And what's going on here, anyway?”

“For that matter, where is here?” Vann-La throws in.

“And were those eladrin really students?” adds Torinn.

“Talk!” demands Shakgar. “Or Shakgar will dunk on you!”

The dragonborn holds up his hands. “Peace. You have already defeated me and killed my pets.” He glances at the slain drakes spread around the place. 

“Yeah, too bad you attacked us,” Vann-La retorts. The dragonborn gives her an even look but says nothing.

“So,” Heimall resumes, “what's going on here?”

“This place is called the Terran Undercollege,” reveals Apathis. “It is a part of a larger university called the Silver College. The Silver College has long stood on this isle as the center of learning, both magical and mundane, for the inhabitants of Tirchond.”

“We already knew what this place is called,” grumbles Torinn.

“I thought they were mostly eladrin,” says Vann-La. “Why are they building underground?”

“Tirchond is populated by a mix of races. Eladrin are in the greatest numbers, but dwarves are not far behind.”

“So they ally?” Iggy asks. “That's kind of...” He stops as Cook clears his throat meaningfully. “Unusual,” he finishes lamely. 

“In any event,” Apathis continues, “I am not sure how long ago it happened, but some years ago the college, and especially the Terran Undercollege, became the site of a fierce battle between two wizards.”

“And that's what wrecked the place?” interrupts Hkatha.

“I can only presume; I was not here when it all started.”

“So who are you working for?” asks Summer. “One of these wizards?”

“Correct. Her name is Fray. She is a beautiful eladrin woman. Those students,” he gestures at the eladrin bodies, “were servants of hers as well. They didn't like or trust me, and I returned the feelings in full measure.”

“Tell us more about this Fray person,” Iggy orders.

“I don't know much about her, truthfully. I don't think she is from Tirchond- she has a strange accent that I cannot identify, and I have traveled widely. From what I have seen, heard and deduced, she emerged from the deepest levels of the Undercollege, along with her adversary, who is said to be some kind of shapechanger. It is said that she has rediscovered lost magical powers the likes of which today's wizards cannot emulate, and that she can even be in two places at once.”

“What about her enemy?” asks Summer.

Apathis shrugs. “I don't know much about him. As I said, I gather that he came from deep in the Undercollege somewhere as well, and that he is a shapechanger, but even that is deduction and speculation.”

“What kind of servants does Fray have?” asks Heimall.

“And the shapechanger guy?” adds Vann-La.

“Constructs, hirelings, summoned servants.” He shrugs. “I don't know too specifically- I'm the new guy. Or I was.” He glances at the corpse of the undead eladrin. “I can tell you this much- Fray has more of those undead. They are called fey lingerers. Some of them are spellcasters, some are warriors, but all refuse to die easily. And she also has these things that I have never seen before- grey or silver-skinned elven vampires that she calls _deodanths._ They have wicked spurs on the backs of their hands and they are able to...” He hesitates, thinking. “It seems as though they can step forward a few moments in time, vanishing from the 'now' and reappearing a moment later.”

“We've met some of those guys,” Torinn comments. 

Apathis then shows the party a set of stairs heading upwards in the room that he and his drakes had camped in. “I don't really know the way out, but this is the way _up,_ and that has to help.”

The party asks a few more questions, but it is apparent that Apathis has told them all he knows. Given how cooperative he was, and his willingness to swear an oath to flee the Undercollege (if he can find his way out successfully) and leave the party in peace, they let him go. He vanishes up the stairs he had indicated.

The rest of our heroes discuss this information. Is it possible that answers lie downward? What about Arawn? The dragonborn didn't mention anything about him or the Six-Fingered Hand- is it possible that they aren't here at all?

“Remember the goblin art display,” points out Hkatha. “At the very least, there are clues about Arawn here. And doesn't that very fact seem a little too coincidental, if this place doesn't have anything to do with him?”

True enough.

“Oi, I say we rest before we go on,” Cook says. “I have many aches and bruises, and am tired and low on energy.”

The group agrees: it is time for an extended rest. They could all use a little sleep somewhere secure. Iggy thus suggests using a ritual to teleport back to the circle north of Fandelose. “That way we'll have men on guard, we'll have beds, and we _won't_ have monsters interrupting us.”

Sounds like a good idea- but when Cook discovers that it will cost the party 100 gp in components, he balks. “A hundred gold!” he exclaims. “That's a lot of money!”*

“Well, but we can sleep comfortably,” says Vann-La.

“But a hundred gold pieces!”

“We won't be interrupted by monsters,” Torinn reminds the dwarf.

“I'm just saying, that is a lot of money.”

“It is a good amount,” Summer nods.

“It's not that much for peace and security,” proclaims Iggy. 

Cook peers at him. “Well, if you really think it's worth it... but I'm just saying, that's a lot of money.”

The party teleports home to rest.

_*Next Time:*_ Back to the Terran Undercollege! Hey look, it's a lich!

*Please note that our heroes are 13th to 16th level now. They are probably overtreasured in magic and undertreasured in gold, but not ridiculously so. 100 gp is pretty much pocket change to them. This was some great roleplaying.


----------



## the Jester

Back to it. Rested, with the dings in their armor hammered smooth and the notches in their weapons whetted away, the party returns to the strange subterranean college that is their path to Arawn. 

Once they are in the Undercollege, Iggy spends the time to cast a _commune with nature_ ritual while the others stand guard. He asks three important questions:


*Is there a beholder within one mile of us?* Yes.
*Is there a death knight below us?* Yes.
*Are the beholder and death knight within 100 yards of each other?* Yes.

“That clinches it,” says Iggy. “The beholder is working with Arawn.”

“Of course,” Heimall muses, “it could be a _different_ death knight...”

“What are the odds?” asks Iggy ironically.

“Actually, probably pretty good,” Heimall returns. “We know that he has three more death knight lieutenants still.”

“Good point. But even if it is one of his lieutenants, the beholder is _still_ working for Arawn!”

“100 yards is a huge distance down here,” Hkatha points out. “They could actually be in completely separate parts of the dungeon- maybe even separate levels.”

With a shrug- the ritual is over, after all- the party returns to the room off of the large classroom that they had earlier pegged as an elevator. 

It's time to go down.

The elevator is agonizingly slow. With the levers pulled, the door seals shut and nothing seems to happen. Even Vann-La's keen Kree senses barely pick up the vibration of movement. She focuses carefully on it, alert for any sign of trouble; but nothing happens until, after what seems like an interminable period, their motion finally stops.

But the party is not idle during the descent. Iggy _communes with nature_ a second time, following up on what they already learned.


*Is there more than one death knight below us?* No.
*Is it Arawn?* No.
*Is it affiliated with Arawn?* Yes.
*Are there any creatures within 50' of where this door will open once the room stops descending?* Creature.
*Is there a doppelganger or shapeshifter of some kind in the levels below us?*

Interestingly enough, the ritual cannot seem to answer this last question, which almost seems like an answer in itself. 

Once they are finally ready to proceed, our heroes push the lever that unseals the door into its upright position, and it hisses open to reveal a passageway running from right to left. Directly across the hall is a wide doorway; to the right, the hall hits a four-way intersection after about 25', while the leftward path turns left even sooner. Another door is visible at the hall's 'elbow'.*

Vann-La strides over to the door opposite the party and pushes it open. It seems like an empty office; to her eyes, there are clear signs that furniture once dominated the room but has subsequently been removed. Another door is on the opposite wall; without hesitation, she steps to it and throws it open as well.

To reveal- something nightmarish. 

For an instant it smells of ammonia, then of chocolate. Vann-La sees a momentary swimming face as it blends in with the churning beast before her. 

It is indescribable- because it keeps changing, churning, melting and reforming. She is speechless- she has never seen anything like this before. 

Before anyone can react, Iggy _shoots from the hip._

Then the weird creature flows forward to attack, dozens of claws and tentacles reaching out. For a minute it seems to catch fire, but as quickly changes into a form resembling nothing so much as a tree swarming with wheels. And then- 

Vann-La screams as a tentacle lashes across her with hammering force, and she looks down in horror as her legs start to melt- and then to change to fins. Her body starts to boil with changes. She howls in agony and staggers in place, unable to move or defend herself for a moment. 

The others rush to her defense. The chaotic monster surges amongst them, its _many claws of chaos_ inflicting horrifying wounds. Hkatha casts a _fireball_ behind it, the flames licking the creature's back end. 

But the terrific blows it inflicts are horrible not for the damage they inflict, but for the inchoate transformation that it begins in its victims, leaving them stunned and immobilized.

And yet Vann-La is nigh-unstoppable. Her _unfailing resources_ allow her to rally, throwing off the insidious effects of the chaotic energy and surging to the attack. But the terrain around the terrifying creature is as unstable and changing as the beast itself. It almost throws her from her feet, but she springs over a wave of undulating ground and lands a punishing strike on the monster with an _appalling crunch_.

The two wizards, meanwhile, unload a barrage of spells at it- _flaming sphere, lightning serpent, Bigby's icy grasp_- and manage to damage it, keeping it distracted (does it even have a mind? They cannot tell) while Cook keeps his distance and hurls his magical _distance shuriken_ at it again and again. 

It is clear that the beast doesn't have a coherent strategy. It moves up and back seemingly at random, occasionally polymorphing into a form with surprising swiftness. It doesn't focus on one victim, either, thankfully; once a target has been infected with the chaotic transformation, the chaos beast seems content to move on. 

But eventually the transformations roiling their bodies cease, and our heroes can fight again. Vann-La manages to focus through the pain and turmoil the monster inflicts, and soon she and Torinn are pressing it relentlessly. Finally, Heimall shouts at Torinn, “GIT!” and the cleric lands one last solid blow on the beast, cutting it into two writhing pieces which slowly melt and boil away, leaving only a sticky, greasy residue behind. 

“Oi, that thing was nasty,” says Cook. He snorts, looking at the residue. “Even _I_ am not going to try to cook with that!”

“Thank the gods,” mutter four of our heroes at once.

***

Behind the strange beast, the floor is inscribed with a teleport circle. “Hey,” exclaims Iggy, “now we have choices on how to come back here!” 

“There's a secret door, too,” says the sharp-eyed Vann-La. She moves to the back corner of the chamber and everyone gets battle-ready behind her. However, the secret door opens onto some kind of sitting room. A reasonbly-sized stone coffee table has been shaped from the stone of the floor, doubtless by magic, and it is surrounded by rotting chairs that look like they were once quite fine. There is a door on the right; Vann-La spies another secret door to the left. 

“One thing at a time,” cautions Heimall. They check the door first; it opens on a hallway that leads to a four-way intersection. The party quickly heads to the crossroads to verify their suspicion that it is the same intersection they saw from the elevator. This proves true- but also reveals something else interesting. Down the hall straight through the intersection (as they are facing it from the sitting room) are some statues of dwarves. Very lifelike statues of dwarves.

“Funny place for a statue, isn't it?” comments Vann-La.

“They're awfully lifelike, too,” remarks Heimall.

“I like the poses,” Hkatha says. “Running up the hall towards us, almost as if they were being pursued by, say, a medusa or something that might petrify them.”

“Oi, that is very scary!” exclaims Cook. He starts to blubber loudly.

“Cook, don't worry,” says Iggy. “We'll take good care of you.”

“But I don't want to be a statue!”

“None of us do.”

“Well,” suggests Vann-La, “in that case, let's go kill the medusa.”

Cook blanches, but trails along as the party heads down the hallway, passing a pair of the statues before spilling into a large room. The room has another pair of the lifelike statues in it, and about three quarters of it is set about 10' lower than the rest, adjoined to the higher area by means of a ramp. 

In the room's lower section is something both terrifying and hilarious at the same time.

A ragged figure in rotting finery- clearly an undead bugbear of some kind- is grooming what looks like a large bull made of rocks. It is using a garden trowel to scratch the bull-thing and feeding it from what looks like a bag of gravel.

“DEATH KNIGHT!” roars Torinn.

The undead bugbear glances calmly at the party and shakes its head. “No,” it croaks out in a voice like dry wood, “I am no death knight. 

“I am a _lich._

“Although,” it adds, leaping atop its gorgon's back, “I _do_ ride.”

_*Next Time:*_ Our heroes fight Dasmodel the bugbear lich, and its gorgon!!

*Map attached- the elevator is room 25, and I leave the rest for you to figure out.


----------



## Brain

That Chaos Beast fight was pretty intense - if I recall correctly it got 1d6 attacks or something and each of them could do something nasty.  Unfailing Resources certainly did save Vann-La's butt on that and many other occasions (Dreadnought paragon path power to take 10 damage to end any effect that a save can end).

Also I definitely recognize the map, although I never saw the official version.  I was mapping the dungeon so it's quite familiar.

Fun times indeed


----------



## the Jester

Brain's right- the chaos beast got 1d6 attacks per round, and they stunned on a hit. It was a bad ass. Stats here, from my Monster Project.

But I digress; how about an update?

***

Iggy casts a _prismatic burst_ down at the lich and its gorgon mount. It detonates with incredible brilliance. Before the dazzling radiance has faded, Summer shifts into the form of an eagle and flies, shrieking, to the attack, raking her claws across the lich's face.

Vann-La charges forward, her sword whisking free of its scabbard. She rushes the mounted lich and swings, but the gorgon rears back and her blow catches only empty air. She curses, and then the gorgon's forehooves smash down onto the rock before her and it bellows like a bull. 

Then gray gas billows forth from its mouth and flaring nostrils. Summer flies out of the way, but Vann-La is caught! She feels her body start to stiffen as it starts to petrify- but once again her _unfailing resources_ allow her to shrug the effect of the breath weapon off. 

Hkatha chants eldritch words, and a serpent made of lightning appears and lunges for the gorgon. Its crackling jaws hit it, sending lightning into the beast's huge frame. It bellows. The serpent wraps around it, holding it place and pumping venom into it!

“Vann-La!” cries Heimall. “GIT!!” 

This time her blow slices into the lich's arm. It feels like cutting into dry wood- but much harder. In reply, the lich slashes its claws at her in a _mocking attack_, chiding, “Is that the best you can do? You'll never get anywhere like that!” But Vann-La catches the claws on her shield and turns them. 

“You won't either!” the Kree warrior growls back.

With a sneer, the bugbear lich teleports away, its mount going with it. It reappears instantly behind Summer.

“Hey lich, I have something for you!” cries Iggy, directing a _spectral ram_ at the gorgon. Unfortunately, his aim is off, and he misses. “Damn it!” he curses.

The lich sneers. “A poor spell,” it says contemptuously, and unleashes a blast of freezing shadows that wrap around Heimall and Torinn. They cry out in pain as the shadows form into strings that control them like puppets. “Let me show you how it is done! Tremble before Dasmodel!”

“No thanks,” replies Hkatha, sending a _shock sphere_ at Dasmodel. The lich avoids it, but then Summer swoops down in a _wildblood frenzy_ and rips a long furrow in the lich's back! 

But it's too late to stop the lich's _shadow puppets._ Amazingly, none of them manage to land a hit; even Iggy's gun shot goes wide. Then, as the lines of shadow dominating them fade, Torinn swings his executioner's axe in a deadly arc that decapitates the gorgon!

Shakgar and Vann-La rush the lich even as he vaults to the ground. “You'll pay for that!” he cries with a _terrifying cackle_*, but they aren't having any of it, bracketing the undead bugbear and hacking into him. Shakgar enters the _silver phoenix rage_ and roars in anger as flames lick over him, battering the lich from one side while Vann-La smashes it over and over from the other. Then Torinn and Summer move in, catching the lich quite thoroughly between the four of them. 

Still cackling, uttering _black reprisals_ against Hkatha's _magic missiles,_ Dasmodel slashes his claws all around him in a frenzy, but to no avail. Finally, Hkatha invokes a _flaming sphere_ and the lich gives a final howl before collapsing into a heap of charred bones.

“You know,” says Hkatha, “given that he's a lich, if we don't destroy his phylactery, all we've really done is make an enemy.”

“Yeah,” agrees Ligir. “That's part of why I didn't want to mess with the lich in Varelose.”

“Wait a minute. You mean it's not really dead?” Vann-La prods the pile of burnt bone fragments with her foot dubiously. “Looks dead to me.”

“It will grow a new body near its phylactery,” explains Iggy. “The phylactery is where its soul goes when its body dies- that's how liches become liches, is by making a phylactery.”

“So... what does its phylactery look like?”

“It could be anything,” replies Hkatha. “And the odds are really strong that it isn't here.”

“Right,” agrees Torinn. “A smart lich will have its phylactery hidden away somewhere very secure, far from where its body is, so that if it is destroyed, it's just a temporary setback.”

“Well,” Heimall says, “we're kind of busy anyway. Let's just hope that we don't encounter this lich again before we're done.”

***

The only door out of the chamber leads to a 35' long passage that opens into a large pottery workshop that includes a pool of clay that is fresh, supple, hot and wet. A wheel and chair are near the pool of clay, and a large bucket half-full of water is on the ground next to it. There are no other exits from the area. 

The party backs up and returns to the four-way intersection. Vann-La says, “We still haven't fully checked out that direction,” indicating the passage along which the elevator room is. “We might want to look it over, since it's kind of our way back.”

“Or at least,” adds Cook, “_a_ way back.”

The party walks to where the passage turns to the left. A door is at the elbow; a look within reveals this to be an empty chamber with a rotted plush carpet underfoot. A large walk-in closet is attached, as is a bathroom with a long tub against one wall and a wood stove against the other. 

“All the comforts of home,” comments Iggy.

“Shakgar doesn't like baths,” the barbarian growls. “They make him smell less manly.”

“That isn't always a bad thing,” mutters Iggy under his breath. 

Vann-La suppresses a snicker and points to the wall. “There's another secret door through there.” 

“Let's check out the rest of the hallway first,” suggests Torinn. 

“Oi, the treasure will be behind the secret doors,” Cook says.

“That's probably true,” answers Vann-La, “but we'll get there soon enough.”

After it turns, the hallway extends a short ways before ending in a door. Behind this is a very interesting chamber indeed; Cook, being a dwarf, recognizes it immediately. “Oi,” he says, “this is where the rune-graver would work.”

“The who?” asks Hkatha. 

“The rune-graver. He would work runes into things, to bless them with the powers of stone and iron, or whatever would be appropriate.”

The chamber has a number of chisels and vials of what prove to be slow-acting, stone-etching acid. There are also several jewelers’ rouges of exceptional quality. The chamber is seriously rune-graven- the runes on the walls include symbols of protection, learning, oneness with the stones and earth, and similar themes. A large pile of flat stones suitable for rune-graving is in the corner of the room. More of them- completed- are leaning up against the walls in profusion.

Cook sits down and starts to read. Before long, he says, “These have many answers upon them.”

Everyone turns to listen as he relates what he has found. The graven stones seem to be a record of the last period before the coming of Fray and her shapechanger enemy. 

Again, the stones verify that this place is called the Terran Undercollege and it was a center of learning for dwarves and “grey elves”. (Iggy snorts at the term “grey elf” and says, “That's so racist. That's a racist term for eladrins.”) The stones further relate that for about the last nine months of its functional existence as a school, the Undercollege was besieged by the warring forces of two extremely powerful wizards.  One of them was a grey elf (Iggy again rolls his eyes) woman of incredible beauty and extraordinary power; the plaques assert that she is _not_ from Tirchond, though they do not suggest an origin for her. They also mention that she has seduced several powerful allies with the promise of help constructing a “Hell’s Eye”, whatever that is. 

Hkatha shrugs. “I've never heard of such a thing.”

The other wizard in contention for the college is some kind of shapechanger. The gravings posit that he might be a doppelganger or another kind of natural shapechanger, and describe him as having frustratingly effective information-gathering ability. In fact, it seems that he can steal memories from the dead.

“Whoa,” comments Torinn, “that's pretty heavy information gathering, all right. Why keep an enemy alive if you can learn all they know after they're dead?”

“That's insidiously powerful,” Hkatha agrees.

The Terran Undercollege was a portion of a much-larger university called the Silver University. The Silver University spreads for over a square mile of the city above ground and it has numerous annexes underground “and in other places”. 

Vann-La muses, “We know we're under a city now.”

The rune-graven stones have more to tell. The strange, silver undead elves are called _deodanths._ Again, our heroes already know this, but the stones next make some startling assertions: Deodanths are from another time period, and the plaques assert that there is worrisome evidence of tampering with the time stream by _both_ of the warring wizards. At about this time, the plaques start to be graven with a strange rune, unknown to Cook and the rest of the party. They puzzle over it for a time, but all that they can ascertain is that it has something to do with warding or preservation. 

The most recent plaques are the most interesting to the party. They describe a quintet of death knights being dragged from “the portal on the sixth level” and then follow this up with the following engraving: _“By the most recent gravings I know the worst to be true. From the past great crimes arise again. These two wizards are too careless for tampering with forces that could erase them. Who are they and from whence do they come, that they dare such madness? My only clue is the rune, given by the Uncaring. Why would he do such a thing? Alas, pursuing this riddle may prove impossible, trapped as I am down here. It is desperate, but I may open the cages and try to escape in the confusion.”_

It takes four hours for the party to discern all that they can from the stones. By then, our heroes' mouths have gone dry. 

Tampering with time? That can't be good?

They eye each other uncertainly.

“Well,” says Heimall at last, “at least there are still only five death knights.”

“Hopefully four,” amends Torinn.

_*Next Time:*_ Our heroes find a room full of troublesome temporal traps!


*A close burst 2 minor action at will: +16 vs. Will; target is pushed 1 and has -2 to saving throws (save ends). Good setup for many of Dasmodel's other powers.


----------



## the Jester

Billions of years ago, in a multiverse long devoured:

_Boccob the Uncaring, god of knowledge and magic, most omniscient being on or near the world of Oerth known to many as Greyhawk, was troubled. The tangled skein that was reality trembled, a spiderweb intercepting a bird too large to hold. Things threatened to snap. Something- or someone- was putting terrible stress on the structure of reality. 

Boccob's great third eye opened, set in his brow. It peered at the trembles, at the quivering wave rolling through the Multiverse. It was thin, silver-green, full of a type of energy that worried the Uncaring One a great deal- for it was temporal energy, and soon his analysis led him to a terrible understanding: it was enough energy to rewrite the world, yet what he perceived was only the barest stirrings of its influence.

At first he thought Lendor, the god of time, had a hand in it; but none of the strings or streamers led to her. None of her traditional servants were near it- in fact, it almost seemed as though they were artfully deflected from noticing it. It would require the handiwork of someone both very powerful and very subtle... 

Then the vibrations appeared to cease. 

Only his amazing perceptions allowed even Boccob to note that they had actually only 'hopped' to another era, a few decades in the future. Until that time came, he could not actively study the energies involved, for they had become invisible; but he could cogitate on them, considering their implications.

Each time they sprang up again, Boccob peered at them carefully. And he came to a conclusion: someone from the future was tampering with the timestream. At first he thought that the individual- or individuals- were being very careful to avoid notice or change their own past; but after the third time the energies cropped up, he came to the grim conclusion that they _were_ making changes, but that one or more of the time travelers was working to do so secretly, from within their cabal. 

By that time Lendore, along with many of the gods that had been around when the energies' arrival had drawn his attention, was dead. Oerth's move into a new sign of the Zodiac had seen to that. But, his awareness driven to new levels of perspicacity by his paranoia over the temporal disturbance, Boccob managed not only to survive but to retain his entire portfolio.

Little did he realize that, in retaining his entire portfolio, he had ensured that the changes in his time stream would run out of control, for he was meant to lose his mastery of magic to Maltar, successor to Wee Jas and master of Walpyvmyr in the Sea of Dust. And as the centuries before Tharizdun's awakening passed, more and more changes to what had been accumulated. When the alliance of deities known as the Blood Gods struck, attempting to assassinate their rivals in the pantheon and absorb their energies, different figures were lined up on each side than should have been. 

Tade, the god of blacksmiths, was meant to die, the first to fall under the Blood Gods' assault. Instead, Boccob gathered him and the others that were instrumental to his plan, and they hid within a sphere called Eye. Within this small orb, Boccob manipulated the time travelers, whom he had sought out and confronted not long before, into taking Eye with them back to their reality- for he had learned that Oerth was doomed to annihilation, consumption by He Who Must Not Be Named- Tharizdun, Fiend-Father, Evil-Birther, the Consumer of All that Is, Was or Shall Be.

When the heroes vanished, careening through Darkhold and finally out into the newly birthed world of Cydra, Boccob and his allies revealed themselves to the heroes- Lester, Hobbes, Thimbleton, Malford and the rest. Then they vanished, and Boccob assumed that was the last that any of them would ever see or hear of their lost world.

In the confusion of the events surrounding the temporal manipulations, however, things were overlooked by everyone involved- or almost everyone. 

One of the time travelers had originally been from the era of Oerth's final apocalypse, and he and his allies had slipped back to the past once before to change history and prevent the destruction of the world, attempting to carefully manipulate events for thousands of years in order to prevent the tragic mistakes that ultimately led to the wakening of Tharizdun. They failed, and one of their number- Scytale- escaped via a place called Darkhold, which was a completely separate reality that merely touched upon Oerth. When things fell apart, the Master of Darkhold sealed his dimension off from the Prime Material Plane so that Tharizdun might not touch him; and Scytale was one of a precious few individuals that the Master chose to save. When the heroes of Cydra persuaded the Master to help send them back to Oerth to obtain what they needed to imprison Tharizdun again, it was Scytale that the Master sent to aid them. After all, he knew the old world, he knew the periods of time that the party needed to reach, and most of all- he knew the dangers inherent in temporal manipulation. 

Scytale was the one that had worked subtly from within to change things. _Of course he had._ Hadn't he and his fellows risked everything to change their own past before? Scytale had no compunctions about attempting to manipulate events into a new channel. He knew that Oerth couldn't be saved, but perhaps there were those of his people that could be. To form a bridge, however tenuous, between Oerth and Cydra was impossible while he was in Oerth, for Cydra did not yet exist. It was impossible while he was in Cydra, for Oerth no longer existed. What was needed was an element of Cydra that might remain in the Oerthian past. He could then attach one end of a chronal tether to it, stretch the tether itself through Darkhold and onto Cydra, and- with luck- his people would find it and follow it back. Moreover, such dweomers were foreign to the servants of Tharizdun; and if anything touched by such forces were to attempt the tether, it would shred apart, casting them out to a Nowhere between moments.

When the heroes battled Felenga the Dark One over a cloud castle staffed with undead demons and horrid mutants, they lost one of their number- captured and horribly mutilated by the lich they were fighting. Fleeing for their lives, they left her behind and made their escape to Darkhold, assuming that she was dead and certain that the imminent destruction of Oerth would prevent Tharizdun's servants from making sport of her soul for long. 

But even the smallest moment may stretch very long indeed when manipulated by a master of the magic called chronomancy..._

***

Out of the rune-graver's chamber our heroes move, back and through one of the multitude of secret doors that they have found. It leads to a balcony overlooking a most impressive chamber, well over 100' wide. The ceiling vaults to a peak 30' above the floor; the balcony is 10' below the ceiling. Blue-white globes of steady light with no obvious source line the ceiling, providing good illumination throughout the giant chamber. The walls are painted with hundreds of frescoes and strange hieroglyphics recounting many tales of the island and the strange college that our heroes are exploring. “Elves and dwarves,” comments Heimall, looking over some of the images.

“Eladrin,” corrects Iggy with a sigh.

Three huge books made of beaten silver fused with stone dominate the floor, all open to pages with actual writing in them. Iggy and Hkatha examine them; the first is a discussion of basic magical theory, the second a discussion of logic and the third a discussion of the importance of curiosity and attention. 

“Interesting,” murmurs the tiefling. “These look to be part of the foundation of some kind of philosophy or religion.”

The books are huge. Each page measures a full ten feet in length and close to half that in width; the books and the pedestals that they are on reach a height of five feet. Huge shelves with many books upon them stand 10' high along each of the long walls; sadly, it is obvious that the books are in terrible shape, having been damaged by moisture and mold. 

It isn't until the party's examination of the area is well underway that the guardians emerge. Hidden in a small alcove beneath the balcony, three things issue forth. Though they are vaguely humanoid in form, they are composed of ragged pieces of armor and weapons, wands wrapped in old cloaks to form “bones”, empty bottles and other old debris. Iggy catches sight of them and gives a cry of horror.

“What are they?” asks Vann-La, pulling her blade. 

“Guardian creatures made of used up magic items!” Iggy replies. “They're called grisgols. Watch out- they are resistant to arcane magic!”

Our heroes move to intercept the grisgols, hoping to keep them away from the wizards. Even though the grisgols are resistant to their powers, neither Ligir nor Hkatha flinches from the fight; the eladrin pulls a bead from his _necklace of fireballs_ and lets fly while Hkatha casts a terrible _lightning serpent_ that catches one of the grisgols. 

Vann-La brings her sword around in a sweeping arc, savagely hewing into the rod that composes the arm of the closest enemy. Her blow triggers a burst of dust that causes her to choke and wheeze, barely able to defend herself!*

Then a burst of _sacred flame_ blows it back a pace, and Torinn draws his magical dagger- which quickly shapes itself into an executioner's axe at his muttered command. Another _sacred flame_ buys his companions a precious moment of breathing space, and then a pair of glowing hands appear, grabbing at the enemies and knocking them together with terrific force!

The grisgols are far from helpless, however. They pummel our heroes with dusty slams, and almost every blow on them raises a cloud of choking dust. Worse yet, one of them unleashes a blast of _waves of weakness,_ leaving several of the adventurers trembling with fatigue until they can recover themselves.

But our heroes are mighty. They are not to be denied. Together, Vann-La, Summer and Heimall manage to shatter one grisgol into so many component pieces. 

Unfortunately, that is the trigger that summons the other guardians. In a flash of brilliant argent radiance, two strange snake-like things appear, glowing with energy. Each has a single arm protruding from it, and all around them, everything- the walls, the floor, the books- starts to move as if imbued with life.** 

Torinn yelps as the floor slams him with a mighty blow. The two strange serpentine monsters fly towards him through the air, lashing out with their tails. Each contact delivers a terrific jolt of radiant power to him. The Dragon of Fandelose cries out with each blow.

The grisgols keep fighting too, but by now they are both in bad shape, with odd alchemical fluids and powders leaking everywhere. Cook dances in behind one of them and bashes the helmet that serves as its head with his frying pan, knocking it clean off and finishing the monster; the final one falls to the pair of _Bigby's grasping hands_ that Iggy conjured.

The two serpent-monsters, now the only targets, start trying to retreat, but Vann-La delivers an _appalling crunch_ that wounds the first one badly; then Summer finishes it with a _zealous strike_ and a scream of victory. The last one dies under the tender ministrations of _Throat-Ripper,_ leaving Heimall covered in shimmering, silvery fluid. 

Gasping, our heroes gather their wits and catch their collective breath. Heimall braces the morale of the wounded, while Torinn's divine powers knit broken skin and close bleeding wounds. Then, once everyone has recovered sufficiently, the group spends some moments looking for anything valuable in the bookshelves or the alcove the grisgols were in, but it soon becomes obvious that a thorough search will take hours.

“We should come back to this later,” Torinn asserts. The others agree; there is a very real chance that some good information will be in the place.

“As far as I can figure, though,” Heimall tells the others, “whatever is going on here only involves Arawn a little bit. These two wizards at war- well, it really doesn't sound like anything to do with us or our mission.”

“Except that they might be in our way,” Summer says. 

“True enough. But if not, I think we should try to stay out of their mess. I don't see what we have to gain by getting involved.”

“Just complications, I'll bet,” Iggy opines. 

Four halls lead out of the room from the balcony; three end in secret doors our heroes have already located from the other side (including the passage that they entered via). The final one leads to more guards, but this time our heroes grimly recognize them for what they are: more deodanths, supported by a battle guardian. Our heroes move to the attack, only to find that the chamber also contains temporal ripples that distort the fabric of time, leaving them at a profound disadvantage in the chamber. They feel a simultaneous lethargy and energizing effect, as if they were simultaneously aging fast and growing ever younger. Strange energies race through the chamber, stressing the bodies of both our heroes and their foes, but Torinn manages to suppress the temporal distortions long enough for the overwhelming force our heroes bring to bear to slay the enemies. 

Another short rest, this one back in the chamber with the great books, and our heroes debate taking the one exit from the guardian chamber they just cleared out. “I can probably suppress the ripple for a few minutes again,” Torinn says hesitantly. 

“Why don't Iggy and I try to help as well?” offers Hkatha. “That way, at least one of us is bound to succeed.”

The party halts at the edge of the chamber with the temporal ripples distorting it. Torinn, Hkatha and Iggy reach out with their will, each trying to force the fabric of time to settle into its normal shape for a few short moments. Then the party dashes through the room as quickly as they can, reaching the hall that leads out. Filing down it, they quickly reach another room- but this one is about as odd as they come, having a weird shape almost like multiple rooms that have had all the walls between them removed. At the center is a portal that keeps morphing from one shape to another, surrounded by runes graven in the stone floor around it. Something about the room makes everyone's hair stand on end. Something cloudlike shifts and shimmers in the chamber, constantly moving from one place to another, a strange silver-green color. Somehow it seems to move both swiftly and at a leisurely pace. The whole chamber is moreover filled with a howling tempest of silvery sand, scouring the chamber and yet easily penetrated by vision. And finally, towards the far end of the chamber, a great pillar of grey material that is visibly crumbling into dust and yet never fully decays stands ominously nor far from the central portal. 

“Oi,” says Cook nervously, “is anyone hungry?”

_*Next Time:*_ What's behind the warm door?


*In game terms, this was an immediate reaction that left her dazed (save ends). 

**In case you're wondering- and IIRC the pcs did NOT identify these beasties- they are ravids, from 2e Planescape and the 3e Monster Manual. They were fun to convert to 4e, and I don't think I had ever used them before!


----------



## the Jester

“What in the name of Lester is all that?” exclaims Torinn.

“It doesn't feel natural,” Summer says ominously. She shakes her head. “I don't like it.”

Iggy, Hkatha and Torinn study the confused howling mass of silver-green sand as it blows violently throughout the chamber. Iggy comments, “Clearly, there are some kinds of time-distorting effects in there.”

“That portal- what do you suppose it is?” asks Vann-La. “Do you think it has something to do with the Six-Fingered Hand? With Arawn?”

“Remember that inscription we found in the art gallery?” Heimall exclaims. “It referred to Arawn and the Six-Fingered Hand like they were things of the past. Maybe this portal is how they got to us, here, er, now.”

“Maybe,” concedes Hkatha. “So what do we do about it?”

“Maybe if we got close enough, we could learn something, or even cut Arawn off before his attacks bring down the Empire,” Vann-La suggests. 

“We probably don't all need to go in, just someone with the expertise to figure out what's going on in there.” Heimall looks at the others. “I don't know enough about magic, myself,” he admits, “but I'm sure one of us does...”

There was a time when Iggy would have cried out, _I'm not even supposed to be here!_ But that time is gone. Since the Siege of Fandelose, his sense of responsibility has grown, his sense of duty has gripped him ever tighter. So without hesitation, he steps to the edge of the room and announces, “I'll do it.”

Then he edges his way into the room.

Immediately the lashing sand buffets him, but it is strangely strengthless. He can feel acutely the sense of wonder he had as a youth, bizarrely overlaid upon a canvas of the ennui and cynicism that he will develop as an old man. Bracing himself, Ligir slowly advances- and, about 20' into the chamber, suddenly runs into an invisible curtain of sheer agony.

His head explodes with remembered pain- the first time he was mocked as a child, the beating he was administered in basic training by an overzealous sergeant who didn't understand his position, the fear and pain and taste of smoke as he fled Chebbonay to become a refugee and eventual hero, the time he was derided by his fey peers for failing to see an elementary answer to an elementary question during his study of magic and more; emotional pain, yes, but physical too- the agony of the first time he was stabbed, that rusty goblin scimitar tearing that terrific gash on his thigh all over again; the wrenching pain that came when he dislocated his shoulder falling from a tree as a young lad; the agony of chains whipping around his legs and almost shattering his knees as the xvart slavers attempted to capture them. A million hurts, old, new, in between, brought back to him with stunning force. 

Iggy collapses weakly to the ground with a groan, shaking. 

“Iggy!” cries Cook, rushing into the room before anyone can restrain him. Most of the others follow without a thought. The dwarf reaches Iggy's side just as a sudden burst of the tempestuous winds hurls the wizard back to the edge of the chamber. With a shuddering cry, he drags himself out of the room. 

The others, meanwhile, find themselves being overwhelmed by temporal distortions. The billowing cloud flows towards Vann-La, and the Kree elf's movements slow. “Waaatcchhh oooouuutttt,” she cries slowly, her voice strangely drawn out and lowered in pitch below that of even Torinn.

“Get out of there!” yells Heimall, who remains at the edge of the chamber, just outside.

“Oi, there are visions!” Cook shouts, staggering about in confusion. “Ai! Oi! What is happening?? It is like my youth, and things yet to be... aiii!!” Stumbling, he heads back towards the entrance. The others decide that this is the best approach they can take for the moment, and retreat towards Heimall and Ligir. 

“Speed,” croaks Iggy, shaking his head. Puffs of greenish dust come off him, dwindling and vanishing into nothingness. “At least the, uh, the _tempest fugit-_ the storm of sand. It is attracted to speed. We could probably avoid its attentions if we move fast enough.”

Vann-La, who has shaken off the strange effects of the _chronal drift,_ says, “But there are more issues than just the storm.”

The party discusses the room and the hazards (or traps?) found within it. The _tempest fugit_ seems to both lacerate and push creatures in the room back towards the entrance. The _chronal drift_- the distinct cloud that attacked and slowed Vann-La- went for her almost as if it were sentient. Hkatha speculates that it might have been drawn to either living things or movement. The pillar, crumbling but never completely decaying, is as yet an unknown quantity. Then there is whatever struck Iggy down; it dealt a vicious stroke of psychic damage to him, as well as leaving him on the ground. 

“And the rune circle,” Torinn adds. “We don't know if that's dangerous yet, but I'll bet it is.”

Reluctantly, our heroes decide to leave this strange area until later. Perhaps there are clues to its secrets elsewhere in the Terran Undercollege, and certainly there are a lot of areas that our heroes have yet to explore. So- at least for now- the time distortion area (for lack of a better term) will have to wait.

Back up the hall, then, through the other room with temporal effects- which the wizards and Torinn again suppress- and to the room with the huge books. Then further back, to a door that they have not yet breached. But when they approach closely, they can feel heat radiating from behind it. 

“Maybe there's a nice fireplace,” Cook says hopefully.

No such luck. Behind the door are a pair of adjoined rooms; one of them holds a pit of lava in it. Worse yet, there are four tough-looking creatures in the room. One is a looming humanoid wrapped in chains; the others are salamanders, ablaze with flames. 

Iggy, naturally, _shoots from the hip._ The report of his pistol echoes as his bullet slams into the chain-wrapped creature (_A kyton?_ he thinks, then: _No, it's too big- it's a gorechain devil._). He fires again, and the devil grunts as a second bullet hits him as well. Cook's _distance shuriken_ zings past him, hits the devil- and then ricochets into one of the salamanders!

It's a good start, and our heroes are just getting started. Vann-La charges in, pushing the gorechain devil (which is blocking the deeper room) out of the way with a _tide of iron_, while Torinn fires a _sacred flame_ at the devil.

Poor devil, it just isn't his day!

Although the salamanders prove to be quite hot- their very touch burns- our heroes are far too efficient. Heimall helps Vann-La _surround the foe,_ Summer assumes the _form of winter's herald_ and fights fire with cold and Vann-La opens up a can of whoop ass with a _rain of steel_. 

There just isn't much a poor band of hapless salamanders can do, under the circumstances. Once the party has dealt with them and their flaming blood has guttered and gone out, they examine the room more closely. Some basic smithing tools are in the inner chamber, but the magma pit is obviously the most interesting feature. Cook warns the others to stay away; magma, as he puts it, is “pretty hot”.*

There is another door out of the room, so the party opens it and finds a hallway leading away. After 20' it opens up into a chamber; the party moves up to investigate. Many stalactites dangle from the ceiling, a large opening leads into a dark room to the left and two doors adorn the opposite wall. 

The party starts to move towards the opening, and two things happen at once.

First, their light reaches the back of the western chamber, revealing a large nest of hewed wood, flesh and gear and excrement all mashed together and glued with some sort of spittle. Eyes glitter when the light reaches them- and sudden beams of extreme power gather and fire at the party!

The second thing that happens, as the party moves into the room, is that the stalactites start to fall towards them with impaling force- and they move on the ceiling to get a better shot.

_*Next Time:*_ Serious old school 1e monsters- piercers and eye killers!


*Had anyone ended up in the pool of lava, they would have received 2d12+20 points of fire damage plus ongoing 20 fire (save ends once the character is out of the pit); Aftereffect: ongoing 10 fire (save ends); Aftereffect: ongoing 5 fire (save ends). OUCH!!!


----------



## steeldragons

Finally all caught up. Great stuff Jester. Really enjoying the read. Keep it up...interersted to see how this all comes together.

--SD


----------



## the Jester

The battle is harrowing. The things in the nest are like a cross between a serpent and a bat, and when the light reaches their eyes, it is gathered, intensified, and finally reflected in a beam of destructive power. Even as they face these strange monsters, our heroes are bombarded from above by the false stalactites. 

Yet they win through, hacking the piercers to bits and blasting the eye killers with pistol and spell. Regrouping, the heroes regain their breaths and resume their exploration, pushing through several more chambers and halls.  

Yet the strange area with the temporal distortions continues to entice their curiosity. What is beyond the door that leads out the far side of it? The party discusses it. “It's got to be important,” Vann-La says. “Someone had to go to a lot of effort to set up all that temporal magic.” 

“Manipulating time is never easy,” confirms Iggy. “That would have taken a lot of effort. I can't imagine someone doing all that just for kicks.”

Indeed not.

***

Reaching the door isn't easy. The party has to work together to overcome the traps and obstacles in the way. The circle of runes turns out to unleash a pulse of force that pushes anyone close to it back across the room. But Cook manages to disable it by destroying some of the runes while Vann-La soaks up the power of the moment of agony by embracing it, taking it within herself. Persevering through the slowing storm requires fierce determination and a struggle against it, but finally, they reach the door. 

The air seems to settle into sudden stillness around them as they push the door open. 

***

It is like falling into a swirling storm of moments from a billion lives. Flashes of a beautiful eladrin woman, an amulet around her neck, casting impossibly powerful spells, destroying entire buildings with a single gesture; a face, fishbelly white, with black, staring eyes and greasy hair, surrounded by a silver-green halo, who seems to spy the party as they rip past him; a man, duplicated over and over again, each version better and more powerful than the one before; a figure in wizards’ robes, human, vanishing from in front of a swinging sword just barely in time... a bald, alien-looking figure of unknown species, with six arms, sinking in some kind of greenish-silver sand... a barren land, with strange lines of vegetation criss-crossing it...

Then the succession of images blurs into incomprehensibility as the party approaches infinity. Feelings, thoughts and images tear through their minds, disorienting, overwhelming. The party seems to be falling through a storm of moments as they swim through the timestream at incredible speed. It is enough to drive men mad... or for a group to find themselves lost for all eternity in the Plane of Time. 

Hkatha feels the temporal storm threatening to toss them into the depths of the plane. He reaches out with his arcane skills, trying to guide the group through the maelstrom of moments without harm. His arms are scored by the future, furrows of age ripping into him. He groans.  

“You can do it!” Heimall exhorts, and Hkatha redoubles his efforts. 

Iggy and Cook add their mental efforts to Hkatha's, and the party members grab each other, holding hands or cloaks so as not to be separated. The buffeting of the winds of time increases, howling, the sands all around the heroes turning black. 

Time itself is groaning in protest. The din rises; time is _screaming._

Only the tether allows them to travel this path. Though they don't know it is there, they set it to vibrating.

And then they arrive, sprawling, cast in a heap, shrouded in silver-green sand, lacerated and fatigued. They are on a flagstoned floor, covered in thick crimson carpeting. Light spills in from one direction, where a pair of great double doors stand open, revealing an apocalyptic, blasted landscape, a range of mountains, some of which burn and give off foul vapors. What little vegetation is visible is mostly blackened and dead. 

“Where the hell are we?” Summer groans.

“Oi, more like when, I think,” Cook replies. 

“This is some kind of temple.” Torinn looks around, fascinated. Opposite the doors, leading deeper into the building, a short hall leads to a thick scarlet curtain. He brushes himself off as Ligir joins Heimall at the exit, staring out across the land. 

“I don't see anything alive,” Heimall says quietly. 

“Guys,” Torinn calls, pushing the curtain aside. “In here.” Globes of ruddy light glow in the short hallway, making his scales look black. The party follows him cautiously. 

“So,” a voice rasps from beyond, “someone has survived.”

The chamber revealed is a great fane, draped in red. At the end are three great statues. Each depicts a copper-skinned, red-eyed entity, humanoid, with elvish features, yet very clearly not elven. They stand behind an altar, on which a still form lies, a dagger still clutched in one hand, throat slit. Blood drips from the sides of the altar. 

As if the shadows have coalesced, a figure steps from the darkness between the statues. It is one of the people depicted by the statues, the one who is clearly the central figure. His eyes gleam, almost glowing. His face seems set in a perpetual sneer. He wears all gray, with a cloak of black. An amulet hangs around his neck, its plate holding a huge, eye-shaped bloodstone. The hilt of the sword sheathed at his side resembles ropes twining around more bloodstone eyes.

“Who are you?” demands Torinn, and the figure draws back as if startled. “Why did you kill that man?”

A harsh laugh that sounds of disbelief. “Who am I? Who are you, not to know? Don't you have the Locus?”

Vann-La asks, “The what?” 

The man stares at Torinn, his gaze sliding down to the _Silver Rose of Garnet_ at his neck. “Do you serve the Triple Goddess?”

“I serve Lester,” the dragonborn replies, “and adventure.”

Peering closer, the red-eyed stranger mutters, “You're not a draconian. What are you?”

“I'm a dragonborn.”

“I think we're in the past,” Hkatha says. “But who are you? And why did you kill that man?” He gestures at the figure slumped on the altar.

“I am Maltar Dead,” the man proclaims, “and that man was my last priest. I did not kill him. He killed himself, to summon me here, I presume to witness the end.” He frowns again, eyes narrowing. “And you cannot be from the future. 

_”There is no future.”_

***

After this depressing proclamation, the party accompanies Maltar back to the temple doors. The mountains are crumbling visibly, and something ineffable and black is eating the sky. 

Our heroes tell Maltar an abbreviated and hurried version of their story. When they mention the name “Fray”, he starts, then curses long and hard. “I take it you know her,” Iggy says, and Maltar answers with a snarl. 

“Don't trust her,” he growls, “not ever.”

“There could be more than one Fray,” Heimall suggests. 

“Like a lich, she will return after being slain. She must have found a way out, to wherever you're all from. But He Who Must Not Be Named is going to devour it all!” He glares at them. “But that explains how you're alive. You weren't here yet when they ended all life.”

“What? Who?” exclaims Hkatha. “How?”

“Our heroes,” Maltar answers. “Our failed heroes. They were trying to stop the Angels of the Apocalypse. They used the Locus. But even it wasn't enough...” He stares into the distance for a moment, watching as a distant mountain erupts, exploding into magma. “What else did you see on your journey through time?”

When they describe the pale, greasy man, Maltar snarls again, but he only says not to trust him, either. 

“Fray is powerful and smart enough to outwit a god,” he says. “If she's your enemy, you're going to need every bit of help you can get.” His eyes glitter. “I would love to confront her myself, but my battle is in the pool, against He Who Must Not Be Named. But I can give you things that might help you.” The group follows him back into the fane, to the altar. He pushes the body of his last priest aside and it slides lifelessly to the floor. Bending down, Maltar pushes on a corner of the altar, and a secret compartment springs open. He pulls out a wand, an axe, a ring, a cloak, a suit of scale armor, and a suit of leather armor. “Take these,” he commands. “They might be enough to turn the tide for you, though I doubt it. But there is no time to seek out anything more. As long as the door through time remains, He Who Must Not Be Named might find it.” 

All around them, the temple trembles, and the earth groans. 

“Regretfully, I cannot come with you and aid you directly,” Maltar continues. “But I can do this.” He unbuckles his sword belt and passes it, along with his blade, to Vann-La. “My weapon will serve you well against Fray. It is called Killing Spree.” Then he draws the amulet he wears over his head and hands it to Hkatha. “And this is called Walpyvmyr.” 

“Thank you,” says Vann-La gravely. Hkatha pulls the amulet on. 

“Now you must go,” Maltar snaps. “Ironically- there is no more time.” He makes a gesture, and our heroes find themselves fading back into the maelstrom. And suddenly they are snapping through the silver whirlwind again, ripping through vast gulfs of time as if they were passing through walls of paper. And behind them- if there were any such direction during such a journey- the black jaws of oblivion snap shut. 

_*Next Time:*_ Our heroes move on toward their final confrontation with Arawn!


----------



## the Jester

For the record, this is the skill challenge I used for the trip through the door into time.

*Setup:* To successfully pass through the Door into Time, the pcs must navigate through the skill challenge. Failure is unusually damning. 

*Level:* 17
*Complexity:* 5 (requires 12 successes before 3 failures)
*Primary Skills:* Arcana, Endurance, Insight, Perception, Religion
*Secondary Skills:* Acrobatics

Acrobatics (DC 30; no successes): The character concentrates on avoiding the oncoming memories and moments. He does not suffer an end of turn effect this round of the skill challenge, but doesn't gain a success. 

Arcana (DC 30; 1 success, no maximum): The character uses his knowledge of magic to help guide the party through the maelstrom of moments without harm. If he succeeds, the character may choose between two end of turn effects rolled by the dm. 

Endurance (DC 25; 1 success, maximum of 1 by each pc): With an Endurance check, the character manages to simply hold on against the trauma of the journey out of one timestream and into the remnants of another. In addition to gaining a success, if the character gets a DC 30, he avoids receiving an end of turn effect. 

Insight (DC 23; 1 success, maximum 4 successes): The character’s self-awareness helps him to withstand the onslaught of images and feelings that runs through him. He gains resist 10 psychic against this turn’s end of turn effect. 

Perception (DC 27; 1 success, maximum 2 successes): The character attempts to guide the party through the storm of temporal events without harm using her incredible senses. In addition to gaining a success, for every 2 points by which she beats the DC, the character allows one pc to avoid his next end of turn effect.

Religion (DC 27; 1 success, no maximum): By clinging to faith, the character holds onto sanity and helps to guide his friends. The character gains resist 6 necrotic and psychic against any end of turn effect; in addition, if he ages, the amount that he ages is reduced by 4 years. 

*Complications:* At the end of each character’s turn, roll on the following chart to see what misfortune might befall him.

*d% Roll --- Result* 
01-30 --- Character is hit by a rough experience for 2d6+6 psychic damage and -			2 on next skill check.
31-50 --- Character is hit by a concentrated patch of time and ages 2d6 years. 
51-60 --- Character is filled with inertia and is slowed until the end of the party’s 				next encounter.
61-75 --- Character puts five wear points on items, distributed as he chooses 				(with dm approval).
76-90 --- Part of character’s body ages more than the rest, dealing 3d6+6 				necrotic damage. 
91-00 --- Character sapped of energy; lose 1 action point. If the character doesn’t 			have one, he instead loses 2 healing surges.

*Success:* If the party succeeds at the skill challenge, they arrive in area 87 on sublevel 6B.

*Failure:* In addition to suffering the full effect of whatever end of turn effect smites a character that fails a check, other bad things happen. Each time a character gets a failure in the skill challenge, one of two things happens, depending on what skill the character was using. 

_Arcana, Insight, Religion:_ The character goes a little bit crazy and gains 1 insanity point. A character with 1 insanity point starts to act a little bit weird at times. With 2 insanity points, the character gains a non-dangerous obsession or minor, non-debilitating phobia. With 3 insanity points, roll 3d34 on the Random Insanity Chart on page 88 of Players Option: Spells & Magic.

_Endurance, Perception:_ The character is tugged somewhat away from the other party members. Rope and similar items will not be able to pull him back, because they will be destroyed by entropic processes, but he remains close enough to see and shout to. If a character fails a second time, he drifts further away; a third failure means that the character is lost elsewhere in the Plane of Time than the rest of the party.

If the party actually fails the skill challenge, they wind up lost in the Plane of Time.


----------



## the Jester

The first changes go unnoticed, as Vann-La is in the front of the group, face forward, looking ahead. But eventually, the others see- her eyes have turned scarlet and gleaming. 

“Maybe we should be careful about these things,” Hkatha says, fingering the amulet around his neck and nodding at Vann-La's new sword.

“I think we're fine,” the elf responds, and continues to lead the party onward, _Killing Spree_ in hand. 

*** 

A pause to confer on strategy leads to a decision: they will seek a way down and try to find the death knight- and perhaps the beholder- that their rituals told them was there. “Even though it's not Arawn, it sounds like one of his generals,” Heimall states. “At least if we destroy it now, there's no chance of Arawn calling another death knight to help him when we finally find him.”

So, Vann-La leading, the heroes find their way down. They are not unopposed. A horde of grimlocks attacks them in one place, which holds signs of the beholder's sometime presence. Demons and undead strike them from the wings. But our heroes make their relentless way forward until, at last, they find the death knight, Cardinal Fell. 

Fell broods at a font sticky with half-dried blood. He wears mail beneath a tattered tabard that is adorned with the Black Sun, symbol of Bleak. A wicked-looking flanged mace hangs at his side. Three billymen- naked demons devoted to Bleak, with the bodies of men but the heads of goats- move restlessly around the room, their chests painted with the same symbol. Two churning nightmares hang in the air, formless, fanged, tentacled, ever-changing, radiating terror. A black firepit emits black flames that give off no light.

The party's light sources dim, their illumination growing feeble and drawing in close to the source. 

Fell turns, straightening, and draws his mace. “Strangers!” he cries. “I, Cardinal Fell, welcome you!” The billymen start to move toward Vann-La. “I have been looking for another sacrifice!” His loud cackle echoes through the dank chamber as the billymen thrust their hands upward, stabbing at the sky.

More billymen appear. 

“Uh-oh,” says Vann-La, and strikes, cutting one of the new arrivals' head from its body in a single stroke, then advancing into the center. _Killing Spree_ lashes out, emitting a quiet moan as it tastes blood. 

The others attack as well. The summoned billymen fall easily, and Torinn rushes to engage the death knight. 

“I will give your soul to Bleak!” the black cardinal howls, and summons an inky blob of darkness that launches itself onto Torinn's head. Then, while the dragonborn is blinded, Fell hits him with a mighty blow, smiting him. 

The churning nightmare creatures send rivers of pure fear into our heroes, threatening to strip away their will to fight. “You can do it!” cries Heimall. “GIT!” -and Vann-La disembowels one of the billyman summoners. Spells detonate, flames and force alike ripping into the strange phantasmal slayers. Ligir's gun barks, and the death knight staggers back. 

And heals itself. 

“Lester's arm!” swears Torinn. “Stop that!!” 

Fell gnashes his teeth, promises, “I will keep you alive for a week of torture!”, and unleashes a blast of _unholy flames_ at the party. 

Vann-La staggers, but Torinn uses his _healing word_ to keep her from falling. Heimall contnues to shore the party up as well. No one is close to falling- except Cardinal Fell. 

The party presses in, Heimall fending off the last phantasmal slayer with _Gut-Ripper_ as Hkatha's magic finishes the last billyman. The death knight continues to fight back, but Torinn, Heimall, and Vann-La close in on him from three sides. 

“Arawn will kill you all!” the cardinal shrieks. “Even now, he kills the last of the dwarves in the mountains! There is no one left to rescue you!”

“We aren't the ones in need of rescue,” Torinn retorts, landing another blow.

“Aagh! You fools,” Cardinal Fell spits, “none of you will survive! This is the end for you!”

“It's the end for someone, all right,” Vann-La says, and stabs the death knight through the throat. Fell staggers back, gasping, unable to speak for tbe moment, wobblind and barely still afoot- and an iron pan slams down on its head from behind, crunching through the bones of the skull and flattening the body to the ground. 

“Oi, you talk too much,” Cook exclaims. 

***

The party is troubled by Fell's words about the dwarves, but uncertain what they can do about it. After all, they don't even know their way out of this place. 

“We should go up,” Ligir says. “Try to help those dwarves.” Cook nods in agreement. 

“Agreed,” Hkatha answers, “but we need to kill that beholder first.”

There is silence for a moment, then Vann-La sighs. “Hkatha's right. If we don't get it now, Arawn will bring it to us later, and we'll have to fight them both at once.”

“We might not have time, if we're going to help those dwarves,” Torinn objects. 

“Well, we don't know where they are or how far away they are. Not to mention that we don't know how to get to the surface. And we're here now. We've seen signs of the beholder. We have an idea of which direction to look in.” The Kree shrugs. “I think it makes sense.”

Hkatha adds, “And if we can find it when we're fresh, we're far better off than if we face it after we've had to hack our way through hundreds of Arawn's minions.”

The party agrees, given the impracticality of helping the dwarves, that they don't have any real choice. 

***

The beholder is a deadly threat, but our heroes do manage to catch it when they are fresh. The eye tyrant is attended only by a pair of grimlock heroes, who put up a good fight but can't sustain the sort of attention that the party delivers to them. 

The beholder's eye beams cut through the chamber it's in. It levitates up out of reach, keeping enough distance between the group and itself that it falls to the two wizards and the cleric to keep it off-balance enough that it can't entirely decimate the group. Once Vann-La, Summer, Cook, and Heimall take the elite grimlocks out, Hkatha casts _fly_ on Vann-La, and _Killing Spree_ moans again. 

***

After days underground, the party finally finds its way out, but not as expected. Instead they find a set of teleport coordinates that appear to be on the surface. 

“Perfect!” says Iggy. “We can get out of this place and get on with the job!”

And thus they came to see the remains of poor Pesh City, one of the proudest cities of humanity for thousands of years. A truly great metropolis, run through with the exotic smells of pungent Peshan spices and the smoke of strange rugs. Decadent, infamous for being home to the Dance of the Seven Veils, well-known haven for many a pirate with a cup of discretion, draped in the colorful silks and brightly-colored fabrics it was known for. 

No longer. 

Now a shattered and burnt place, with almost no buildings still standing. Ash and death reigned over the ruin. The only colors were gray and black. The exotic flora and fauna was dead and burnt. This was no more than the well-gnawed corpse of a city.

And to both the northeast and northwest, mountains. 

_*Next Time:*_ The fortress of Arawn!


----------



## the Jester

Collapsed halls and passages painted in blood and full of corpses are all that remain of Pesh's dwarves. Here and there on the island, a few small groups cling to life, numbering no more than half a dozen. For all practical purposes, at least on Pesh, dwarfkind is extinct. Everywhere, the uneasy dead walk, searching for an answer to their inability to rest, and the Six-Fingered Hand clenches in triumph. 

Arawn's victory does not quench his thirst for vengeance. There are still a few small places where civilization remains, a few places where his vicious horde has not yet burnt the fields and razed the buildings. Precious few- the war is over, and all that remains is to complete the extermination of the survivors, those who scurry from place to place frantically seeking sanctuary or trying to carry out guerilla strikes from within the woods or mountains. Well, soon enough those humans and elves and gnomes and their ilk would realize that the races of the Hand were native to the dark places of the world, the deepest clefts between the hills and the darkest recesses of the forests. There would be no hiding from his forces by retreating to the hinterlands, as one might from a human or elven army.

As long as he maintained his iron grip and kept the Six-Fingered Hand from falling in upon itself, humans, elves, dwarves, halflings- all those hypocritcal, so-called “civilized” races- would soon find themselves not merely driven from power, but entirely extinct.

***

Guided by ritual divinations, our heroes head northeast and upward, into the mountains. Greasy smoke hangs in the air, and when they rise over the first ridge of mountains, thin sleet spits down upon them. Gazing across at the next ridge of mountains, Vann-La halts and squints, shading her eyes. 

“There.”

Following her finger, the others can see an ominous stone edifice perched on the mountain's shoulder. The building is no more than a tower and a curtain wall enclosing a small courtyard. A pennant flutters from above; a red hand with the requisite six fingers upon a black field. A long road leads up to the tower, switching back and forth as it ascends the mountain's face. Small forms dot it; the approach is not unguarded.

“At least we know which way to go,” quips Torinn.

In relative silence, the party descends, following the path of a stream bed until they can debouch into the saddle between the two mountains. By now it is nearly dusk, and they make camp, keenly aware that tomorrow may see them meet their enemy at last. If it's the right place. If Arawn is really there.

_If we can really beat him,_ thinks Heimall. 

***

Their ascent is challenged by shambling zombies. Vann-La cuts them down, _Killing Spree_ moaning in her hand, and advances, the others on her heels. But behind them, the slain undead begin to pull themselves up, reanimating and attacking the party from behind.

Many of the zombies are dwarven. Cook weeps in horror.

The path is narrow; the heroes use this to their advantage, knocking their adversaries off the side and watching them tumble to land on lower parts of the trail. The zombies are slow in pursuit, but their numbers grow the farther the party advances. Cook, Vann-La, Torinn, and Shakgar work together, smashing, cutting, and pushing forward, with the others desperately staving off attacks from behind.

The tower comes closer with every minute, but the myriad of small cuts and wounds that the enemy is inflicting begins to tell. Torinn and Heimall use their last _healing_ and _inspiring words_, and the group keeps pushing forward. 

A final push, and they reach the curtain wall. 

The portcullis is closed. 

Torinn forces it up while Heimall and Cook push the zombies back. “Hurry!” the dragonborn cries. The others slip beneath the momentarily raised bars, and Vann-La grunts as she takes the weight of them. Torinn rolls underneath, and they are inside the courtyard.

Gasping, the party takes a minute to catch its collective breath. They patch up their wounds and assess their situation. 

“Only one way to go,” Cook states, jerking a thumb at the door in the base of the tower. “No good to fight zombies again.” He wipes something from his eyes.

***

The tower is eerily silent. The lowest level is a temple, with a defaced idol and altar. The ceiling is painted to resemble a brilliant sun. As they move about, dust rises, swirling in the air. Examining the idol, Torinn says, “This was a temple to Dexter. Look, even though the face has been chipped away, you can still see part of the blindfold.”

There is nothing else evident in the temple. Their steps seem strangely loud on the stone steps as they ascend to the next level. 

This, it turns out, is a well-furnished, finely-kept bedroom. The bed is canopied, finely wrought of polished wood, and inscribed with more solar imagery. A small vanity has vials of perfume and jars of cremes and ointments next to a large mirror. When investigated, the closet reveals clothing of a definite feminine cast.

“Maybe Arawn has a girlfriend,” suggests Cook.

“Maybe,” murmurs Hkatha, eyes narrowing. “But these are old. Look at the fashion. These are long out of date.” He sniffs disdainfully.

A portrait hangs over the bed: a beautiful human woman, fair skinned, blonde haired, with clear Forinthian lineage. She is dressed in fancy red and gold robes, with a holy symbol in her hands. 

“That's the raiment of a cleric of Dexter,” Torinn says.

And then, to the surprise of everyone, _the Silver Rose of Garnet_ speaks. “I remember her.”

_*Next Time:*_ Our heroes face Arawn at last!


----------



## the Jester

“Dawn,” the _Silver Rose of Garnet_ says slowly. “Her name was Dawn.”

The party stares at her portrait. 

“How did you know her?” Torinn asks. 

The _Rose_ doesn't speak for a long moment, and when it does, its tone is full of regret. “I can't really remember. It was so long ago...” It sighs. “I think she bore me. I remember that much.” 

“What else?” asks Vann-La. “If she used you, she must have been good, right?”

Without delay, it answers, “Yes. She was good and lawful both. I know that.” Its voice is anguished. “Dawn! Something must have happened to her.” A pause, then: “I think... I think I may have known Arawn. Yes- I remember now. They were betrothed.”

Cook speaks. “Ooi, were they both happy with the betrothal?” 

“Yes, very... I think. It was so long ago!”

“Was he an evil man then?” Heimall asks. 

“No. She never would have loved him if he was. He was a hero.”

Torinn steps up to the mirror and studies himself. The _Silver Rose_ is cilpped to his cloak. 

A ghostly form steps forth. 

Torinn jumps back with a startled yelp. 

The ghost is clearly that of Dawn. She doesn't seem to see them. Instead, she seems to be arguing with someone unseen, but soundlessly. Though she shouts, the party cannot hear her. 

They watch, though. They see her rage and rail at whomever she is talking to, and finally, she turns and rushes from the room, ascending a spiral stairway that leads further up the place. 

“Let's go!” says Heimall. 

The party hurries after her, climbing up to the next floor. From the landing, she rushes out into a large room with a large open balcony attached to it, then turns, tears streaking down her cheeks, with her holy symbol in hand.

“Is it him?” wonders Iggy. “Is Arawn chasing her?”

“Look!” Hkatha cries. 

There is a faint, wavering image of the person at whom she is directing her tirade. Her face is contorted, and now she seems to be hurling invective at him. 

“He's wearing more priestly raiment,” Vann-La says. 

“Higher ranked than her,” Torinn elaborates. “A bishop or something.”

Dawn's ghost snaps her holy symbol. The watching heroes fall silent. She hurls the pieces to the ground, backing away from the bishop (or whatever) that is pressing forward after her, shaking his finger. 

“He's ordering her to do something she won't do,” Cook says. “Look at her face!”

“Can we stop him?” wonders Torinn.

Hkatha shakes his head. “This already happened. We're too late. Too late by centuries, probably. But we can learn from this.”

Dawn keeps backing away, out onto the balcony. To the very edge. The spectral bishop stops his advance, but continues his silent harangue. She screams at him, but our heroes can't hear her words.

“She's going to jump,” Iggy says, “isn't she?”

And indeed, she looks over the edge, shouts a last soundless curse, and throws herself over. 

Heimall nods slowly. “That's it, then. That's what drove Arawn over the edge. No pun intended.” 

For a moment, they all stand silent, mulling over what they have just seen. But then, footsteps sound from the stairs. Vann-La whirls, _Killing Spree_ leaping into her hand. Cook darts into the shadows to the side, and Shak-Gar steps forward, growling, “Gonna dunk on you!”

“You are too late.” The voice is cold, sepulcheral. The visage of the helmet it comes from is that of a goat-faced demon. “I have won. Your empire is extinct- and soon, so will be your races.” Half a dozen animate corpses shamble forward around him, spilling into the room. “Whatever ill-conceived notions you have of saving your species, give them up now, for you are in your last moments.” A sword, ill-omened green power spitting from it with a sizzling sound, slips out of the sheath at the figure's hip. The breastplate of its black enamaled plate armor bears a six-fingered hand, clenched into a fist, before a grinning skull.

“Arawn,” Heimall says, “stop, we don't want to fight you. We want to help you. We want to help you lay Dawn to rest.”

“You dare?!” roars the death knight. He points his sword at them, and green-black flames blossom all around.

_*Next Time:*_ The final conflict with Arawn the Black!


----------



## the Jester

The Abyssal flames that engulf our heroes are greasy and foul. They are the flames of burning fat and hair, full of dusty incinerated bones. Our heroes gag and stagger, and then the zombies are among them, grabbing at them with ragged, dried fingers. 

And then Arawn charges into their midst, unleashing a _rain of dark blows_ that delivers terrific damage to Heimall, Vann-La, and Shakgar. Sickly green flashes occur with each hit, making their faces look sickly and ill.

The tide of undead is momentarily overwhelming, and nearly pulls the party down. But then Hkatha and Iggy blast groups of the zombies back, knocking them down like tenpins and giving the rest of the heroes of Fandelose some breathing room. But the zombies begin to bestir themselves at once, clambering back to their feet and staggering toward the party. 

Meanwhile, Vann-La and Shakgar unleash a series of tremendous blows on Arawn the Black. Unfortunately, the death knight shrugs them off, unharmed. 

Pale, bone-colored light radiates from beneath his goat-faced helm. “Fools! You cannot harm me! I am driven by righteousness! I will have my vengeance!”

“You already do!” retorts Heimall. “You've pulled down the empire! What more do you want?”

“As long as one of your kind remains alive, my revenge is not complete!”

Hkatha casts _fly_ on himself while Iggy blasts the death knight with a shot from his pistol, enahanced by his gun magic. But nothing harms him. 

“Back down the stairs!” Heimall cries. 

“We'll cover you!” Vann-La slams a zombie down.

“I'm gonna dunk on you!” Shakgar smashes another, then steps next to Vann-La and turns to face the oncoming undead.

The others retreat into the bedchamber below. Heimall says, “As long as Arawn has something to avenge, we aren't going to be able to stop him. We need to lay Dawn to rest somehow.”

Torinn nods. “Agreed. But how?”

Up above, the ground is littered with slain zombies. But each one reanimates, dragging itself up to face the two heroes valiantly defending the stairway. Arawn, surrounded by his minions, slashes right and left at both of them, his blade leaving a trail of ghastly light in the air behind it. 

Vann-La and Shakgar begin to fall back themselves, descending the stairs. Arawn pauses, allowing his zombies to pour down the staircase after them before following them. 

In the bedchamber, Cook asks, “How can we lay her to rest with no body?”

“Maybe there's something we can use in here,” Hkatha says, looking around. 

“Wait!” Heimall exclaims. “She was Forinthian, right? They had a custom of making death masks after someone died. And they would have cremated her body and mixed the ashes in with the pigments they used to paint her mask.”

Even as Vann-La and Shakgar back into the room, pressed by more zombies, the party starts to search for the mask. But Heimall cries, “Not here! It would be kept in a place with religious iconography. That sun symbol in the ceiling below us!”

Our heroes fall back again, descending another level. 

But the zombies they slew on their approach have now reached that chamber, and are starting to pour in. 

“Damn!” Iggy swears. He unleashes a _fireball_, stopping them from approaching for the moment. 

“We need to search that symbol!” cries Heimall, pointing at the sun in the ceiling. 

Hkatha, still flying, grabs Cook and ascends with him. “I'll hold you, you search!”

_Killing Spree_ moans in Vann-La's hand as she hews zombie after zombie down. Heimall has turned to aid her and Shakgar from behind them, using his magical glaive to great effect. Yet after a moment, each felled zombie rises again. 

And behind the growing press comes Arawn. 

At the ceiling, Cook's blunt, fire-scarred fingers probe delicately until he finds a hidden lock. He pulls out his thieves' tools and works at it. After a few moments, there's a click. “Got it!” he exclaims. 

With only the barest noise, a cylinder of stone that was directly above the sun symbol begins to extrude from the ceiling. It projects downward about 3' before stopping. 

“Can you hold on to that?” asks Hkatha. Cook nods and grabs the stone cylinder, clinging to it as Hkatha turns and prepares to cast another spell. But he pauses for an instant as he realizes that the ones that Iggy _fireballed_ haven't yet stirred back to unlife. 

“Fire!” he shouts. “Fire destroyes the minions!”

Shakgar cries out and collapses as a blade spitting green light catches him in the neck. Arawn has arrived. 

Cook resolutely ignores him. The exposed side of the cylinder has another locked panel on it. He grasps the cylinder with his thighs, hanging upside-down, as he attacks the lock. Below him- though it sounds like they're above- he can hear Heimall shouting encouragement, the sizzle of the death knight's sword, the whisper of weapons passing through air, the thunk of them cutting flesh and bone. The stink of burnt flesh as the wizards begin to unleash more fire magic, finally lessening the pressure of the zombies.

_Click._ There! The panel springs open, and Cook reaches in carefully. Almost reverently, he extracts the death mask within. It is her face, all right. This is, indeed, Dawn's mask.

Ligir and Hkatha are furiously blasting the zombies, and Shakgar, revived by Heimall's _inspiring word_ yet hardly standing, joins them, letting Heimall, Summer, and Vann-La form a wall against Arawn. Even so, they cannot seem to hurt him, and the death knight is quite capable of hurting them. Summer is forced to retreat.

Their adversary spies the mask in Cook's hand. “HOW DARE YOU!!” he shrieks, and tries to press forward, but Vann-La throws him back. 

“Oops!” says Cook, and drops nimbly to the ground, landing on his feet. He glances over at Heimall. “Now what?”

Torinn hurries over. “We need to lay her to rest. To do that, we have to invoke her spirit first.” He begins muttering prayers to Lester. Heimall falls back to advise him; the warlord knows old Forinthian customs fairly well. 

But that leaves Vann-La alone against Arawn. _Killing Spree_ moves like the wind, a red blur to match the green of Arawn's blade, as the two trade blows.

Then the death knight gives out an anguished cry as the spirit of Dawn shivers into view.

“Dawn!” Torinn cries. “You've got to let go! Let yourself rest!”

“Betrayed,” she whispers. “I was betrayed.”

“My love,” Arawn groans, stricken.

“And you have been more than avenged,” says Heimall. “The empire has fallen. Civilization is gone. The civilized races are near extinction. Surely this isn't what you want.”

“No...” she moans. “No.”

“You must rest,” says Cook. “See what has become of the man you love? Your loss has made him crazy. You must rest so that he can rest.”

“Ohhh...” She puts her ghostly face into her hands.

Raging, screaming, Arawn renews his attack. But as vicious, as frantic, as he is, there is something new in his manner- something febrile, brittle. Nonetheless, Arawn drives Vann-La to one knee. 

And then the _Silver Rose of Garnet_ speaks. “Dawn! Do you remember me? We journeyed far together. I loved you. I helped you overcome many challenges. Let me help you once more. Let me help you find peace. You have to let go, Dawn.”

“You see that?” Heimall gestures at Arawn. “That is what the man you loved has become.” 

“Let go,” Torinn says, “and help us help him.”

The apparition grows ever thinner until, with a distant, echoing sob, it vanishes entirely. 

Arawn cries out again, a sound of despair ripped from his hollow depths.

Our heroes, having the momentary advantage, press it. Heimall rushes forward and stabs. Cook leaps to the attack with his frying pan. Iggy fires his pistol. Hkatha blasts the death knight with a volley of _magic missiles_. 

Arawn staggers. A hollow moan rises up from his armor. The sword clangs to the ground. Then his goat-faced helm falls off, as if it had been suspended in mid-air above the armor. And then the armor collapses in a heap.  

All around them, the zombies collapse without a sound. This time, they do not stir again.


----------



## the Jester

So that's it. That was the final game of that party, played after I had moved out of town, when I came back to get the finale taken care of.  

I'd like to apologize to any of my old readers, most of whom had probably given up on my ever finishing this years ago. 

I'll continue this thread to detail a little bit about the next few decades of the city, setting up for the story hour I recently started called The Final City. 

Thanks for reading, and again, I apologize for the very, very long wait for the finish.


----------



## the Jester

After returning to Fandelose, our heroes receive the plaudits and accolades that they deserve, then settle into the long task of trying to keep the city alive. 

Without Arawn, nothing can hold the Six-Fingered Hand together. The once monolithic forces of the savage humanoids begin to squabble among themselves, and in a matter of months, they are actively making war on one another. 

And there is no place left for them to loot. When winter comes, without food, the Six-Fingered Hand begins to starve. 

Within another three years, any hope that the savage races might pull together under a strong leader has been lost. However, so has any hope that there are other surviving outposts of civilization that might be contacted, that might form alliances with Fandelose. If such places exist, there is no way to know; no way to reach them, with the number of rampaging tribes of former Hand soldiers. 

***

By this time, most of our heroes are semi- or fully retired. Things are going well enough; there has been no further major attack on the city, and despite the terrible dangers still threatening them, General Argos is making real moves toward a return of civilian rule. 

Indeed, four years after the fall of Arawn the Black, General Argos returns power to the Bronze Council, which (in its newly reconstituted form) is to consist of ten members elected by (and generally from) the old nobility, ten appointed by the military (for the next century, the military delegation must include at least one warforged from the Cathedral of War), and twenty elected by people of means. Each member would serve for ten years.

Hkatha has always been a political man. He is the rising star of his noble house, and now he begins to work to extend the franchise to all citizens of the city, succeeding within a year. Meanwhile, the soldiers who fought in the Fall of the Empire, as the war is now being called, are retiring in ever-greater numbers. Some people, including both General Argus and Heimall, try to persuade the city of the need to keep its defenses strong, but with the crisis past, many people simply no longer wish to put their lives on the line on a sometimes daily basis. By the end of the fifth year after Arawn's destruction, the army is only about one-third the size it was during the Fall.

Seven years after the death knight was put down, a well-organized and highly disciplined army of several thousand hobgoblins attacks the city, emerging from the plains to the south without warning. The hobgoblin army besieges the city for several months, and only a valiant defense led by the old heroes manages to repel the hobgoblin assault and break the siege. The hobgoblins fly a banner depicting a scarlet fist, and it is by this sigil that they become known.

The Bronze Council falls into squabbling disagreements about how much money and manpower to devote to the army. 

The next winter, food shortages lead to riots. Several square blocks of the city are burnt. A faction of the Bronze Council, led by Bridget Willow, tries to remove the franchise from “the mob”, but when the people hear rumors of it, there is a convulsion of social violence, ending only when General Argos comes out of retirement and seizes control of the city once again.

“I'm too old for this,” he tells Heimall.

*** 

In the ninth year since the destruction of Arawn the Black, General Argos attempts to reform the Bronze Council. He revises the number of reprsentatives and how they are chosen, giving the people more weight on the council and inviting the dwarves of Black Gorge to send an advisory member. He reduces the length of the term a councilor serves to five years. He restricts the voting franchise, removing it from criminals, those with the blood of any of the Six-Fingered Hand's races, the insane, and the unemployed- a huge number, in the city. He restricts farmers from emigrating for the duration of the famine and the political crisis. Finally, he holds elections and announces that he'll hand power over to the new Bronze Council on New Year's Day. 

This goes smoothly. Thanks to his anti-emigration policy, the famine abates by the next summer. 

The tenth year after Arawn's death is the time of an awful lesson. A group of emigrants try to found a small town, which they call Kratalos, about 20 miles southeast of Fandelose. All contact with them is lost in but a few weeks. When an expedition goes to see what has become of them, they find a tribe of lizardfolk with grisly trophies. None of the would-be settlers has survived. 

It's not the only time that anyone has tried to settle outside of the city- the settlement at Red Bank is a persistent thorn in the side of the authorities- but it is the largest single attempt. Almost two hundred people are lost. 

It is an uncomfortable lesson. The world, as it is now, is too dangerous for people to expand. The world is covered in darkness, and only a few- perhaps only one- points of light remain.


----------



## the Jester

The year is 2526 by the Sword Calendar. Eleven years after the fall of Arawn the Black, violence erupts between the orcs and the dwarves of Black Gorge. A group of dwarves allied with Clan Orcslayer colludes with some former soldiers from the army in an attempt to wipe out the orcish population.* This fails, which results in a period of increased tension and frequent skirmishing between the dwarves and the orcs, with Fandelose ostensibly neutral, but most of the people taking the dwarves' side. 

That October, after a year-long illness, General Argos dies. He is replaced by General Laktesh, who takes the title “Argos”. 

The conflict between the orcs and dwarves simmers for two years before the orcs of the gorge ally with a tribe of kobolds, who undermine a section of the city's wall, destroying one of the towers. After an orcish salient penetrates the Lower District but is repelled, the city sues for peace; this badly damages the relationship between the city and the dwarves.

By the time the conflict has been hot for five years, though the dwarves have won more battles than they have lost, the orcs have significantly reduced their numbers. It's an old, familiar problem: the dwarves can win the war, but the orcs will have replaced their losses in a decade and a half, while the dwarves will need a century or more. As usually happens when the natives of the Black Gorge fight, cooler heads finally start to prevail. Clan Firestone gains political ascendancy among the dwarves, and Clan Firestone is for peace.

Clan Firestone manages to negotiate a treaty with the orcs. The terms are punishing and expensive for the dwarves, ceding territorial rights over much of the gorge and many of the best gold claims therein to the orcs, as well as requiring huge payments of gold, weapons and armor. 

In the city, new elections for the Bronze Council come, with a largely anti-military slate of representatives being elected. Feeling betrayed by the city's willingness to exit the conflict with the orcs prematurely, the council's advisory representative from the dwarves leaves in a huff. Subsequently, his position is removed from the council.

The next year, early in 2531 SC, sixteen years after the end of the Six-Fingered Hand, the dwarves stop exporting firestone to Fandelose. 

Firestone is the primary fuel of the city. There is wood available outside of the walls, but the combination of the danger of being outside the walls and the lack of easy transportation makes replacing all the firestone a harrowing prospect. 

Over time, supplies dwindle. 

The undermined section of the wall is finally rebuilt by late 2533 SC, but it collapses after only a few weeks. There is a public uproar. Sabotage is suspected. The Bronze Council begins an investigation. 

The next spring, a hobgoblin army encamps outside the city gates, demanding a tribute of rice. They fly the scarlet fist banner. Meanwhile, the investigation into the collapse of 2533 has discovered that the problem is lack of funding for the military; they had inadequate money, manpower and material. Corners had been cut to meet budgetary constraints and deadlines. It is a tremendous scandal, especially with a hostile hobgoblin force camped not far from the Breach. In the midst of this crisis, the council pays the hobgoblins' tribute. They withdraw, but return again the next spring- and the Breach is not yet repaired.

Now officially calling itself the Scarlet Fist, the hobgoblin army seems to have grown. Representatives ride up from the plains to demand tribute again, this time in rice and gold, making it clear that this is to become an annual tradition. Without an intact wall, the Bronze Council again accedes. 


The council elections in October are hard-fought, with a strong debate between fear of the horrors of war (especially without a complete wall) and a desire that the city stand up to aggressors and defend itself. Many of the veterans of the Fall are now old or dead; the city elects two pro-military and two pro-appeasement representatives. With those from the military and the warforged, the military dominates the agenda. Taxes are raised, money pours into rebuilding the wall, and recruitment increases.

Early in 2536, the new Bronze Council steps up recruitment even further by impressing people into service to protect against the inevitable appearance of the Scarlet Fist. When the hobgoblins appear in the late spring, the military refuses to pay their ransom, attempting to guard the breach in the wall.

This proves disastrous. The new troops are barely trained and unblooded, whereas the Scarlet Fist has had years of experience that has honed it like a knife. The city's soldiers are no match for the brutal hobgoblins, who force their way through and into the city and occupy the northeast corner of the Lower District. It is only the timely intervention of an orcish relief force that hits the Fist from behind that saves the city from a sack. After pressuring the hobgoblins, the orcs withdraw, but the message is clear. The hobgoblins cut their way free of Fandelose; the city pays a smaller than expected ransom, and the Fist withdraws.

Over the next year, political tensions rise as the Bronze Council debates expanding or shrinking the franchise, and demonstrations against the military government become ever larger and more violent. In an attempt to mollify the mob, the franchise is withdrawn from members of the army (but then, they have their own unelected representatives automatically placed on the council, anyway). It isn't enough, and it leads many of the soldiers to stand aside when the crowds finally grab up and depose Argos Laktesh. 

But the restoration of civilian government sees the tax burden reduced, the rich rewarded with exemptions and special considerations, the policy of impressment being revoked, and the discharge of many soldiers back to civilian life. In short, the army is emasculated. The number of representatives elected by the people is increased to twelve, and envoys are dispatched to the dwarves with official, sincere, and grave apologies. 

Dwarves can hold a grudge for centuries, but for the moment, they let it go. Firestone imports into the city resume. 

For the next several years, the Bronze Council pursues a policy of compromise and consensus. Hkatha finds himself serving on the council, and the city agrees to pay a light tribute to the Scarlet Fist each year through 2540 SC, during which time it focuses on rebuilding the wall and sealing the Breach. 

It is now twenty-five years since Arawn the Black was slain. 

Relations between the dwarves, the orcs, and city are damaged all around when an attempt by some members of Clan Orcslayer to frame the orcs for interfering with the firestone trade backfires.**

To everyone's surprise, the Scarlet Fist doesn't show up in the spring- a good thing, since the work on the wall still isn't finished. The hobgoblins still haven't shown up by the October elections. The new year's Bronze Council immediately sets to legislating a reversal of the policies binding many of the city's farmers to their plots. The attempt bogs down in endless debate when the army's reprsentatives refuse to agree. This is met with more massive protests, with the farmers forming a formal association to advocate for them.

The next spring comes, and still there is no Scarlet Fist. Work on the Breach is finally complete, though. 

A group of two dozen farmers, protesting what they call their enserfdom, emigrate to Red Bank, and a mass of spontaneous protesters prevents the army from stopping them. The council debates taking action to force them back to the lands they are supposed to be bound to, but again, cannot reach consensus. That winter, food is scarce; the people are hungry, though few starve. 

Without outlying farms and villages, famine is a huge threat.

In early spring, the city sends a small army detachment to force the farmers in Red Bank to return and comply with their obligations to the city. The group is devastated before it can even reach the small village when a bullette attacks it. A few of the survivors flee to Red Bank and join them, providing it with a meager milita.

Finally, in the spring of 2543, twenty-eight years after the fall of Arawn, the Scarlet Fist returns. Fandelose agrees to pay them light tribute as long as they leave both the city and Red Bank alone for the year. The hobgoblins agree, providing that the city agrees to make it a five-year deal. Grudgingly, the Bronze Council ratifies the deal. Hkatha, who is part of the negotiating team working on behalf of the city, is startled to learn that the hobgoblin general is the son of Heshwat the Eviscerator, the general from whom Heimall took _Throat-Ripper_, his magical glaive. 

The next year, riots over taxes (raised again) and inflexible conditions for the farmers are met with a military crackdown. The army is put in impossible positions over and over again. In the end, several groups of soldiers disobey orders in order to quash burgeoning violence. A dozen rioters die, leaving the army deeply unpopular and very unhappy about the quality of its (civilian) leadership. Worse yet, the tensions don't subside, but only grow worse when the worst possible compromise is passed into law, and the farmers are formally and legally bound to their plots.

Anti-army sentiment reaches a fever pitch in the city, and the next year, when the October elections return an almost completely anti-army slate of councilors, most of who campaigned together on a promise to try members of the military for the decisions made by their civilian leaders, many of the officers plan a coup. Heimall speaks out against it, but can't prevent it. All he can do is try to direct it to minimize loss of life.

The Bronze Council is dissolved. The city, too, dissolves into chaos. Heimall's military government tries to keep a lid on dissent without using the harsh tactics that the civilian government had used, but after a fire starts that burns down a section of the Bronze District, they are forced to institute curfews and restrict gatherings. This just leads to more unrest and bigger protests, and of course, it is right then that the Scarlet Fist arrives, demanding its tribute. The army is defiant. The riots grow worse; the hobgoblins attack, and the army has to put the riots down forcefully before turning to repel the hobgoblins, who besiege the city from March to July of 2546 before breaking off and leaving. 

That October, Heimall holds new elections and leaves the city for parts unknown before the results are tallied. However, he never technically steps down. The elections once again return a rabidly anti-army, pro-war-crimes-trial slate. The army grows ever more worried as the new year approaches, and finally, on New Year's Eve, Otto Heinrickson, Heimall's son, steps up and installs himself as Argos, then annuls the elections.

The next year sees riot after riot, protest after protest. Otto cracks down harshly, but when the Scarlet Fist arrives, he chooses to pay the tribute. The unrest makes any other path too risky, especially when neither the orcs nor the dwarves can be relied upon to assist the city in the event of battle.

By early 2548, the unrest has finally died down. The entire city is exhausted. When the Scarlet Fist arrives, Otto pays them, but refuses the renew the tribute agreement. Everyone knows that next year, there will be conflict.

Of course, just weeks after the Scarlet Fist leaves the area, the Breach collapses again.

_*This story hour is continued in the Final City.*_

*This was actually a playtest game for 5e! The colluding dwarves and old soldiers were all pcs. 

**Another 5e playtest game, and again, the pcs were directly responsible for all of this.


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