Swords & Wizardry

St Corbus and the Doomed Outpost

2009-07-12T22:28:00.016-04:00

The campaign began as a caravan of merchants and traders trundled into the walled village of St. Corbus, which lies in the northeastern marches of Thuringia, in the foothills of the Iron Mountains, one of the geographic barriers that helps protect the Middle Realms from the hordes of evil humanoids that threaten this last enclave of civilization. Among this caravan were six adventurers, who had come to know each other during the long journey and had decided to seek their fortunes together. There were the human fighters Jink (Paul) and Enos (Domenick), the the elven fighter Aramel. There was also Calista the magic-user (Heather, Odolon the dwarven warrior, and Hendrick, a human warrior of the High Church. Aramel, whose chosen weapon was the bow, did not have a sword, so the party visited Clothar, a weaponsmith, and there learned that Lord Childeric was offering a bounty on goblin scalps. Intrigued, the adventurers proceeded to the keep, where they spoke with Carloman, the Captain of the Guard, who verified that Lord Childeric was indeed offering a bounty on goblin scalps. In fact, he was offering a reward of 100 gps for information on what had befallen his son, Gudrick, who had been found slain at an ancient outpost two days' journey into the mountains.

When the adventurers stopped into the local inn, The Broken Lantern, for a drink and some mutton stew, they received even more information from the inkeeper, an attractive, middle-aged woman named Alda. Alda told the adventurers that the murdered Gudrick, though he was an illegitimate son of Lord Childeric and one of his mistresses, was his father's favorite, and so Childeric had given Gudrick money and men to rebuild an ancient guardpost high in the hills and found his own manor. Several weeks after Gudrick and his followers had trekked into the hills, a party of messengers and porters who had been sent to the guardpost returned with grim news: the guardpost had been overrun and everyone was dead, including Gudrick. The party had tried to investigate and inter the bodies, but they were chased off by goblins.

The six adventurers set off that day for the guardpost, and reached it without incident two days later. The guardpost was situated against a high cliff, in an open, stump-filled area that had only recently been cleared. Part of the stone wall had been reconstructed, and two timber buildings had been built recently. There were indeed goblins, but the party managed to trap them inside one of the buildings - a barracks - and slay them. Because Enos had been badly injured in the fight, the party decided to barricade itself in the building for the night. The adventurers removed the bodies of the goblins and, at Hendrik's insistence, interred the corpses of the humans that had fallen there when the guardpost was overrun. The following day the party investigated a second building, which appeared to be a residence of sorts, and found several more bodies, along with a suit of plate mail armor that likely belonged to Gudrick himself. Most interesting were the corpses of orcs intermingled with the human bodies. The adventurers had been dubious that goblins could cause such carnage, particularly among well-armed men. Thus, the presence of dead orcs seemed an important clue.

The party moved on to find a cave entrance within a recess in the cliff wall. Odolon was able to tell that a stone wall had previously blocked the entrance, but had recently been dismantled, probably to fix the crumbling walls of the guardpost. The party went inside, and quickly discovered a goblin lair. The fight was long, but the party prevailed, and, after collecting some meager treasure from the creatures' lair, headed back to town with its bounty of goblin scalps.

Lord Childeric was happy to part with the 120 gps for the scalps, as well as the 100 gps for the information on the cave and the orc corpses. In fact, he offered the party a reward of 1,000 gps if it descended into the caves and eliminated the threat of the orcs and whatever else might be down there. He provided the fighters with plate mail armor, and each of the adventurers with a healing potion. The adventurers then went to the Broken Lantern to enjoy an evening on the town.

Enos awoke the next day with no recollection of the previous evening. That day he noticed that Captain Carloman, of Lord Childeric's guard, would not make eye contact with him. When the party went to the village herbalist to obtain some aditional healing potions, Valda, the herbalist, remarked that Captain Carloman might be jealous if she got too friendly with Enos. The party then headed back into the hills, much to Enos' relief, no doubt.

The party encountered a next of giant rats deeper within the caves, and managed to defeat them after a lengthy battle. The party moved deeper into the caves, and came upon a strangely glowing, barricaded passage, which they chose to ignore. They descended ever deeper, and came upon a room that was crossed by an underground river. Three orcs were camped by a boat, and rose to attack. Tragically, Odolon was felled by one of these orcs before Calista was able to cast a sleep spell and put a quick end to the combat. The party returned to St. Corbus to seek someone who could ressurect Odolon, but found that there was nobody in the small village powerful enough to cast such a spell. It was here, in town, that the evening ended.

Experience points are noted in the post below. Thank you all for a great night of gaming.

Experience Points

2009-07-11T13:52:00.002-04:00

I will post a detailed recap as soon as I have a chance, but I do want to post the experience point totals from last night's adventuring. This version of the game awards bonus experience points if a character has a high wisdom or charisma, or has a high score in his/her prime attribute, so I will list those separately.

Base Experience Points: 209
If your character's wisdom score is 13 or higher, add 10 additional XP
If your character's charisma score is 13 or higher, add an additional 10 XP
If your human or dwarven character's prime attribute is 13 or higher, add 10 XP
If your elven character's prime attribute is 15 or higher, add 10 XP.

These bonuses stack, so a character can gain a total of 30 bonus XP.

The Middle Realms

2009-07-03T10:46:00.012-04:00

The new Swords & Wizardry campaign will be set in the Middle Realms, an enclave of human kingdoms that struggles to survive against the chaos of the vast continent that surrounds it. The Middle Realms were once home to the Ilian Empire, which controlled vast territories and pushed the evil races of humanoids to the far edges of memory. It is said that in the empire's heyday, the countryside was abundant with grain and meat, and the cities and towns were abundant with art, commerce, and learning. As the centuries passed, however, the empire grew weak and corrupt within, and a slow decline began. The evil races, which had always tested the empire's borders, began to press inward, sacking towns and cities, reconquering large tracts of territory. The empire shrank inexorably, until only the area of the Middle Realms remained in human hands. It is there that humans, along with sizeable populations of elves and dwarves, hold fast against the savage races that never give up hope of overrunning this last bastion of civilization.

The campaign will begin in the northern marches of Thuringia, a kingdom in the northeast corner of the Middle Realms. Here, the land begins to rise into the Iron Mountains, the rugged range that shields the Middle Realms from the tribes of orcs and bugbears that control the lands to the east and north. Though humans nominally control this area, their power is tenuous, and those who venture too far from the safety of one of the few scattered keeps often find themselves in peril. Needless to say, many adventurers seek their fortunes there. Your group is no exception. You met on the road and banded together out of common interest, and have decided to begin your search for adventure in St. Corbus, a small, fortified town situated on a bend in the Merdret River. To the north and east of St. Corbus there is little but wilderness, danger, and hopefully, opportunity.

Good luck, adventurers!

An Unexpected Turn of Events

2009-07-02T15:43:00.005-04:00

The Kharschum Campaign is at an end. It started off well, I thought, as the party defeated the necromancer Ogodei and took up residence in his tower, and it still felt like fun as the characters tangled with the various underworld figures in the city and took over their criminal organizations. As the characters pushed past 10th level, however, the 3.5 rules became unimaginatively complex, and the characters became so powerful that they took on the feel of superheroes or gods, which required me to challenge them with equally potent enemies, which caused the tone of the campaign to shift from something that felt like fantasy to something that felt more and more like an X-Men movie. The party had also lost most of its muscle, and when Alayna died, leaving the party without an arcane spellcaster, it felt like the game had reached a crossroads.

I am going to start a new campaign with the Swords & Wizardry system while Carl continues with his own Swords & Wizardry campaign with Matt and the new group he formed. My hope is that at some point, we can merge the two groups and be fully intact once again. For the moment, however, we have done such a great job of pulling in new players that two groups seems the only practical solution.

The new campaign will take place in a new campaign world, which I will initially sketch out, and then develop as our game progresses. I will follow this up with a post that describes the campaign world so that those of you who will be playing can get a sense of its peoples and cultures. Although the game was heavily influenced by pulp fantasy, it also draws heavily on Medieval history and culture. Therefore, I am going to model this campaign world after the historical world of the Early Middle Ages, specifically on areas of present day France and Germany during the late Merovingian period. During this period, Europe was still heavily forested and sparsely populated; vast tracts of forest dominated the landscape, and the roads that linked the scattered manors and towns were dangerous places where lepers begged for food and bandits assailed unwary travelers. Society was feudal, and was dominated by the Catholic Church. Expect more detail to follow. I will also post house rules in a third post.

Graves' End

2009-06-13T19:09:00.008-04:00

May 22-30

After returning from the Isle of the Dead, you decided to take a week to rest and rehabilitate, and enjoy the comforts that your recent adventures and your new sources of income afforded. As the week drew to a close, however, Inaki received a Message from an unknown spellcaster who beckoned you to meet him or her at the Fat Man's Ecstasy for an opportunity that you would not want to refuse. After some debate, you decided to send Inaki with Alayna and Erth, who would be in disguise. The three entered the inn, which was a medieval version of Nick Tahoe's, and waited. Soon, a human with thick, waist-length blond hair entered and sat down. He cast a True Seeing spell on himself, glanced around the room, and asked Alayna, Inakai, and Erth to join him.

The stranger introduced himself as Avaris, a merchant from the Eastern City and the Governor of the Merchants' Guild. He coveted a small, jeweled box, inscribed with an upside down triangle transected by a battle axe, which he said was somewhere within Graves' end, an ancient, abandoned area on the western edge of the city. In return for this box, Avaris promised to cast a Wish spell on each of you. After some discussion, you accepted, and proceeded to the Camel's Rump, a tavern in the Bull's Head section, where Avaris said you could gain further information about Graves' End.

After finding the tavern amid the refuse and stench of the butchery/tannery district, you entered and engaged the barkeep, Dmitry, in conversation. He told you that the safest path to Graves' End was outside the city walls, through the Bone Middens, a maze of heaped bones accumulated from decades of slaughtered animals, and around the western wall to a creek that led directly back into the city. He also told you that Graves' End was the home of the Kipchaks, who ruled Uyghuria for generations, before the country fell into chaos. With that, you thanked him and left.

After passing the bone middens, you came upon a strange cluster of spires to the southwest. these did not appear to be man-made, but instead looked like massive tapers of rock honeycombed with holes and tunnels. An eerie song emanated from the spires, which entranced Inaki and Kier. Fortunately, Erth and Hrolff each cast a Dispel Magic spell, which ended the enchantment and stopped the two from approaching the spires.

You rounded the city wall and entered Graves' End via the creek and breach in the wall that Dmitry had described. You could see that the city bordered the ruined cluster of buildings, but that all the streets and alleys accessing Graves' End had been barricaded. The only intact structures were a church and a three story keep, so you entered the keep via a ramp that led to the second floor.

You found yourselves in what must have once been an impressive great hall, but which was now in ruin. As you entered, you were confronted with three, large-sized Shadow Mastiffs, which immediately attacked. The fight was not difficult, thanks to some well-placed spells and a steady stream of arrows from Inakai's bow. The third story of the keep was almost completely gone, so you proceeded downstairs via an unsteady staircase. On the first level, you found some scattered human bones and the remnants of a massive chandelier that had fallen from the ceiling in the hall above and broken through the rotted floor. An open doorway led down.

You found yourselves in a wide, vaulted burial hall, with sarcophagi lining the walls and a massive iron statue standing guard, flanked by massive stone pillars that formed a hallway of sorts through the center of the room. The floor was littered with human skeletons, which had clearly fallen in some sort of battle centuries earlier. You made your way past the statue carefully, but it did not animate, and you followed a stair down to an identical burial hall with another iron statue and an even heavier concentration of skeletons. Here you found a small-sized Keen Shortsword +1, still in the grip of one of the skeletons. The sword resembled Unferth's Bane in style and design. You again made your way past the Iron statue and descended to the next level.

This hall was similar to the two above, save that there were no human skeletons on the floor, and the iron statue was in ruins. A shrouded figure lay on top of each sarcophagus, save for one in the far corner of the room. As you entered, eight of the figures sat up. They were skeletal, and were clearly dwarven. They moved and fought with a skill that surpassed that of typical skeletons. The fight was a long one, but was not difficult, thanks to some clever strategy on the part of your spellcasters. A wall of stone delayed four of the skeletons, and by the time they finally broke through, the tide of battle had already turned in your favor. You destroyed all eight, and proceeded to open the unoccupied sarcophagus.

You found a shaft leading down to a similar burial hall. Something was different, however. The light from your torches seemed to strain against the darkness, and what little color there should have been was faded to black and gray. It only took a few moments for Hrolff to realize that you had somehow entered the Plane of Shadow. It was there that the evening ended.

Experience Points:
Inakai & Kier: 3,600
Erth, Hrolff, & Alayna: 2,160

The Tomb of Torghil the Demented

2009-05-27T08:46:00.005-04:00

May 18-22

The action picked up where it had left off the previous session, with the party and Chuluun in Ophidia's lair beneath the Mask and the Mirror. Three Red Nails soldiers, who had apparently wandered into the brothel and heard the commotion below, stormed down the stairs and called out for Ophidia. Alayna answered that Ophidia was dead, and demanded that the soldiers stand down, but when she asked Amira to reiterate her order, Amira instructed the soldiers to attack, and attempted to escape. This was a mistake, as the three soldiers were so outmatched by Ulee and a brown bear that Erth summoned that none of the characters even needed to swing a weapon. After a failed attempt, Alayna successfully cast Dominate Person on Amira, who had just wriggled out of Hrolff's grasp, and then teleported upstairs to intercept the two surviving soldiers who had left their unfortunate companion to the tender mercies of the bear and dire wolf. Alayna bluffed the soldiers into surrendering, and the party installed Hussain as head of the Red Nails. Alayna ordered Amira to report to Bathcat and offer herself to him as a sex slave for ten days, thus ridding the operation of the cunning bard and making Bathcat very happy, and hopefully a bit more loyal.

Meanwhile, Inakai and Kier, who were resting in the tower, were attacked by two vampire spawn, who seeped through the cracks around the trapdoor in gaseous form and attempted to wrest the mirror from them. The fight was short and harrowing, but the ranger and the rogue easily prevailed. When the rest of the party returned to the tower, you discussed the incident and speculated that Bataar might be behind the attack. He has motive, as his trusted lieutenant, Dochin the Bloody, is apparently imprisoned within the mirror, and because Bataar is clearly hundreds of years old, he could very well be a vampire. Hrolff cast an array of protective spells on the tower to protect it from the undead and living alike, and the party enjoyed a two day hiatus, during which the characters rested and prepared spells.

On May 21st, the party set out for the tomb of Torghil the Demented and followed Chuluun to the secret entrance that he had spoken of, which was a narrow cave that led from the northern shore of the Isle of the Dead into a hidden, subterranean tomb. The tomb was a strange and dangerous place indeed, but thanks to the characters' quick reactions and Kier's trap-finding skills, the party successfully avoided two pit traps, a water-filled-room trap, and a compacting room trap. The characters encountered two stone golems in a room that was filled with petrified trees, but a few well-chosen spells and a Greater Fire Elemental that Erth summoned made short work of them. The party slipped past the golems as they battled the elemental, entered the lower level of the tomb, slipped through the compacting room, and encountered a former party of adventurers that Torghil had reanimated as corpse creatures.

The battle was long and difficult. A corpse creature sorcerer bombarded the party with fireballs and lightning bolts while an archer rained arrows on whatever characters remained visible. Torghil, meanwhile, who appeared to be a mummy, cast a strange assortment of spells, such as Transmute Rock to Mud, from a distance. The brave but hapless Chuluun and the noble Ulee fell to a rain of arrows, and others would likely have died had it not been for the healing spells of Hrolff and Erth. Torghil disappeared shortly before the combat was over, and once the party had vanquished the corpse creatures, it moved into the large room where Torghil had been, and discovered a hidden trap door that led to a treasure room below.

Kier agreed to investigate, and started down the ladder to find Torghil in the room, wreathed in writhing black tentacles. The demented transmuter cast Baleful Polymorph on Kier, which turned him into a frog. Inakai descended into the room while the rest of the party hesitated above, and managed to destroy the mummy with the new luckbow she had obtained from the corpse creature archer. Inakai put the unfortunate Kier into her pocket, and the party searched the treasure room. Chuluun had been right about the tomb containing vast treasures. The loot in the tomb amounted to a stunning 60,000 gps.

Experience Point Totals:
9th Level Characters: 12,825
12th Level Characters: 5,800

When Nature Calls

2009-05-20T23:15:00.004-04:00

It had been some time since Ulee had returned to nature. Somberness had crept up in Erth’s heart from his wolf companion’s absence, which had been a violent ending in service to Erth. If the truth were told, Erth would have acknowledged his discontent at that outcome, but he was not one to share such ruminations or even to linger on the past. He preferred, rather, to let natural events transpire with one leading to the next so that he was fully aware of his surroundings. So, it was this unsavory feeling that led him to conclude it was high time for another companion.

Events transpired quickly around this cast of characters that numbered eight-ish on any given day. Now that there was a moment’s respite in the almost daily threats faced by this motley crew he had taken on with, he knew he might not have a better opportunity to conclude the necessary rite for any number of days to come. So, it had been in the twilight hours that he settled in with a preparatory prayer for the strength to begin the rite on the following day.

Waking early, Erth knew at once he was ready to conduct the rite of summoning a companion. With little wasted motion, he gathered a few items to assist him during the day and made his way to the top of the tower that had become the group’s point of operation. None of the group had stirred at this early hour, yet, though he knew the dwarf would rise soon and take to the tower roof for his own routine.

Reaching the tower roof, Erth glanced out over the rugged, uncomfortable city terrain. He tolerated the discomfort of the city as a means of satiating his hunger for knowledge and power born only of experience and as an opportunity to demonstrate the raw power of the natural world harnessed at his command. A pang of disgust roiled within his stomach as he glanced over the city around the tower. Even at this height the stench of the city drowned his nostrils in sickening vapors. Longing for the fresh air of the natural lands and concentration for his task at hand wrested control of his thoughts from the rot below. A natural inclination urged him off the tower with a long, lunging step. Had anyone been observing the tower’s skyline at that moment they might have been horrified to see a man suddenly emerge between the crenellation and step off into a freefall. The horror of this image would then be replaced with surprise as the surely doomed figure was somehow replaced with an owl calmly winging its way out over the city.

Erth flew back down the waterway the group had traversed to arrive at the city. His instinctive sense encouraged him to be aware of a suitable location from which to conduct his ritual. The unease of the city had already passed as he flew purposefully onward. His attention was drawn to a tree taller than the rest. He made some wide-ranging circular patterns around the area in scouting for possible disturbances and until he was satisfied he could remain in the area unmolested. Thus, winging down to the ground he transformed back to his human form and drew a branch of holly from his satchel. Erth began slowly waving the branch from side to side as he began an ethereal whistling of the wood wose spell. Glancing toward his left revealed the translucent green nature spirit that arrived to assist in his needs though he bade the spirit to simply tend the area around him in order to give alert to any unwelcome visitors that would disturb his rite.

Satisfied that he was ready, Erth rested upon the solid ground and folded his legs beneath him while beginning the prayer to summon an ally. The words of the prayer sounded loud in his head as his vision gradually blurred. Soon he was dreaming of a run through the woods. The branches brushed against his body and a thorn bush tore at his sleeves though he paid no mind. His focus shifted as he heard a distant howl. Then another howl and another seemed closer. Still he ran onward. A howl sounded nearer still and as felt a presence approaching. Erth leapt over a fallen tree and became aware of presence overtaking his pace with little effort. They ran on over the land together and Erth observed the great tree that he knew he had camped at earlier. He slackened his pace as the starting point was near. Erth slowed further and drew to a halt as he entered the space of his campsite. Turning back as he settled down to rest revealed the figure that had tracked his run was revealed to be a dire wolf. Erth chuckled with a grin as the wolf stepped closer. Now he was well. Now the somber thoughts had withered like a dead vine. Now he could return to the tower. Ulee had arrived.

Campaign Update #7. The Fall of Ophidia

2009-05-09T22:19:00.008-04:00

May 16-18

It was another night of surprises in Kharschum. After finishing up your business from the previous session by returning a resurrected Granya to her grateful father and claiming your reward of 28,000 gps, you returned to the tower to find a note wedged into the door of Silks and Sundries. It was from someone named Chuluun, who claimed to be privy to some sort of opportunity, and bade you to meet him in the Roan Stallion, a tavern in Queen Farida's Close. Your curiosity piqued, you went to the tavern and spoke with Chuluun, who turned out to be an accomplished warrior in need of an adventuring party. Chuluun explained that he knew of a hidden entrance to the tomb of an insane transmuter named Torghil the Demented. You haggled a bit over shares of the potential treasure, with Chuluun demanding a rather hefty proportion, but ultimately decided to defer the temple raid until you had dealt with Ophidia and the Red Nails, who had become annoyingly insistent about the Mirror of Life Trapping that you had found in Ogodei's tower.

You went to the Mask and the Mirror, where you seemingly convinced Amira, Ophidia's representative, to agree to meet at the former compound of Shivani's cult to exchange the mirror for 200,000 gold pieces. Perhaps it was your insistence that Ophidia herself appear to close the deal, or perhaps it was simply Amira's keen intuition, but she apparently saw through your ruse, because she sent a disguised whore and two expendable soldiers with 200,000 copper pieces to the compound. This might have been a setback had not Alayna managed to overtake and dominate Hussain, an assassin who had scaled the compound walls and turned himself invisible to observe the encounter.

With the detailed information that Hussain provided about Ophidia's lair beneath the Mask and the Mirror, entered through a hidden entrance, ambushed the guards with the help of Hrolff's Cone of Silence spell, and burst into Ophidia's sitting room. Ulfgar and Chuluun found ophidia in her bedchamber and dealt her a great deal of damege before she was able to Dimension Door to the entry hallway and turn herself invisible. The fight was long, but the party prevailed. The olny survivor was Amira, who agreed, at the point of a sord, to run the Red Nails on behalf of the Eightish.

According to the CR and XP scales, Ophidia is worth over 500,000 experience points. This, totalling experience points is useless. Instead, 9th-level characters should update their totals to 54,999 experience points (one point shy of 11th level) and 10th level characters should update their totals to 65,999 (one point shy of 12th). It is perfectly fine with me if you backstory in order to bump up that extra level. In fact, I'll be surprised if I don't see at least a few new posts these next two weeks.

Campaign Update #6. The Cult of Shivani

2009-04-04T13:28:00.010-04:00

May 15-16

As the evening began, you debated about whether you should attempt to rescue Granya and claim the 12,000 gold piece reward or pursue other opportunities. After a lengthy discussion, you decided to seek Granya's father, Jochi, and negotiate a higher reward. This task, not surprisingly, fell to Alayna. You agreed that the party would attract undue attention in the affluent Eastern City if it traveled together, so Ulfgar volunteered to accompany Alayna while the rest of you waited on the western side of the bridge.

Alayna not only easily convinced the two guardsmen on the bridge to allow her and Ulfgar to enter the Eastern city, but she also managed to negotiate a 28,000 gold piece reward from Granya's grieving father. She and Ulfgar returned to the Western City, and you all returned to the cult's compound to do some reconnaissance. Alayna cast invisibility on herself and flew to the roof of the building, only to discover that the roof was open, and the second and third floors were almost completely open to the sky. A tub sat on a dais in the middle of the building. You then adjourned to the Gull and the Limpet, a nearby tavern run by an attractive woman named Valya.

While you sat in the tavern, a party of three humans, a halfling, and a half-orc entered. One of the humans, a lovely, dark-haired woman named Iliana, approached you and attempted to blackmail you. She and her companions knew that Ophidia wanted the Mirror of Life Stealing, and they had discovered that you had been seen coming and going in the vicinity of the tower. You told her that she was free to tell Ophidia whatever she liked, and that you would not give her any money. She returned to her party, and as she spoke with them, the half-orc became very angry and moved to attack you. He seemed to think that killing you and taking the mirror and whatever else was in the tower was a reasonable contingency plan.

The half-orc's attack precipitated what I thought were the two best moments of the night. Alayna had readied an action on the half-orc, and when he moved to attack, she cast Phantasmal Killer on him. He missed both saves and died before the combat had even officially begun, literally scared to death by a vision of what he feared most. Seconds later, Ulfgar decapitated one of the humans with the first blow of his new vorpal greatsword. Iliana's party fought fiercely, but with two of their companions killed in the first seconds of combat, they had little chance to prevail. After Alayna wrested a magical wand from the halfling with a Suggestion spell and Erth summoned a bear which grappled the acrobatic Iliana, the fight ended with all of the enemies dead except for Iliana and the Halfling, Dink. You sent the two survivors to Bathcat, for whom they promised to work for 10 gps per week, and you left the bar with an impressive haul of magic items.

After visiting a half-elven artificer named Galeron, who enhanced some of your weapons, you returned to the cult's lait to do some more reconnaissance, this time by way of Erth using his wild shape ability to become an owl and spy upon Shivani from the wall above her tub. You returned to your tower to spend sleep and prepare, and returned the following night to make your assault. You reached the top of the building with a combination of spells, and after Alayna created an illusion of a mob assaulting the front door, you engaged Shivani, who turned out to be an Erinyes Fiend of Blasphemy, who had a small following of cultists and who apparently enjoyed bathing in the blood of virgins beneath the moon.

Shivani was wily, but turned out to be less fearsome than expected. Alayna used a scroll she had found in Ogodei's tower to block the staircase with an Icewall spell. After the cultists and two bearded devils had figured out that the commotion at the front door was an illusion and ascended the stairs, Alayna dismissed the icewall, which apparently confused the enemies, for they still pressed forward up the left stair, and ignored the undefended stair to the right. They fell quickly, and the fight ended.

You searched the compound, and found two rooms beneath the stairs. One held two girls, who were terrified but otherwise unharmed. The other was empty save for a trapdoor in the floor, which opened into a small chamber piled with the corpses of young women, one of which you identified as Granya. The evening ended there, with your party still in the cultists' compound.

Because none of you fully leveled up to 10th Level before the 2nd encounter, I am calculating the experience as if all characters were 9th Level. If a character was still at 8th level, please let me know, but given the experience points gained from the 1st encounter, I rather doubt it.

Experience Points:

1st Encounter
8th Level characters: 11,133 XP
9th Level Characters: 10, 237

2nd Encounter
9th Level Characters: 2,250 XP

Campaign Update #5: The Disgrace of Bathcat

2009-03-22T15:37:00.014-04:00

May 12-15, 2008

I am not certain whether or not Pangold and Olwe shared their ideas about methodically usurping power in Kharschum and eventually taking over the city, but the rest of the party seems to be of the same mind. Last night, Bathcat, the brutal and much-feared leader of the Severed Hand was overthrown by a gnome, a dwarf, a half-elf ranger, a northman, a druid, and a sorceress, who call themselves "The Eight" spared Bathcat, on the condition that he furnish them with a 5,000 gps upfront payment and half of his earnings, which average 6,000 gps per week. It would be an understatement to say that the campaign has taken a very interesting turn.

The evening began with the party casting about for opportunities. The characters first discovered that a young woman named Granya, daughter of a wealthy merchant and slave trader named Jochi, had ventured into the Eastern City the night before and gone missing. Jochi was offering a 12,000 gps award for his daughter's safe return, and city guardsmen, in their signature chainmail shirts and hooded, brown tunics, were combing the area around the Red Light District for clues. Several other girls had also disappeared, but they were poor girls of the Eastern City, and the guard cared little about them. The characters were only mildly interested in mounting an investigation and rescue, so they went to Garrad's Tavern, which fronts the Rogues' Guild, to see if the guild had heard of any opportunities. Garrad did not let them down. He told Kyr that Bathcat and three of his henchmen had visited the Gossamer Veil, the most exclusive brothel in the city, the night before. Bathcat only visits that brothel after a big score, so it was likely, Garrad explained, that Bathcat was sitting on a substantial sum of money. After some discussion, the party decided to investigate Bathcat's stronghold, which they learned was north of the Shantytown in a place called the Dockyard Slum.

After finding their way through the shanty town's labyrinth of shanties and filthy alleyways, the characters arrived at the Dockyard Slum, a neighborhood comprised of decrepit boats permanently anchored in a stagnant backwater of the river, interconnected by crooked, uneven docks. The party headed toward a source of light and noise, which turned out to be Grick's Place, a tavern improvised from two two boats lashed together, and run by none other than Grick, a surprisingly affable, full-blooded orc. Alayna and Kyr disguised themselves and spent some time at Gricks, where they learned that Grick, along with every other business owner on the northern fringe of the city, pays "protection" to Bathcat each week. The party decided to offer Grick their protection for half price, and Grick tentatively agreed. Bathcat's captain would be at Grick's Place at noon the following day to collect his weekly payment, Grick explained, and helpfully pointed out an abandoned boat in which the party could spend the night.

Bathcat's captain arrived on schedule, accompanied by two thugs. The party easily took the captain and one of the thugs down and captured the third. Kyr Tuttlewynde, with the help of Alayna's Greater Invisibility spell, was especially deadly with his sneak attack, and once again highlighted the effectiveness of pairing stealth with magic. After beating the thug nearly senseless, the characters sent a note to Bathcat, instructing him to meet them in front of Silks and Sundries that evening.

Bathcat arrived on time, with a veritable army of thugs, but the party had chosen its terrain carefully, and the narrow streets and limited access to Silks and Sundries essentially negated Bathcat's advantage in numbers. Erth's Spike Growth spell and Alayna's Ray of Enfeeblement crippled the Severed Hand further, and bathcat soon fell, alive but sorely wounded. The party presented its conditions and he accepted, thus beginning a strange new chapter in the campaign.

After the battle with the severed Hand, the party followed up on the disappearance of Granya. They were given a tip that a rogue named Nizar had been seen near the site of one of the abductions The party found Nizar in his apartment, which he shared with a dozen or so other people, and a Suggestion spell persuaded him to reveal that he had been paid to kidnap girls for Shivani, who led a cult of some kind. Nizar directed the party to the cult's lair, which he said was camouflaged by an illusion. The party went where he directed, but could see only an empty, ruined building. They returned the next day and saw, with the help of Hrolff's True Seeing spell, that the ruined building was instead an intact compound, with bricked up windows and a set of imposing wooden doors. Unsure of how to proceed, the party paused, and the players decided to call it a night.

Thank you for yet another great night of gaming. I loved the curve balls that you threw at me, and enjoyed improvising and adapting as we went along. It was a lot of fun. I apologize for my f*#k up with Bathcat's vorpal sword. Ulfgar's head and neck are intact, and he does not lose a level, because there was no need to resurrect him. I'm sorry my mistake knocked him out of combat.

Experience Points Totals
Inaki, Kyr, Alayna and Erth: 5,420
Ulfgar: 4,600
Hrolff: 4,155

Decision

2009-03-22T10:16:00.005-04:00

After defeating Bathcat and his crew, Inakai and Kier decided to join forces more diligently with the Rogue's Guild. They will act as scouts for the guild, and will report any possible business ventures to the guild, and their own adventuring party. They will, of course, save the more worthwhile propositions for "The 8", but may not accompany the party on such ventures. "Range on, and we will catch up with you on the distant morrow."

Gaming on Saturday

2009-03-17T08:03:00.002-04:00

I'm sooo looking forward to gaming this Saturday night. I'm not sure if we selected a place, though. Our house is always available, but we may have the kids stay at Matt's mom's, which means we could travel. Does anyone have a preference?

The Morning Service

2009-03-09T18:34:00.009-04:00

The sun rises over the eastern horizon, bathing the ramshackle waddle buildings and wooden tenements of eastern Kharschum in a soft golden light. From atop the tower of Ogodie, his new home, Hrolff surveys the scene spread out beneath him. Far below, the city comes to life, and Hrolff’s ears catch the sound of early morning traffic and commerce. The beggars are taking up their stations by favored corners. Merchants and vendors open their stalls and lay out their wares. To the north, a slave ship rides the early tide from the harbor to the delta, its sails shining in the sunrise like the wings of some mighty seabird.

Hrolff has come up here to pray, to make his morning homage to Thor.

As his habit when performing this morning ritual, he completely removes his clothes, neatly folds them, and stands naked in the morning air, still tinged as it is with night’s chill. He flexes his muscles and stretches, wincing a bit. Though it has been several days since he was laid low by Ogodei’s horrid ice magic, he can still feel its lingering after-effects deep in his bones and joints. The cold had been awful, even to one such as him in whose veins thrums the blood of Frost Giants. It was like being seized in a fist of knives that squeezed and squeezed and squeezed. He winces remembering the terror of it, the sickening weakness of his body slumping, the crackling sound as ice rimed across his flesh, the desperation of his lungs filling with hoarfrost, the side of his face striking and freezing to the stone floor. Blackness had rolled over him, a wave of black ice.

The next thing he remembers is waking to see Erth kneeling over him, making gestures of healing magic in the air. His companions told him that he had been unconscious for more than a day. Hrolff knew nothing of what had happened in the empty space, though he woke with vague, half-formed memories, dreams of Thor’s Great Hall, Bilskimir. A great roaring fire blazed, flanked by dozens of warriors clad in bright ring mail and polished byrnies that gleamed in the reddish light. They had turned and hailed him, raising spear, axe, and flagon. Hrolff had grinned, knowing he had fallen in battle, trying to aid his comrades. There is no better way to die.

One enormous warrior stepped apart from the rest. His helm bore rams horns that curved backward in a majestic sweep. His gleaming ring mail coat hung to his knees. In one hand he carried a greatsword of black steel, it edges faintly flickering and warping the air with unseen power. In the other, he held an axe that bore sacred runes of authority. At his feet knelt a blonde serving wench, large breasted, achingly curvaceous, and naked but for a wisp of silk twisted about her hips. The warrior’s face was mostly shadow beneath his helm, but his eyes blazed darkly in the ruddy light. The figure had raised his weapons overhead and spoke in a voice, deep and cold as the roots of mountains:

“Hail Hrolff born in the folk-lands of Northgaard
Hail with dagger, longsword and byrnie long
Hail with ring-decked helmet and sharp hewing sword
Hail with horses well broken in this hallowed land.
Welcome Hrolff. Welcome home.”

Inakai, the daughter of the deep, had pulled him back, or so he had been told. He has no idea what art she used to unthaw him, but Hrolff is grateful. He is glad to be back. To join ranks of the valorous is an honor to be sure, but he feels there is still much to be done in this current reality. Aye, he owes a deep debt of gratitude to the sea elf. She is a good comrade to have at ones side. He knew that for certain the night that the two of them had done battle alone with the renegade Frost Giant in the ruins of the Cathedral on Tigalda Island. She had stood her ground even as their foe had hurled boulders about her skull. The brute had laughed, thinking her an easy foe, but her twanging bow had sung songs of death that night, while the snow fell softly around them.

Hrolff breaths deeply of the morning air, pleasantly fresh at this early hour and, at this height, pleasantly free of the stink of the street. It was a good idea to take possession of this tower and use it as a base. Great evil has been committed here, but Hrolff is not overly superstitious. As long as no witching charms or death magicks remain in effect, they should have little to fear.

He stands naked in the morning sun, the honey colored light flowing across his muscles and the network of scars that lace his body. He spreads his arms wide, closes his eyes, and tilts his head back, savoring the moment. It is not a bad morning to pray, though stormy weather is better. The breeze stirs his hair. Its coolness feels good on his body and genitals, and the sensation turns his thoughts toward carnal matters. Thus Hrolff stands naked at the precipice, high above the street far below, reveling in the deliciousness of his growing tumescence.

His mighty erection stands rampant, rising above the city like a new tower taking its rightful place among the handy-works of man, like the sword of some fierce and avenging angel, like an exclamation point to future deeds yet to be accomplished.

Ah yes, he is glad to still be alive. Perhaps when the sun is higher, he will head into the red light district and buy the services of a whore. Maybe two. But first he has the morning prayers to attend to.

Campaign Update #4. The Wrath of Ogodei

2009-03-07T15:07:00.009-05:00

May 9-12

The evening began where we left off last session: on the third level of Ogodei's tower, in the room where you had fought and vanquished two mohrgs. After taking stock of your resources, you ascended to the fourth level of the tower, and found yourself in a room similar to the one below, but with three sets of spiral stairs, one red one black, and one white, each ending at a locked door on the next floor. When the locks did not yield to Kyr's pick, Pangold broke down the door at the top of the white stair, triggering a chain lightning trap which arced down the stairs and wounded most of the characters. The door opened onto a stone wall. Left with little recourse except to risk another trap, Ulfgar broke down the door at the top of the red stairs, which fortunately opened into a library, where you found a create undead scroll and a chalice on a table.

You proceeded to the next level, which was hung with a massive tapestry depicting a gruesome battle scene, and accented with the corpse of a woman who was hung from the ceiling in an angel-like pose. Two suits of full plate armor flanked the stairs to the next level. Each suit of armor was a swordwraith, and as you entered the room, they attacked, initiating what turned out to be one of the most memorable, and easily the most desperate, battle that has ever been fought in the Drowned World.

As the party engaged the swordwraiths, Ogodei, who had cast a Greater Invisibility spell on himself, began to hammer the party with offensive spells from his perch on the stairs. When both Inakai and Hrolff went down, the party decided to retreat to the level below, but Ogodei cast a Wall of Ice spell which trapped Olwe in the room with the two unconscious characters and the one remaining swordwraith. With the help of Erth and Ulfgar, Olwe managed to chop a hole through the wall and flee, but the icy cold that lingered took his few remaining hit points and he fell to the floor, unconscious.

As Ogodei's spells continued to rain down, the party reentered the room, and as Erth healed Hrolff, who in turn healed Inakai and several others, Ulfgar charged up the stairway, in hopes of finding the invisible wizard, but was grievously wounded by two of Ogodei's Scorching Rays seconds after brushing past him. Erth conjured a cloud of fog to provide cover for the party, and Alayna, who had cast Greater Invisibility on herself, managed to wound the necromancer, who had moved down into the room, with her fiery, draconic breath. Ogodei retaliated with a Cone of Cold spell that took down both Erth and Hrolff, who had only just regained consciousness and would have died had Inakai not stabilized him on her first attempt.

With the necromancer somewhere in the room, the party moved up the stairs into what appeared to be a bedchamber. Ogodei pursued, but the party suddenly switched tactics and Alayna, speaking on behalf of the party, offered to stand down and join him. Ogodei seemed to buy the bluff, because he became visible and began questioning the party. Pangold took advantage of this, and mercilessly cut the wizard down, ending what may have been the longest 63 seconds I have ever known.

You rested in the tower until everyone was back to full strength, and then ventured out to seek information on the Mirror of Life Trapping you had found beneath Ogodei's bed. You met with Amira again, and led her to believe that you had not yet procured the mirror in order to get some additional information out of her. Because of her reticence and the DM's somewhat groggy state of mind, you learned little, so you headed to the Magic District, where you hoped to research the mirror at the Library of Oyugun. It turned out that the Magic District is a demi-plane that is reached through a crooked lintel beneath the Coliseum Bridge. You passed through the portal and found yourselves on a narrow, tidy street lined with shops. You easily found the library, and with the help of the librarians, you learned a great deal of technical information about the mirror, as well as some interesting history that I did not disclose last night. The mirror belonged to the Kipchaks, who used it against their enemies. It disappeared when the keep fell, and had not resurfaced at the time the book was written. The book speculates that the mirror may imprison an ancient warrior named Dochin the Bloody, who was a lieutenant of a warlord named Bataar the Heartless, who is best known for the brutal, scorched earth campaigns he carried out against the dwarves in nearby Kha'atia.

I would like to make a minor adjustment to the experience point totals I gave you last evening. because I generated Ogodei using the heroic array for ability scores, he was actually a CR 11 rather than a CR 10. Therefore, 8th level characters should add 300 XP, and 7th level characters should add 263 XP. The new totals, in case you haven't added them yet, are 2,888 XP for 7th level PCs and 2,300 XP for 8th level PCs.

The City of Slaves, Part II

2009-03-02T19:29:00.011-05:00

[The following is general information about Kharschum that your characters would be able to glean from casual conversations with NPCs during your first few days in the city.]

Kharschum is, in many ways, two distinct cities, each of which has its own identity and power structure. The Western City, with its tidy shops and elegant villas, is where most of the wealth and power in Kharschum resides. The Eastern City, with its narrow, filthy streets and sprawling shantytowns, is where most of the humanity of Kharschum resides. Though the residents of the Western City sometimes pretend that the Eastern City does not exist, they are nonetheless willing to take advantage of whatever opportunities it might offer. Likewise, though few denizens of the Eastern City can ever hope to afford even the most modest home on the western side of the river, many scheme endlessly to accomplish just that.

Kharschum is ruled by an administrative body known as the Council of Three, which exercises tight control over the Western City and occasionally projects its power into the Eastern City, though for the most part, the Council seems content to leave the Eastern City to its own devices. The Council's three members are known and feared throughout Kharschum: Chiledu, Khan of the fearsome Khatagin Clan, who enriched himself through hundreds of military victories across the war-ravaged countryside; Irina, governess of the Slavers' Guild and scion of one of Kharschum's most prominent families; and Bataar, an elegant, middle-aged man about whom little is known. Chiledu commands the City Guard, many of whom are his clansmen, and most of whom are said to be less concerned with maintaining order than with fattening their purses. The Slavers' Guild maintains its own guard, easily distinguished by its scarlet tunic, which Irina exercises control over. Bataar's power base is unknown, though there is much speculation.

Though the Council of Three holds much of the city's political power, the various guilds enjoy a great deal of economic power, with which they subtly influence the city's affairs. Not surprisingly, the Slavers' Guild is most prominent, though the Merchants' Guild, the Sailors' Guild, and the Mercenaries' Guild have considerable influence, as they play pivotal roles in the city's commerce and defense. The remaining guilds, of which there are dozens, have little political or economic influence, and mainly serve to advance the interests of their members.

The Eastern City is controlled by three gangs which impose a crude, exploitative order on their territories, whenever they are not warring openly with each other. The Severed Hand, named for its favorite method of persuasion, is led by a notorious thug named Bathcat, and controls the shantytowns and dockyard slum on the city's southern fringe. The Red Nails, led by the reclusive Ophidia, controls most of the old city south of the Coliseum District, while Roknar's Fist maintains a precarious balance of power with the Mercenaries' Guild in the Coliseum and Theatre Districts.

Religion plays an important, if secondary, role in the city's affairs. The Church of Wee Jas is ascendant, though recently a rift has opened among the goddess' worshippers. The dominant sect, the Church of the Ruby Goddess, emphasizes law and domination, and claims most of Kharschum's influential citizens as its members. However, a new sect, the Disciples of the Quietus, which emphasizes magic and death, has recently begun to gain influence. Its clerics rail against the politically entrenched Church of the Ruby Goddess, and claim to follow the pure aspect Wee Jas. The Church of the Ruby Goddess ruthlessly suppresses the Disciples of the Quietus, but the new movement has gained so many followers that it threatens to gain dominance and upset the precarious power structure of the city.

Temples to other deities are scattered throughout the city, though none are nearly as influential as the Church of the Ruby Goddess or the Disciples of the Quietus. Of these, the Temple of Olidamarra is famous for its bacchanalian revels, while the Iron Tower of Vecna is infamous for what is rumored to happen within its rusted, monolithic walls. Many of the fighters and mercenaries who frequent the Coliseum District worship at the Temple of Kord, located near the Coliseum Market, while the city's goblinoid residents worship at the Temple of Maglubiyet in the Hobgoblin Ghetto.

There are other organizations in Kharschum which people seem to know little about, or fear to speak of openly. An organization known only as the Unseen Eye operates in the Western City, though few people seem to know whether it is an individual, a criminal organization of some sort, or something far more sinister. There is an Assassins' Guild somewhere in the city, but only those with both money and an unspeakable need ever seek it out. An underground organization called the Shadow of Pelor operates throughout the city, spiriting slaves to freedom.

You will certainly come into contact with some of these figures and organizations as you seek your fortunes in Kharschum. Know these things well, and tread carefully.

Gaming on Friday!

2009-03-01T13:53:00.003-05:00

Knowing that we'll be playing on Friday makes this week seem so much brighter than the last few. I almost feel as if I've emerged from the Windswept Depths of Pandemonium onto the Plains of Elysium. Heather and I are happy to host on Friday, unless someone else either needs or wants to do so. We'll get a few pizzas for dinner.

Ill Met in House Silverkin

2009-02-27T12:59:00.006-05:00

"I think I would prefer talking to you if you cover yourself and show modesty befitting the matron of the house," said Pangold to the striking, lithe blond figure that sat facing him, her back to a dressing table and mirror.

"In some ways I am sure you would," she replied with a small, ripe smile. She made no move to cover her skin, bare from the waist.

"I do not have time for this. I've decided to leave tonight and not wait until morning," he shot back. "I came up here only for a kerchief with Crest you had promised me," he moved across her dressing room to the large oak armoir he knew sat under the far window. At this late hour it was bathed in dark shadow. He tried deliberately not to bring his eye to meet hers.

Her eyes continued to follow him nonetheless.

"I know that Marshal keeps them in cedar bundles," he continued, trying to move beyond the suggestiveness of her answer to his request that they resume their family roles. Family roles keep things in their rightful place. Family roles keep things from getting messy. Apparently she now desired that things get messy, he thought.

He bent to one knee to open the lowest master drawer. A small crack and painful snap reminded him of the mace that had glanced the outside of his right kneecap delivered by the large Iberian he contested in the ring just two nights earlier. Pangold had eventually bested the brute, removing a large chunk from the fleshy spot where the back of the head and spine fuse. Although he lives, the Iberian strong man will never himself raise a weapon to Pangold to exact revenge for his loss. Nor, even, would he stand again. This had been winner's intention. The wound to his knee was Pangold's most serious, and it had been healing nicely to point previous, but as he bent to secure a family heirloom, he became aware of some residual inflammation.

The tall, lean fighter quickly rummaged through the drawer and deposited a small white cheese cloth bundle reeking of cedar into his belt pouch. He rose quickly, turning towards the wall opposite his mother, moving in a head's rush back to the door.

She decided this was her last remaining chance.

"Pan," she said, her voice now innocent and sincere. "Pan, why do you both desire me and yet hate me so? How can you both love and hate the same thing in the same way? Please, please try to make me understand. If you are leaving to never return, then you must tell me: How can you have lain with me and yet have eyes that seem almost to burn right through me, so hot is your contempt?"

"Does your contempt extend to every inch of me?" She rose to her feet, the folded lengths of silk dressing grown tumbling to the marble floor. She remained naked from the waist up as she moved to meet him at the door.

Pangold paused, allowing his mother to close the door to her inner salon, blocking his only exit. In this way, at least, the valet Bronoc couldn't catch glimpse, or, worse, alert the absent Marshal to the queer situation in which his wife and his son now found themselves. Although father and son had not spoken in over a year, their feud had nothing to do with his wife, at least as far as Marshal was concerned. If he were to find out about the compromised positions of mother and son, his rage would be even more inflamed.

They stood nearly silent for several heartbeats. He refused to cast his gaze directly at her eyes. She reached her soft, small white hand to stroke his bruised cheek.

"If you must leave us forever, if that really is your begotten intention, then let me share with you the gift of my love one more time. How can you refuse me?" She tried to slowly press herself against him. "Who knows the next time a woman who loves you will care for you? Do you think the Drowned World is full of women who truly love wanders?" For a moment he allowed himself to enjoy the wave of warm needles that flowed immediately upward from his groin. Then he swiftly backed away.

"What I am to your father, I can also be for you, if you will let me once again," she continued, thinking she correctly sensed the source of his reluctance. She again moved in close, allowing the swell of her breasts to expand against his chest and arms, their skin separated only by his chemise. But the fighter firmly pushed her small frame back a pace, and for the first time in his life decided to share his deepest feelings with his mother.

"What kind of creature are you?" He snapped. "How can you go through life without the respect for self shown even by rats?"

Lucy Silverkin was visibly shaken and shrank in stature at these words. She turned away from her son and back to her dressing table. The bounce of a few blond natural ringlets caught Pangold's eye as she pivoted away in haste. In this light she looked even younger than usual to him.

"Do not do this again," she pleaded, her dramatic shift of voice left her sounding increasingly like a small girl. "I give myself to you, and you respond with daggers."

"You are nothing but a vehicle for men to leave their deposits. You disgust me." His intention was to leave a mark that she would not forget.

"Pangold, please!"

"Please.." he mocked her with his most sardonic tone. "You are but a little girl whose head is so empty of thought and reflection that you are willing to allow men to come and fill it for you. You do not even know the depths of the game you have signed on to, and what is worse you have signed on to this game for your life.

"No," he corrected himself. "That is wrong. You are not a little girl. You know full well what you do. That is why I hate you."

"As before, I beg you, I do not understand your words?" She couldn't help but almost whimper. "What have I ever done to deserve such treatment? I did not even know of you when your father married me. Do you really blame me for falling in love with him before I fell in love with you?" She paused. Sliding her left arm gently under the large fold of fabric that bunch around her waist, she smoothly pulled a cover up over her bare breasts in obvious effort to regain something approximating composure.

"Is it, perhaps, that you think I do not please your father as his wife should?" She probed further. "Am I in some way deficient as a wife?"

"You are a proven whore to start."

She sat at her bench retaining a dignity in her posture beyond what comes naturally to girls barely twenty years old. Pangold noted this as well as noted that such dignity was, too, just an act, the result of the inculcated instinct of her breeding. She had been raised her entire life under the roof of a high-level administrator in the king's court. Thus the art of sitting pretty while things all around get messy was clearly a trait she had developed quite young. Pangold even felt hostility towards the posture the girl adopted. But at the same time he could appreciate the beauty of a pretty thing on its perch.

"If I am a proven whore, then you are convicting me of a crime in which you are co-conspirator. But beyond this, tell me, in what single way am I not a good wife to your father?'

Pangold hesitated slightly. He measured his words carefully.

"You are precisely the kind of woman my father wants you to be. You fulfill all his wants. You dote on his eccentricities and you liven his hours with your charms and devotions. He found in you precisely what he sought. And that is why I hate you."

"Because I am not your mother, you mean?"

"See, you are emptied-headed indeed, slut." The last insult stung, as he proceeded to speak to her for the first time with an honest bluntness that smacked like the open face of a hammer. "Little girl, how do I say this to you in a way you will best understand...You are exactly like my mother."

Lucy Silverkin vaguely remembered the oldest son of her husband saying something like this before. And like that prior occasion, she again did not understand the statement. To her naive ear he sounded nearly deranged.

"If you refuse the gift of my love, then just leave me. There is no reason to continue this torture session." She again straighted her back, inadvertently exposing her full side of her right breast. In the soft light of the many-candled wall sconces, her flawless skin looked like alabaster.

"Come to me on your knees and I will stay," Pangold said flatly.

His mother slowly rose to her feet and crossed the barely ten feet of room that separated them. As she approached she dropped dutifully to a single knee. She let her improvised garment drop again to the floor as she looked up into his wide, tanned and stern face. The many hours he spent in competition in the district's open-air arena left him with a healthy bronze hue.

Pangold spat fully in his mother's face.

Her figure scrambled away in retreat, unable to get fully to her feet. As she raced her lithe body no longer looked seductive in the light of the room but ridiculous and pitiable. A helpless animal both shamed and revolted.

"Out before I call the street guard!" she cried, cowering next to her jewelery chest, the darkest corner of the salon.

"Mother.." Pangold spoke in a soothing voice.

"Do not call me that! You monster, you scoundrel of the lowest order!" He could make out her shadowed profile huddling in the sudden chill of the room.

"Little one," continued Pangold in a slow, calming, yet stern and commanding fashion. "I needed to know you truly cared for me. Please, come back to me. I had to test you, you must understand. Come back to me."

Lucy Silverkin, a young women married only three years to a man nearly three times her age, was surprised to find herself rising once again to her feet, and making the walk to her step-son. Ignoring the remnants of her own tears from just moments earlier, she again supplicated herself to him. In turn, Pangold reached forward and took hold of her soft mouth in his hand, and, with a force, put his own onto it. He kissed her deeply and only slowly and with great reluctance did he pull away.

In a flash of motion, Pangold brought the back of his strong left hand down hard across his mother's face, and produced a large, broad-bladed dagger in the other hand which he held fast at the base of her neck. Before she had time even to whelp, his left hand closed over her mouth.

"You come back after you've been spat on, degraded and defiled? That is why I hate you." He breathed heavily down unto her straining face. "You are a worm, little girl. I would as soon destroy you as adjust my path even the slightest." He slowly removed the threatening blade, and removed his hand from her mouth. He turned to exit.

"If to be a worm is your destiny, little slug, then at least think on this. That you are nothing more than a worm is precisely why my father claimed you. It is the quality that he values most in you. If nothing else, always remember this: as you are pleasuring him and feeding his perversions, remember that my father's desire for you only burns as long you exist as an empty vessel to fill when and how he wishes. What do you think he would do if you ever dared attempt to fill the vessel for yourself? What do you think that says about the depth of his regard? What do you think it says about value of a worm?"

He opened the door sharply, the light from the corridor spilled in enough to reveal his mother on her knees, attempting to cover herself and hold her head as she wept, refusing to look up again at her abuser.

"So my crime is that I am not her? Not Esmeralda? That I am not also made of something stern like granite? Well, look what happens to my kind that prove made of such stuff. They do not last long in this world." Her words came out in great sobs.

At the mention of his sister's name and murder, Pangold briefly considered escalating his farewell lesson to his mother to include taking her by force, knowing full well that her screams would yield way to goading moans in short order. Even degraded, the small, doe-eyed creature stoked a blaze of desire in his heart.

He thought better of it, closed the door firmly, and proceeded to the foyer where the rest of his baggage was stowed.

The Curious Tale of Puff the Magic Icosahedron

2009-02-25T22:59:00.005-05:00

My daughter simply loves her 20-sided pillow...She giggles and squeals whenever we play with it. And she loves to smother her face into it and laugh and laugh.

I've been meaning to thank Heb and the dm again for such a thoughtful gift, but an episode happened over break that made me resolve to post that thanks and include a couple of "Thank You" pics from Sophie as well.

You see, Sophie soooo loves this pillow that it had to be include in the list of essentials that were packed into our rental car to take on the 6 day trek to Grand Rapids and Port Huron, MI. So, along with bottles and diapers and suitcases and snacks, we brought this tie-died 20-sided pillow along in the back seat.

As we returned home around 1am last week, Regina sat in the back with the baby while I drove with a basket full of toys in the passenger seat next to me. As we got off the turnpike near Rochester, a tall, pony-tailed late 30s early 40s male attendant took my ticket and money and proceeded to simply stare at me...

"What have you got in there?" He said. I was surprised since these robots never chat and I instantly felt like I was being interrogated by the police.

"What?" I said, eyes blurry from the long drive.

"What have you got? A life-sized d&d set to go with it?" I instantly remembered that the pillow sat atop the basket of toys in the passenger seat. What a strange sight I must have been driving so late with a large, stuffed icsoahedron next to me. He recognized the pillow for what it was instantly.

Of course I told him about what a wonderful present it was from my friends who - like he - appreciate things like this...And we both had a really good laugh, and he shot me a knowing-smile. He was clearly envious.

Thanks again, from all of us over here at Roslyn Street.

Olwe Lorearthen's Deep Desire

2009-02-21T17:10:00.010-05:00

While drinking at the Sailors' Guild during their first night in Kharschum, Olwe and Pangold hoisted several toasts to the potential spoils and new freedoms that a life of free-lancing adventure was likely to bring. Both had started their adult lives each as their own man, only contracting with the King of Saxony for the Tigalda expedition given the paucity of work available at the time. So for both Olwe and Pangold, the thrilling sail into the harbor of Kharschum - however inhospitable a locale - was like a return to an earlier way of life that had been placed on hold some months back.

As he fetched his sixth round of house mead, Pangold overheard Olwe kibbitzing with the bartender Taluee [dm: spelling?] about different exotic sites they have visited or would wish to visit before death. A prick came up Pangold's ear when he heard Olwe's low grumbling voice mention the name of the famous dwarf enclave called Porshaft. It wasn't the proper name itself that struck Pangold, but, rather, the ever-so-slight hint of desire in Olwe's voice when the name passed over his lips.

After Olwe had wheeled around and joined Pangold across a long, oak table that sat a dozen patrons, Pangold took control, though not obviously, of the conversation.

"I heard you mention the great underground halls of Porshaft.....I have heard a great many stories that extol its wonder. Tell me about it and explain why your tongue wags so sloppily when the thought of it enters you mind? This is a side of you that I confess I have not seen before."

"Tell me Olwe," Pangold persisted as the dwarf attempted to waive off his question in favor of a deep pull from his cup. "Tell me why such a place is so important to you, you are not related to the Porshaft clans are you? I have heard you sing at length of your people, of the Mineshadow, the Lorearthens, and the Wilward. But I did not realize a filial connection existed between you and that wondrous place."

"It's true that when I think and speak of Porshaft, I do so fondly. It is indeed a marvellous place. And although I have share no family blood with its founders or current inhabitants, I have had the honor of laying eyes on its rightly praised Great Staircase as well as several of the first level antechamber rooms and halls."

"But if you must know why I always smile a little when I think of Porshaft it is because it reminds me of the fantasy that keeps me going." He gulped his drink deeply.

Pangold listened intently to the story that followed of a young Olwe journeying with his father to the trading centers surrounding Porshaft, and of a short day-trip into the mouth of the great city set a mile deep into the granite base of an imperious mountain. He savoured the care in word choice and imagery that the budding bard of a dwarf demonstrated in his telling. And he could not help but be desirous of seeing it for himself, so finely did Olwe portray its endless and finely crafted passageways, stairways, intersections, pillared underground boulevards, great solid stone doors, and its miles and miles of expanse.

At the conclusion of his impassioned description of seeing the upper rooms of the great city of Porshaft, Pangold thank him and blankly asked just what moral should be taken from his tale. Just what is the appetitic fantasy that moves him when he thinks of what he has seen at Porshaft?

"Surely you could take up residence if that is what you want so much?" said Pangold. "It doesn't have to be just a fantasy, does it? I've heard often that dwarf clans will adopt those of other family's if the desire to join is sincere. Surely all you'd have to sacrifice is your bachelorhood at most."

"I think you do not fully understand. You see, I..wish...it...all," Olwe replied, almost sheepishly chewing his thick, coarse whiskers. "I want all of it," his grin widening enough to show his broad front teeth. His look told his listener that he was well aware of just how outlandish, even childish, his dream must sound.

"I want my own kingdom under a mountain, with my own endless walkways and soaring rock cathedrals and layers and layers of intersecting stair and passage."

Olwe continued his simple grin as he looked down into the soggy remains of his cup. "It is not a humble wish, I grant you. But you seem to be asking for honest truth and not just easy conversation, so there you have it."

"It is a dream fit for a king, I'll give that to you. But surely there are any number of the great ancient dwarf underground cities that that suit you. It would take some work, but you could eventually seize and take it up for yourself. And if such deep places are what you think of most, why do you not reside in one now, if such a thing is your deepest love?" asked Pangold sincerely, although not without purpose.

"I think you still misunderstand. I want more than to live in such a rock city, I want to build and design it as well," said Olwe after freshening his cup and sopping the foamy collection at its brim through his beard. "I do want to be its lord and master, and I also want to make the impenetrable rock walls cleft at my easy command and whim. I want to wander for weeks and months and never see the same room twice. I want to lose myself in an endlessness of my own design.

"Now, if you ask me how I plan to obtain my heart's true desire, then I can honestly say that I do not. I came to terms with that fact when I ceased being a child. In fact, I fully expect to die of old age without making any substantial progress toward its attainment. But, somehow, this fact does not seem to matter much.

"It's funny, isn't it, that sometimes our most abstract ideas seem more real and more important than the hard and smelly, red tooth and claw details of what we usually call 'real life'." He grew sleepy giving breath to what seemed at the time a profound piece of wisdom.

"But you are among friends here, Olwe of the Clan of Legend," Pangold persisted. "Be at ease and let your thoughts and tongue run freely. If you were to obtain it - create your own kingdom vast enough to span the entire base of a great mountain -how would you set about doing it?"

"To obtain it, I would need many other things as well. I would need men, good, smart, hardy men to hire to begin and continue the labors. And I would need countless tools and supplies. Of course, I am currently without claim to a mountain. The Mineshadow clan digs shaft-mines, straight down into the stone, following the natural cracked veins. They never thinking of using their mountain kingdom to build horizontally as well as vertically. Inefficient, they would call it.

"But, thankfully, the Drowned World is full of mountains without a hold laid against them, so perhaps this task is not insurmountable. But, to secure all the above I would need a mighty fortune." He finished again with his simple, reflective smile. This thoughtful and powerful dwarf seemed to Pangold very much like a child who has reached that strange age when reality overtakes fantasy for the first time, and who is left behind only with a pleasant, if melancholic memory of just how big they used to be able to dream.

"And here you sit, with a mighty treasure almost fallen in your lap, my stout fellow," brightly contributed Pangold, pouncing on his companion's last remark. And here Pangold Silverkin, son of Marshal, son of Francis, brought the conversation to its purpose.

"How do you mean?" sloshed Olwe, his eyes now heavy with drink, but piqued with vague curiosity.

"I mean just this: You, my friend, are a decent fellow. A likable fellow. And you now find yourself in a city of dank inequity, filled with whores and thieves and backstabbers and grifters. To decent fellows such as you and I, these folks are just ripe for the plucking. After all, Kord teaches us that it is never evil to out-evil evil itself." Pangold shot the dwarf a straight, knowing look that spoke to Olwe both of his sincerity as well as his inebriation.

"Like good strong foam," Pangold continued, "let us rise to the top of this gritty and mealy draught of a city."

"You mean we should lighten the purses of this grimy city's unscrupulousss?" The final consonant lingered and reverberated in a drunken, sibilant fashion. He chuckled to himself at the thought. Clearly he thought it a good idea.

"No, I mean more than this. I mean we should set ourselves to taking over."

"Phew! Ha!" guffawed Olwe, slamming his mug with a clumsy silliness into the thick, knotted wood plank that served as their row table, spilling some contents onto surface now smooth from great use. "All Hail King Pangold the Bold! Much good luck to you, my ambitious friend. But of course you are joking." Several nearby drinkers, startled by the abrupt noise, slowly turned back to their conversations. Only once all these gawkers had all resumed their prior engagements did Pangold respond, sotto voce.

"But I am not joking. What force can stand against this team we have assembled before us? We must be smart, no doubt. But smart we are. And what is more, we are also strong, and brawny, and blistering and possessed of the blessings and energies of both nature and the gods. What mere mountebank can stand against that druid that calls forth the spirit of nature in the form of wild and angry beasts that despise the unnatural? What grifter could resist our fire-breathing dragon woman who controls the sky just as deftly as she does the ground?"

Pangold's voice dropped to a near whisper. He leaned in close. "Conceive of it, Olwe. Set your shoulder to it. This goal is attainable."

No sooner had Pangold finished speaking when he replied to his own comment. "Yes, I confess to some ambition. I do dream big, my friend. But you dream deep. Perhaps there is a way...to work together on these things."

Olwe sat motionless. His eyes, unblinking, slowly looked up and down the face of his ever-so bold companion. When he replied, he did so almost without thought.

"A final drink, then, to toast all dreams big and deep," he eventually snorted. Olwe's frozen face warmed into that familiar churlish smile.

"Await and watch for my next move," was Pangold's last word on the subject.

The Great Betrayal [Repost]

2009-02-21T16:42:00.010-05:00

Olwe Lorearthen has never been comfortable talking to strangers and shallow acquaintances. But once he garnered the courage to share the story of his people with his adopted family during the long sea journey to Cold Harbor, he was filled with the comfortable warmth of friendship by their response. And just a few evenings later when he was again asked about his family's lore, he recalled for his new friends an encounter he once had with a small band of bardic elves whom he came upon traveling through the Iron Mountains not far from his home with the Mineshadow clan. After liquor had flowed and family histories had been shared, the elves told Olwe a tragic tale from their ancient folk culture - of a hard-hearted elven prince and of a great guilt born by his kin. And in their tale Olwe believed he had found a clue to the lost history of his own people.

The elven bards sang of the once-noble elven family of Magesblood, who happened upon a lost clan of dwarves, near starvation, mindlessly wandering through the low shoulders of a mountain range of now lost to history, somewhere deep below our Central Sea. Feeling great pity and compassion, the Elves brought the few surviving dwarves into their care. The wretched creatures that they had saved, however, immediately pleaded to be allowed to press on their journey for fear of condemning their charitable hosts to a terrible fate. The dwarves claimed to be a cursed clan, in exile from the ancient land of their creation far beyond even the Northgaard.

These lost and wandering dwarves told the elves a tale of a narrow escape from annihilation at the hands of their creator, Belfire the child-god. In the first days, the child-god loved his creation, who he named the Wilward. He adored watching them grow and thrive in the deep hollows and shadowy mountain passes he made for them anew each day. And they played together in the shadows, Belfire and the Wilwards, and his dwarves entertained him with their many fine creations. The child-god and his creations were inseparable during the early days of the world and they kept each others quiet company during the long nights. Their deep fondness for one another's company was obvious in the ways they sang and they drank together. And the Wilward told their elven saviors how they used to build giant towers of stone that reached high into the clouds with the assistance of Belfire, and how they would all rejoice together when the time came to destroy the towers just for the satisfaction of watching them fall. But as the Wilward grew and explored the world about them, they gradually discovered that their true home was under the mountain.

The depths of the mountains were never more than a playground to the child-god, however, and certainly never a place he would care to consider his home. And soon the Wilward were venturing out only during the daylight hours to play and sing and destroy with Belfire, and doing this increasingly out of a sense of duty and obligation to their creator. Eventually, as the wonders of their dark mountain paradise were just beginning to unfold before them, they stopped coming outside to entertain the child-god at all, and the place in their lives that their creator and playmate once occupied was gradually replaced with an obsession for geological nuance and a fetishistic lust for digging deeper for the sake of deeper.

The Wilward grew to love their home and the life they had with one another, and they came to no longer think of Belfire, and to no longer need him nor desire that he be near them.

The empty, hollow feeling of rejection shook the child-god into great fits of resentment and wrath. He quickly grew to hate his creation, and he stove to crush them in their rocky hideaways, tearing down the highest peaks and crushing vast slopes between his palms, sending exploding cascades of stone and pebble high into the sky, blotting out the sun. Day after day and night after night he unleashed his fury on the mountainside, laying it to waste with a violent force. Belfire killed to the last all those he found there and he destroyed their wondrous mountain halls and castle keeps, as well as their great storehouses and palaces and the libraries containing their histories and genealogies. Those few that survived secretly descended from the mountain one evening, and while the child-god slept they made their escape south, marching in shock and sadness, until they found themselves, after years of exodus, in the custodial care of the Magesblood elves.

The bards' song stirred Olwe's chest when they memorialized the great familial trust that grew between the Magesblood Elves and the Wilward over the five hundred years spent in their care. The many elves of Magesblood, led by their beloved king and father Olokul, agreed to take upon themselves the heavy moral burden of supporting and defending these vulnerable and pitiable creatures from the dangers of wider world. And, above all, the Magesblood Elves swore an oath to the Wilward: that they would forever keep their existence a secret, in order that Belfire would never again hear of them and that his hatred be reignited.

It was only with the help of the Magesblood that the Wilward were able to dig deeply into a great cliff and hew a new home for themselves, hidden from all above. And it was during the early days with the elves that it was decided that the Wilward would never again show their faces on the surface, excepting when summoned by the great all-clear bell called Gentleharp by the Elves, which was used to call all to common council. Still much trafficking continued to take place between the savoir elves and those they had saved, and as a true bond of friendship grew between them, the elves initiated these lost dwarves into their secret rituals, practices and techniques of armored magic.

Five hundred years did the bond of the Magesblood and the Wilward last. It was during the final years of the reign of the King Petdak the Wise, called "The Weak King" by his own people, that an ambitious prince seized power for himself leaving his father with only nominal control of their small but respected kingdom. The prince, Adokas, coveted the great golden fields and valleys just beyond the Magesblood borders, and he especially desired to control the high and broad plateau that loomed over the fields. For from this high vantage point one could build an unassailable garrison and control all the entrances to the wide valley and, consequently, control the main gateway to each of the Five Kingdoms.

Adokas was certainly not the first empire-building Elf of the region to recognize the strategic significance of the plateau. In his own day one could easily find on its broad and flat expanse remnants and artifacts all pointing to the existence of several older Elven forts, each designed to serve as a defensive stronghold against any invading armies who attempted to march across the valley below. But Adokas was the first ruler willing to sacrifice the long-established practice of peaceful detente to his own wild ambition.

It was during these years of Adokas' ascendance that the Roman legions began to appear in the south for the first time in the long history of the Magesblood elves. These bloody and ruthless fighters, although small in number in the first years, were quickly recognized by each of the Five Kingdoms to be a force unlike any they had seen before, possessing a power through coordination and sheer force of arms that none could hope to match should they desire land and pitch for battle. But in these early years, the legions were content to collect a small tribute and only the threat of violence was necessary to get them what they wanted.

As Roman power and influence grew steadily in the region, the young prince Adokas seized his moment. He struck a quarrel with a once-friendly neighbor over some insignificant matter, quickly marshaled his unwitting father's support, and mounted a force of arms ready to act at his command to control the plateau should the right occasion present itself. Adokas then parlayed with a nearby Roman garrison, sharing advice and secret testimony of the weaknesses of his newly forged enemy, aiding the Romans in their requests on such matters as troop and defensive positioning. As much as they wanted he tried his utmost to provide. And as the Roman legions moved in to destroy the problem Adokas had purposely created, he was in the Mage's Temple to celebrate the death of his father with his own coronation. And he was supremely satisfied that his deepest ambitions had nearly come to pass.

But his secret sharing proved his great undoing, for the illicit testimony he provided proved worse than useless to the storming legions, and the Romans suffered a tremendous defeat with many loses as they moved on his suggestions. The enraged Roman's threatened the young king and extorted him with the pain of a violent and bloody death. To escape their persecution, Adokas quickly betrayed the oath of his people - their sworn commitment to protect the lost Wilward dwarves. But all Adokas could see in them now was their value as the only of their race possessed of the secret of the duskblade. And on a fateful red morning, Adokas emerged from the Mage's Temple with Gentleharp in hand, and, laying prostrate at the feet of the enraged general, presented it to the insatiable Roman horde, as if delivering unto them great riches.

At the ringing of the trusted bell, all Wilward men, women and children emerged from their cavernous sanctuary and assembled in regular fashion, and it was here that they met the cruelty of the Roman whip and spear for the first time, but most certainly not the last. By day's end the children of Belfire were gone. And as news spread, the Magesblood elves were filled with inconsolable lament for the fate of their dearest friends. But, alas, they did nothing more than lament, for none ever sought the emancipation of their former charges, and none spoke publicly against the great betrayal of Adokas. It was as if the depth of the betrayal was simply too much to stand against, and they chose instead the easier path of collective denial.

Their deep fears were well-founded, or so it seems, for Olwe's bardic companions knew no other story, tale, or song that spoke any more of these cursed dwarves or their plight.

"But what of Adokas?" Olwe asked with great pain at the end of the tale. "For surely that devil received his due for his crimes against such a fine people." But the bards knew only one tale that might ease Olwe's great sorrow and quench his thirst for vengeance. In the end the Magesblood line splintered into a thousand shards well before the Great Flooding, they told Olwe, and today this once-great elven family exists no more except in the song and verse known only to a few.

They told him all the rest that they knew - that King Adokas lived a great many years until he himself was treacherously overthrown by a combined force of the other four Great Kingdoms, whose trust and goodwill he had squandered. His final moments, the bards recounted, are said to have been spent sealed inside a tomb of smooth rock, somewhere very dark and cold and very very deep within the now-lost Wilward's once-thriving mountain keep. His conquerors, it is said, did this as both a small gesture towards redemption and as warning to all against ambition.

Next Game Night

2009-02-21T09:52:00.002-05:00

Since our discussion of our next session is now somewhere far below, I thought I would put up a new post. Our next game night is going to be Friday, March 6. I think this works for everyone, but if it doesn't, please let us know. Heather and I can either host or travel.

Shall we try to plan another session for either March 20th or March 21st? That's nearly a month away, but it's always good to be proactive.

Close Calls & Companions

2009-02-19T12:09:00.001-05:00

Boom! A dim wakefulness stirred from murky depths within the dreamless void of a stunned unconsciousness. Insignificant awareness wrestled against the blackness of oblivion. The prone figure lay as if errantly discarded upon the leaves and mud of a splintered, unfamiliar woodland on Tigalda.

A sudden flutter of light shone brightly enough through shut eyelids for the prone figure to imagine he could still see. Boom! The sounds of magical battle again reverberated from the distance. The still figure instinctively knew that the battlefield had shifted to what must be a safe distance away, even as a throbbing headache threatened to erode what little hold of his senses remained.

Cold, wet ground soaked through his hair, cloak and soft leathers as he again became familiar with the soft sound of a light drizzle. The humidity of the woods made the air thick and heavy about him as he managed a meager, weary sigh. Throb! He winced with his first movements as billions of nerve endings screamed to recoil from the pulsating headache and aching body.

A decision to either rise and rejoin the fight alongside Ord-laf’s men or remain prone a few precious moments more presented a difficult choice that was rudely interrupted by the sharp sound of a crisply cracked branch. Erth’s mind raced to ponder the possibilities of just what horror may have caused that branch to break as his body dawned with feeling once again. Throb! The fleeting thought of how a goodberry would ease this torment was forgotten as a guttural growl chased away the thought of the broken branch and the momentary dread that accompanied it.

Lingering ambivalence over how to proceed quickly evaporated as relief washed over him. Rising into a seated position, surprise greeted his newly opened eyes both at the size of the crater before him and the gaping gash in his familiar’s hindquarter. There could be no doubt that he and Ulee, his wolf companion, had been of greater fortune than the few soldiers who had been striding ahead of him when the fireball had landed. He realized now he must have been blown back and struck unconscious as he considered the scene before him.

Ulee limped closer and pressed his snout gently against Erth’s neck as if offering comfort, to seek healing or both. Moments later the druid’s healing had the two companions solidly upright and striding onward toward the lingering sounds of battle. Erth resolved to see this conflict through so that this distant isle might be free of unnatural beasts and those with unnatural designs. Then, he and Ulee would somehow go onward still, toward other lands in hopes of the fruitful discovery of plant life. Yes, nature’s path would no doubt be full of signposts.

The City of Slaves

2009-02-18T20:02:00.003-05:00

[If you haven’t already done so, please read Carl’s new Hrolff post below before reading this.]

The land of Uyghuria is perhaps the most ravaged and impoverished place in all of the Drowned World. Most historians agree that its troubles began some five centuries ago, when the Time of Plenty, a period of above average rainfall and mild climate that began around AD 1200, suddenly ended. During the Time of Plenty, Uyghuria was as prosperous as any other land in the Drowned World: its harvests were bountiful, its cities prosperous. The nearby lands also benefited from the generous climate, so warfare was mostly limited to sporadic feuds and isolated raids. Even the hobgoblins of Kwarazm seemed content to squabble among themselves and leave the neighboring territories alone. When an outside threat did present itself, it generally came from Kha'atia to the east - the Vidlag have never been content to sit at home, even in the best of times - but the Kipchak dynasty, which ruled Uyghuria throughout the Time of Plenty, maintained a large, highly-disciplined military, so these threats were usually short-lived. The peace and plenty helped trade to flourish, and caused the population to grow exponentially.

Kharschum sits upon the site of the Kipchaks' ancestral home. Before the Time of Plenty, it was little more than a modest village and keep, but as Uyghuria prospered, Kharschum became the country's main trading hub, and quickly exploded into a thriving city. The Kipchaks used their newfound wealth and influence to extend their power across the country, and little more than a century later, in 1311, Kipchak the Unbecoming united all of Uyghuria under his rule. Uyghuria remained united under subsequent Kipchak rulers, and Kharschum continued to thrive as grain, fruit, wine, and a staggering array of value-added products flowed through its harbor. Slaves did pass through Kharschum from time to time, but they comprised a small fraction of its burgeoning economy.

Sometime around the turn of the 16th Century, however, the entire region was struck by an unrelenting drought that lasted for decades. In hindsight, it may not have been a drought at all, but rather the end of an unusually rainy and mild period. Whatever the cause, it was disastrous. As crop yields plummeted, farmers cleared more land in an attempt to compensate, but this only succeeded in destroying what was left of Uyghuria's coastal and riverine forests. As the famine deepened, crime and violence became rampant throughout the countryside, which forced people to return to their old alliances of race, ethnicity, and kinship in order to protect themselves. Once these factions were solidified, internecine warfare began to flare up, and within a few decades, it had grown into a conflagration that consumed the entire region.

It did not help that Uyghuria lacked competent leadership during this crucial period. Kipchak the Corpulent, who reigned during the first three decades of drought, gave far more attention to opulent feasts at his court than to the crisis engulfing his kingdom, and seemed entirely deaf to the cries of his starving people. His son, Kipchak the Feckless, is said to have been simple, and did nothing to avert the crisis. Kipchak the Feckless was succeeded by his nephew, Kipchak the Relentless, who sought to reunify the kingdom through military force, as well as public torture and execution of rebellious subjects. Kipchak did indeed succeed in reunifying his kingdom, but not in the way he had imagined. In the face of ongoing starvation and their ruler's brutal tactics, several factions banded together and rose up against the king. Their combined armies stormed into Kharschum, slaughtered everyone in the royal family, and beheaded Kipchak on the steps of the ancient church that still sits next to his ruined keep.

Though the drought lessened in severity at the end of the 16th Century, Uyghuria's climate has yet to return to what it was in the Time of Plenty. Even if it did, the land would never see the prosperity and unity that it once had. Centuries of warfare and genocide have riven the Uyghurian people so deeply that few dare to hope that Uyghuria will ever know peace, and the land's natural resources are so depleted - its forests burned and cut away, its rivers choked with its eroded farmlands - that few people cling to the illusion that it will ever produce a fraction of what it once did. The only resource that remains is the people themselves.

The slave trade was initially a byproduct of the constant warfare between Uyghuria's clans and factions; the conflicts produced captives, which were sold to support the ongoing military campaigns. It was not long, however, before the slave trade dominated Uyghuria's economy. Many of the clans dropped whatever pretenses they had maintained to keep fighting each other and warred for no other purpose than to capture slaves and enrich themselves. The kingdom of Avaria to the south, which had suffered similarly from the drought but had stabilized under the repressive theocracy of Zon-Kuthon, found that it could turn a profit by culling its cities and countryside of unbelievers, and shipping them down the River Gish to be sold in Kharschum. The hobgoblin tribes of Kwarazm became involved, as well, sending their slaves over the Devil's Backbone, a dangerous overland route that traces a steep ridge connecting the two kingdoms. Because Kharschum is the only substantial saltwater port in the region, all of the slave routes converged there.

As the slave trade boomed, so did Kharschum, though in a markedly different way than centuries before. Those who prospered from the slave trade shunned the filth and squalor of the old city, and built what amounted to an entirely new city on the river's western bank. As the Western City filled with Uyghuria's moneyed and influential, the Eastern City continued to fill with all manner of people, most of them fleeing the chaos of the countryside. The ancient stone buildings were partitioned into makeshift tenements, where a dozen or more individuals would often share a single room. If there was an empty space between two buildings, someone erected a new building, most often from mud-brick and thatch. Outside of the derelict city walls, shantytowns sprung up, until the original Eastern City was enveloped by a vast, sprawling slum. It was as if the corpse of Kharschum had been reanimated with a teeming, carcinogenic life.

Little has changed over the last few centuries. During the day, the narrow streets of the Eastern City are crowded with people of all kinds. Humans in gaudy silks and thick jewelry shove through crowds of ragged commoners and mud-stained, shrouded lepers. Naked children squat at the edges of the streets, imploring passersby for coins and scraps of food, though few seem to notice them, and even fewer bother to throw a few coppers their way. An occasional hobgoblin or half-orc pushes its way along the street, while halflings and an infrequent goblin dart unnoticed among the legs of the larger folk. Above the crowds, swarms of flies thrum and glint in the shimmering heat.

The city itself looks as if it is on the verge of collapsing in on itself. Crooked, mud-brick buildings and wooden shanties lean against the older stone buildings, which are themselves streaked with soot and crumbling with age. A few windows still have glass, but most are crudely shuttered or hung with dirty fabric, and many are entirely empty. A few buildings have been recently plastered or whitewashed, but most of these manage to look tawdry rather than tidy, and those rare buildings that are tastefully maintained do little to attenuate the squalor around them. The cobbled streets are barely discernible beneath their crust of trampled mud and manure, and the shallow gutters are clotted with shit and offal. The stench, which varies from that of ripe feces to rotting flesh to dizzyingly pungent urine, is overpowering at first, but one eventually becomes accustomed to it.

Because of these conditions, disease is epidemic in Kharschum. People die of cholera and dysentery on a daily basis, and outbreaks of bubonic plague and typhus flare up regularly. Though a thousand or more babies are born each year, and thousands of people move to Kharschum in a typical year, its population remains fairly stable because of the mortality that disease wreaks. Most of the dead are buried in mass graves outside of town, though some are dumped into isolated channels in the delta. Those with money enough for a funeral and burial are ferried to the Isle of the Dead for proper internment.

This is where you find yourselves, in a city that represents hope for some and misery and enslavement for most. If you came seeking adventure, you will certainly find it, though it may not be of the sort that you imagined, or desired.

A Northman Muses

2009-02-17T21:35:00.003-05:00

The air is fouled with the smell of death and corruption, a charnel odor with an undercurrent of something else, something sinister but not quite definable. Hrolff likes it not, but there is little to be done. They have committed to this enterprise and, short of contact with overwhelming opposition, withdrawal begets ill omen.

He lowers himself to one knee to contemplate the body of the Morgh stretched on the floor before him. It is not much different from killing a thing of living flesh and blood to destroy such an abomination. The thing had been a fierce opponent, but not much of a match for them. In the last, he and Inakai had squared off against it, he with Sturmhämmer and she with her axe that sings death and spits crazed lightning. Swinging its huge claw-like, black nailed hands and lashing its terrible tongue, the thing had come at them hard, its eyes burning like ghastly embers. But to no avail. The Northman and the half-elf had unleashed a rain of iron blows upon it, a storm of rent flesh and shattered bone, to drive it back to whatever hell it called home. Hrolff cast a sidelong glance at Inakai. She’s a good fighter, this ruby-eyed sea-spawned lass, and Hrolff likes her. Despite their adventures together, he knows so little about her.

The Morgh presents a ghastly sight. An axe blow has cloven its jaw almost entirely from the rest of its face. Hrolff is familiar with the spells used to invoke such apparitions though he does not traffic in them himself. He mouths a silent prayer to Thor and traces a rune of good fortune in the air. Good fortune indeed. By the hoary beard of Tanngrisnir, they will likely need it. Ever since childhood, he has disliked and feared these living dead, though he now knows that those who work in death-craft savor our fear as normal folk do mead and spiced wine.

His mind wanders and, for a moment, he remembers his now distant homeland, Northgaard, land of deep fjords and mist shrouded peaks that soar in the winter-sparkle of the northern night. Ǽskill’s garth, where Hrolff was raised, lay at the end of a long, sheer sided inlet. It was a good place, large with many halls, barns, and work sheds. Cattle and sheep grazed in the rocky hills overlooking the fjord and Ǽskill’s bee pastures were envied by settlements for many miles along the coast. During the short summers, most of the men would leave to go viking, joining one of the many crews that powerful chiefs gathered unto themselves.

As a boy, he had longed for such adventure and, as a consolation, had lost himself by training in the use of the hammer and its deadly art. He had also enjoyed more than a few dalliances with a variety local maids, free and thrall alike. Ah yes, he had been a handsome lad and he soon became quite adept at wielding a hammer of a much different sort. Pleasant and numerous had such days been. And during the long, iron winters, families gathered in the great halls to tell tales and sing songs of their ancestors, while the hearth blazed and the animals dozed in their stalls.

Beyond the garth, inland from the coast, the land rose majestically to meet lofty Mount Jotunsprak, a towering edifice of stone, cliff, and ice that assailed the nickel-grey sky like a giant’s fist.

Somewhere on those slopes, far above them and miles in the back country, was a temple that was seldom spoken of except in whispers. A black place it was. The priests who dwelt there, who had not come down from the mountain for many years, worshipped Hel, the hand-maiden of death, daughter of Loki the accursed. These men, it was said, knew how to carve the black runes, how to work the most forbidden charms, how to speak the dark words and craft the spae that can twist and un-knot the very laws of life and death themselves. Very few travelled into Jotunsprak’s shadow to make blót at such a place, but more did than one might at first think. The outcasts, the bitter, the ones whose hearts had been gnawed by the worms of ill fortune until naught remained but the dearest wish for vengeance, such were the souls that trekked the twisted paths and threaded the treacherous gorges to lay offerings at the feet of Hel, black bitch of the north.

The priests who tended her shrine also knew how to call forth spirits from beyond the grave, immaterial things that rode the air, shrieking with rage, hateful for being wrested from their eternal slumber and forced into such thralldom. Sometimes, on certain January nights, when the cold came down like a hammer and the sky above Jotunsprak writhed and twisted with the blue-green elf fire of the borealis, these spirits rode the night in force. On such nights, the family of Halvard would gather in its hall and attempt to work the ancient warding charms, passing a stallion’s penis wrapped in linen from hand to hand while Hrolff’s mother, Freda Bandersdaughter, would sing songs of past glory in a voice that ran clear as snow-melt in spring. All the while, the undead spirits swirled high above their roof, laughing and howling their hate in the brittle winter starlight.

Years later, after he had offered his life to Thor, Hrolff learned how to make the runes of power that blasted such things and drove them away, often unraveling their tenuous foothold on the land of the living completely. Priests of the Southern Gods sometimes referred to these prayers as the “Turning,” a good word for such god-craft. “Turning.” Yes, Hrolff likes it. Such things should always be turned back from the lands of sunlight and those that call them should have their heads turned round sharply on their necks with a sudden hammer blow.

Hrolff sighs, thinking of the home that he has forsaken.

Quickly though, he turns his thoughts to the task at hand and glances at the ceiling. What further black witch-work awaits them in the floors above? He finds that he is sweating despite the clammy chill in the air. He rises and checks his war kit, making a small adjustment to his shield straps. To his right stands Alayna, wrapped in silent contemplation of some horror that lies preserved behind the glass that lines the chamber. He lays a hand on her shoulder and whispers a word of encouragement.

Hrolff traces one more rune in the air and prays that if death does come, let it be a good one.

Nailing it Down

2009-02-09T20:21:00.002-05:00

I just thought I would throw up a post so we can nail down our next session. How does Saturday, February 28th sound, location TBA?

A Berserker's Loss

2009-02-08T23:43:00.003-05:00

Smoke rings rose to the ceiling of the Sailor's Guild hall. While puffing away Ulfgar Ungart absently fingered the orc bones decorating the braids in his beard... ah the stories those bones told. However those are not the tales that interested those about the table. They pressed him unrelentingly for details about the city, the scoundrels that waylaid him after the card game and mostly about the way that he seemed to lose all sense of self as he fought. Yes once again he has been dragged into telling the tale of his strange behavior. Where to start where to start... Ulfgar reluctantly and slowly spun the tale of his, ahhhh shall we say, condition. Fortunately the mead was flowing smoothly loosening the stout warrior's lips and allowing the usually reserved dwarf to spin his yarn.

I wasn't always this way. I started like any other dwarf of the clan Ungart. Loyal to family, learned the art of smithing early on in my youth, preparing for the Orc Wars as I gained young adulthood. The clan elders noticed an oddity about me, they sensed how I was slowly seeming to loose control of my temper, it was small things at first and they attributed it to perhaps an adolescent adjustment. In any event I was doing well with my battle training, handled an ax pretty well and growing stronger with the years.Then one night just before leaving for the Northern Battle Front (the blasted Orcs were making significant progress up there and all trainees were being brought up ... ready or not) while having a last huraah with fellow warriors a small typical barroom brawl broke out. Nothing much on an ordinary night. But this was no ordinary night. In the heat of the fight something odd happened to me, it started as a low steady drumbeat sound somewhere deep deep in my mind. At first I thought it was the battle drums of an Orc battalion. Then I realized no one else heard them. The sound grew stronger and deeper, building , building becoming more overwhelming with every second until it totally consumed me. As the sound grew stronger I became stronger almost as if the drum beats were my flesh, objects thrown and punches became devastating. Terror arose in those around me. I had become indomitable. Wounds inflicted upon me in the fight seemed to heal almost as fast as they were created. People in the tavern fled. I was left standing alone in the room, suddenly exhausted barely able to move. Spittle coming down the side of my mouth, blood draining from my ears. The drums had ceased, replaced by a preternatural silence. What in the name of Kord happened. The Guard suddenly showed up, seeing my uniform they escorted me back to base. Some hushed words were exchanged with my lieutenant. The next day I was brought to the front and and brought to the General's quarters. Odd, I was a newly minted warrior, I barely knew the smell of blood yet I was brought in to a meeting with the Supreme Battle Commander. There were several other high ranking officers and three or four Battle Mages present as well. We had only briefly discussed this rarest of Dwarven warrior in our war strategy classes.This was becoming stranger by the minute. I was then briefed on the situation at hand.

The Orcs were destroying us on a daily basis. Our loses were mounting and the situation was grim. My Clan Elders told my superiors of my strange behaviors and I was being observed throughout my training. The night before, in the tavern, confirmed everyone's suspicions. I was a Bezerker, prone to uncontrollable fits of rage. Capable of incredible feats of stregnth. Of course my condition was just starting and it would get far worse the Battle Mages explained. I was not at all fit for the lawful and structured society of Dwarven culture. I had only two choices before me. Use my abnormality for the good of the Clan in battle or cast myself away from the Clanhold never to be seen or known again. In order to uphold my father's and his father's and his father's father's farther's name I chose to throw myself in Battle against the Orc hordes.

Knowing how horrible a fate awaited me the Battle Mages honored me by bestowing upon me two Dwarvenwork Magical Weapons. A Dwarven War Axe, JarUrDoch, Orc Ripper in the common and a Bracer Axe, TorGal, Soul Shield in the common. They bestowed upon me the title of Nal Urt, Honorable BattleRager. So here it was. I was to be used as some secret weapon. Sure they gave me a fancy name, and a couple of good weapons but it was pretty clear to me that they hoped that before I got killed in battle (hence saving the elders the difficulties of exhiling me) I might take out a couple thousand orcs. Well if this was to be my fate so be it.

Off to Battle I went, usually as part of a battle spearhead, a phalanx of warriors with me. That usually lasted for a short period. I would begin to sense the drums in my soul and all fury and hell would break loose. JarUrDoch would sing, TorGal humming in accompaniment and the damned drums driving me madder by the moment. Orc and Goblin flesh would fill the air, blood would fly, hot rank Orc blood, boiling the very ground it would hit. Alas for the sacred Earth, never to produce ore again. Time after time the scene of utter chaos would unfold. Weeks turned to months, the tide of battle turning for the dwarves. Orc bones piling high, ravens and vultures grew fat. Rallying around my battlerages our troops became emboldened. We eventually vanquished the Orc hordes driving them into the sea. Our forces were victorious, grand parties held, parades thrown, I was regarded as a hero. Ulfgar Ungart, NalUrt. The Honorable BattleRager.

I was given a seat on the High Military Command. The elders overlooked my disease. Perhaps the rage could be contained? That thought didn't last long. In meetings of the High Command I had all I could do to contain my Rage. These were not warriors. They were politicians. Mosgrim (lit.beardless, a dwarven insult meaning coward or fool). In short order it became clear to me that I had no place in dwarven society and before my rage could destroy my Clanhold and my ancestors honor I left. I took my few belongings, my weapons and my memories and simply walked away from the Hold. Never to be seen again. Always to be remembered as Nal Urt. Many adventures and many years lead me to the City of Karshum where I lend my skills and services as a mercinary.

An Interlude

2009-02-08T14:30:00.007-05:00

Alayna draws her cloak tightly about her shoulders. She is grateful for it, worn and weather-stained though it may be. Despite the warm, arid climate of Kharschum, there is a sinister chill in this necromancer’s tower that seems to seep from its very stone work itself.

She winces slightly, trying not to let her companions notice her revulsion at the foul odor arising from the slaughtered bodies of the undead monstrosities that attacked them in this room. The horrors had burst forth from the display cases that line the chamber, revolting things, their torsos split open to reveal their glistening, festering entrails. Their eyes had blazed coldly with inhuman intelligence and hatred of the living. Their tongues had been worst of all, two or three feet in length, slithering outward, grey and purplishly veined, sinewy, and spotted with decay. She did not envy Ulfgar, her newest comrade, who had blanched and frozen in his boots after enjoying the terrible intimacy of one such tongue’s unwholesome and invasive caress. What mind would conceive of such aberrations? What foul craft could wrest dead flesh back to life and endow it with such hideous power? Of course she knows the answer to that question. Too well does she know.

Alayna joins her companions in a brief search their surroundings. She carefully steps over a puddle of yellowish fluid that oozes slowly from the fallen undead horrors and surveys the contents of a nearby display case. It contains corpses and body parts in various states of dissection and dismemberment. Skin has been peeled back to reveal muscle and bone. Bodies have been positioned in poses both natural and clinical. Mortal flesh has been forced to surrender its dearest secrets. Eyeballs float in a glass jar. A hand, carefully positioned in a velvet box, lies palm up. A severed head briefly arrests her gaze, its lips and teeth neatly sliced away to leave only a dark orifice rimmed with smooth bone. Its eyes are sewn shut.

One exhibit in particular catches Alayna’s attention.

It is the dissected body of a child, a girl, supported in the display case by an arrangement of metal pins and wires. Its flesh is yellowed and thinly stretched across its frame, preserved by the arts of the embalmer. The body bears a sinister record of atrocities, too numerous to fully contemplate. Alayna is no surgeon, but the procedures undertaken upon this girl could have served no legitimate purpose beyond the darkest and most unspeakable of arts. What hand had held the scalpel that committed this outrage? What cold and pitiless eye had looked on, greedily penetrating the sanctity of this girl’s body? What mind had analyzed, categorized, and meticulously scrutinized this child, cruelly seeking and exposing its most intimate secrets? One could only hope that this awful experiment had been conducted posthumously.

Inevitably, Alayna thinks of her father and remembers the horrible afternoon in Zuwarah several years ago. What she witnessed that day in an outer courtyard of the Black Mages' Keep changed her forever. She touches the clasp that holds her cloak at the neck, a bronze piece, abstract in its design and intricately crafted by the cunning Al- Jawa Gnomes of her homeland.

She had been but a girl then. How foolish of her to run like a silly child. She now understands so much more about magic and its power to alter reality. Ever since her foot had first stepped onto the pier in Scylding Bay, she has been changing. Her powers and her command of sorcery have been growing, slowly at first, now exponentially. Alayna is becoming someone else. Someone stronger, more cunning, harder, tougher. More selfish. More willing to do the things that must be done. Her love of beautiful, finely crafted items, always there since childhood, has matured and blossomed into an almost insatiable desire. And it feels so good to gratify it. Oh yes. The blood of her ancestors is beginning to thrum hot and insistently in her veins, calling her.

Initially, she resisted this call, perceiving these changes as invaders that threatened to swallow up the person she once was like a sweet meat in a dragon’s gullet. But now, she welcomes them. They are not invaders, but rather vestiges of some primordial and essential self, long buried, now returned. She is ashamed to have run like a child at the sight of her father’s animated corpse. Instead of fleeing and losing control, she should have planned her revenge on the necromancer who perpetrated the foul abomination on him. She should have vowed to one day tear his heart from his chest and hold it up, smoking, before his very eyes. That is what would happen today. Yes, Alayna likes what she is becoming. Just as a necromancer can endow lifeless flesh with unimaginable power, so too have the magical forces in her blood been similarly changing her.

And yet . . . such changes always come with a price don’t they? She fingers the clasp at her neck and stares long and hard at the girl in the glass cabinet, her throat going dry. Yes. There is always a price.

Noting her distraction, Hrolff lays a broad hand on her shoulder and gently pulls her from her reverie. “Stay focused witch-girl” he says softly, “There’s more killing to be done.” Alayna quietly thanks him, happy for his friendship, and assumes her place near the back of the party’s marching order. She steels herself and moves quietly with the others toward the stairs. Her green eyes are narrow and alert. Her muscles are tense and ready. Within her belly, she feels the heat of dragon-fire begin to mount, insistent and unrelenting. Though the air is as still as a tomb, her hair begins to stir and float, ever so slightly, moved by the latent energy within her.

But as she approaches the exit, she cannot help but cast one last glance over her shoulder at the girl in the cabinet.

Campaign Update #3. A City, a Tower, and a New Companion

2009-02-07T13:05:00.005-05:00

May 8-9, 2008

As you sailed into Kharschum at dusk on May 8th with the orc barge in tow, you were met by a skiff commanded by a young man named Beghter, who identified himself as an officer of the city guard. He challenged you to identify yourselves and inquired about your business in Kharschum, and Alayna, acting as ambassador for the party, not only answered the questions to Beghter's satisfaction, but impressed him so much with her charm that he became quite friendly, and allowed her to ride with him in the skiff to shore. Beghter and his subordinates towed the Scarlet Lady into berths on the Isle of Shackles, and you disembarked to meet Captain Lazlo, a pompous, rotund officer with a waxed mustache and long, curly hair. Lazlo questioned you himself, and eventually agreed to buy the orc barge and pay you a bounty on the dead orcs, the total of which was 6,000 gold pieces. He directed you to the Sailor's Guild for the reward for returning the Scarlet Lady.

At the Sailor's Guild, you met the bartender, Tolui, a plump, bearded man, and Khasar, head of the guild. Khasar paid you 2,000 gold pieces for the Scarlet Lady's return. You made quite a few new friends friends when Hrolff bought a round of drinks for everyone, and were drinking and telling tales of your voyage from Tigalda when you overhead that there was a fight going down out in the dockyard. When you walked outside to investigate, you saw a dwarf surrounded by four humans and two hobgoblins. As the six thugs closed in on the dwarf and attacked him with their greatclubs, you decided to intervene. After making short work of the thugs, your party had a new member: Ulfgar, a Vidlag barbarian who explained that he had provoked the thugs by winning their money in a card game.

You spent the night at the Sailor's Guild, and the following day, May 9th, you began to explore the Eastern City. You visited a temple of Pelor, and did some shopping in a former temple that is now a flea market. There you purchased a Cure Critical Wounds potion, while Alayna and Kyr liberated a pair of Boots of Elvenkind and an Amulet of Natural Armor +1. The combination of Alayna's sorcery and Kyr's thieving abilities shows interesting potential, to say the least.

You met a blacksmith named Ivan, passed a strange tower that you later learned is inhabited by a wizard named Ogodei, and ventured into the Red Light District, where you spoke to Bruuka, a half-orc pawnbroker who tipped you off that Ophidia, the head of a criminal organization known as the Red Nails, was interested in an item that Ogodei owned. You wandered into the Mask and the Mirror, and discovered that it was owned by none other than Ophidia. After some brief negotiations with Amira, one of Ophidia's subordinates, you agreed to enter the tower and steal an exquisitely-crafted mirror from the wizard, for which Amira offered you 8,000 gold pieces.

After a brief rest at the Sailor's Guild, you returned to the tower and discovered a secret entrance in an adjacent shop named Silks and Sundries. You encountered two traps, one of which sent Kyr plummeting a hundred feet into the web of a huge, monstrous spider. With the help of a Baleful Transposition spell, you easily killed the spider and rescued Kyr. As you ascended the tower, you encountered two flesh golems and two mohrgs, all of which you slew with little trouble. We will pick up next time exactly where we left off: somewhere in Ogodei's tower, with the mirror and any number of dangers on the floors above you.

Experience Points
7th Level Characters: 2,625
8th Level Characters: 2,025

Oh My

2009-02-05T14:29:00.002-05:00

Check out this site. Trust me:

http://www.ultimategamingtable.org/

Let the Hammer Fall

2009-02-04T20:53:00.023-05:00

On the blood slicked deck of The Scarlet Lady sits Hrolff the Houseless, warrior priest of Thor, and third son of Halvard the Unbearded of the Garth of Ǽskill. He is quiet now, calm, concentrating on his work as he carefully stitches a gash in his forearm dealt by a lucky strike from one of the now dead pirates.

A simple prayer of healing would seal the wound with little effort, but Hrolff prefers to do it this way, eschewing such magic unless absolutely necessary. After all, healing prayers leave no scars and if one goes to Thor’s mead hall without battle scars well then . . . what is there to boast and sing of?

His spirits are high and he begins to whistle a tune remembered from youth.

He looks up briefly and catches the eye of his friend Alayna who stands on the ship's forecastle. Her hair, wind tossed, shines copper-red in the sun. The haughty girl, confident and at ease in her beauty, surveys the main deck, her flesh burning with spectral whiteness, her eyes sparkling green and cold as polished malachite. Hrolff enjoys looking at her and gives his eyes free rein. Her body is taught and muscled, yet deliciously rounded, agonizingly so, without being too broad in the beam. He shakes his head. Yes, that witch-girl is truly an art-work made flesh, but she is no mere plaything to be trifled with. The Northman has seen Alayna unleash her witching fires and incinerate men where they stand, melting their flesh like tallow from their bones. Her sorcery also gives her some control over others’ minds, molding thoughts like soft clay freshly dug from the river's bottom. Hrolff grins at her, admiring her lines as she turns back to the prow. Ah yes . . . sorcery indeed.

The Northman, not used the warmer climate, has removed his shaggy homespun cloak and woolen kyrtill. This is just as well as they were substantially fouled with the insides of Orcs. Clad only in his linen under-tunic and felt trousers, he chuckles at the relative ease with which he and his ship mates repelled the pirates. The fight had been a good one and he had relished it. It had felt good to unlimber his muscles, stiff after the weeks at sea, to swing his hammer again, to feel the helms and skulls of his enemies crumple and shatter beneath the brutal weight of the iron sledge.

Happy, he gazes at the sky. Over the last months, the signs have been portending toward something. But what? First, he had recovered an ancient weapon of his race, Sturmhämmer, engraved, etched with sacred runes and consecrated to Thor, it almost hums with power. What great smith forged this hammer many years ago and how had it arrived on that bleak islet on the edge of the world? Could it be pure accident that he, a war priest of Thor, had found it? Then, there was the sudden appearance of Erth, the strange nature priest who speaks with the beasts and the elements and can call lightning from the sky. This ability bespeaks great power and commands deep respect from the Northman.

And what of the sudden and ferocious storm that arose on the voyage from Tigalda Island that fortuitously drove them south faster and more readily than if they had been under sail? Hrolff had heartily enjoyed that gale. During its fury, he strode the deck naked, mounting the forecastle to shout prayers of joy to the Master of Storms. Lashed by the briny spray like a penitent, he had laughed while the sea towered above him and crazed lightning played upon the face of the world. Yes, he suspects the hand of Thor lies in much of this, but to what end? His signs are typically obscure.

The Northman continues to delicately bind his wound. He had been careless, allowing an Orc cutlass to sneak beneath his guard and graze him. Hrolff had countered quickly, squarely catching the rascal in the groin with his boot and then driving him to his knees with a hammer blow to the shoulder. The Northman priest smiles inwardly as he relives the satisfying crunch of the Orc’s body giving way beneath the blow, the scream of agony as flesh and bone were pulverized like grist in the hot and glorious mill of battle. He could not see the pirate’s eyes at that moment, as his foe had turned his howling face deckward, but Hrolff did not need to see that face to know the look that shone in its narrow, hate-rimmed eyes.

He has seen that look many times before on the faces of many other foes, the sudden gut wrenching realization that death has come at last and Hell's maw gapes open. Hrolff had finished him with the hammer’s return stroke, an uppercut that plowed through the wretch’s skull, bursting it like a melon and tossing a crimson arc of gore against the perfect brilliance of the afternoon sky.

Despite the din and clamor of the fighting surrounding him, Hrolff had been arrested by the serendipitous beauty of that image, that striking moment in time, that glorious red arc, gracefully hanging for one long second against the sky like a strange - yet elegantly simple - glyph. It was a rune scribed upon an empty page of blue.

Ah, what joy to be its author.

It is through such writing that we define ourselves, thinks Hrolff. The fates of men and nations are written in signs like this, an alphabet of power, lust, and glory. Perhaps, amidst the scrawl, the scribble, and the tangle of the world’s writings, they comprise our purest language, the only language really worth learning.

He gazes at the smoky haze hanging over approaching Karschum and wonders who else will need schooling in its grammar.

Silverkin Women (aka An Ode to Gor)

2009-02-04T19:06:00.003-05:00

Okay - One more repost...this one brings out a bit of Pangold's family and character for your reading pleasure.

All that Pangold Silverkin learned about women he learned from his father and his father's father. Marshall Silverkin used to tell his sons a moral tale that he had first heard from his father -- of the difference bewteen women and Silverkin women. Pangold remembered his father relishing the retelling of this particular tale. During the long nights of their adventure, Pangold has often though of this story as he carefully considers the features of his new female companions.

Women, the Belcher was notorious for saying, are creatures of equal dignity and equal strength with all men. Women suffer from the same pains as men and women are capable of the same deceits as men. And they were to be treated with the same respect or the same disdain according to the same standards as men. Women are creatures you want fighting at your side in an ambush or securing your rescue from kidnappers. But these are not the kind of creatures you marry.

The kind of woman a Silverkin male ought to marry, said the Belcher to Marshall, and Marshall to Pangold, is the kind that has little more in her head than an easy devotion for all things of her husband. She is the kind of woman who barely thinks for herself but feels guilty for not being worthy of her husband, no matter what his real character or what he really deserves. These women -- for a wide variety of reasons -- find the sum total of their personal satisfaction in pleasing their master. These are women who return to him like a moth to flame no matter how often it gets burnt, and still never dream of placing blame for the pain. The kind of woman you married, if you were a Silverkin man, was hardly a woman at all; she would have to be a Silverkin woman.

Silverkin women will take any abuse and tolerate any indiscretion. Silverkin women always experience their husband's actions, choices, and opinions as more amture and more considered than their own. And Silverkin women never feel good about themselves without feeling they have made their husbands feel good. And that is why Silverkin women are the only women to marry.

These women are out there, the Belcher said to his sons, and his sons said to theirs. Finding them is the ultimate goal in any young male Silverkin's life. But you must look for them carefully, though, as there are many pretenders and imitators. All women will give you the feeling they want to please you during courtship, pronounced the Belcher. But there are clues that will help you find the real Sillverkin women from the mere pretenders. it is better to go without altogether than to be possessed by a woman who is not a Silverkin woman. For Silverkin women are born, not made. At least not made by Silverkin men. And this is all important. He who is happiest, sang the Belcher, is he who can tell the difference between a real Silverkin woman and a woman of the wrong stock.

A real Silverkin woman often has no hobbies or private joys. Although she does not necessarily know it, she is waiting for a master to come along and the vaccuum in her interests. She does not know it yet, but she is waiting to begin existing always and only for him.

A real Silverkin woman often degrades or humiliates herself often without prompting. In his presence she seeks to demonstrate to him the depths of her willingenss to give her self to him. In her mind, the less she is, the more he can become.

A real Silverkin woman does not trust her words to completely express her mind, and often feels compelled to acts of physical servitude in an effort to more completely communicate her desire for him. She sees the use of words as the province of men, and she understands the strength and confidence it gives to men to have her silent in their presence.

And, above all the Belcher stressed, a Silverkin woman experiences her body as a tool for his pleasure, and she looks on his use of it the way the caretaker of lighthouse or tavern might look upon the use of those facilities they've been charged with preseving.

Silverkin women do not make good friends and they do not make for advisors and counsellors. But that is not what the Belcher used to preach and school his sons to want in a wife, unless they wanted ceaseless strife and needless sacrifice their life long. According to the Belcher, the woman to wed is the woman who not only acts the part of the slave, but loves her slavery and sees herself entirely within it.

What is important Silverkin men is that they are not responsible for creating Silverkin women. They just happen to be clever enough to know that they exist out there to be discovered, like rare strands of wheat growing in the wild, waiting to be plucked. So what could possibly be wrong with making the choice to marry a slave who freely chooses her slavery?

That Pangold did once think he had found his Silverkin woman is a tale for another time. But today he continues his search. And almost without exception he has not seen anything remotely like a Silverkin woman since the party left Saxony.

The Clan of Legend, or How the Dwarf Got His Name (Repost)

2009-02-04T00:49:00.003-05:00

...While I'm a touch short on time and inspiration, I hope you all don't mind but I'd like to repost one of my first Olwe Lorearthen historiographies so our new commrades can get to know the stout and often quiet dwarf.

As a boy, Olwe Lorearthen was told his people's name-story exactly three times a year at the major holidays and festivals, and twice in quick succession every other vernal equinox, just for good measure. That makes 120 tellings that Olwe has committed to a memory so deep he can feel it’s telling in his hands. It was a table ritual of his father, begun long before Olwe could remember. During these performances, it was his father’s custom to stand in front of his seated audience, whoever that audience might be, and enchant them with the lore about the Clan Lorearthen - the Clan of Legend, the only clan of Dwarfs ever to produce blade-wielding magic users called Duskblades. For Olwe's father, Thorry, who was himself a direct descendant of Paxon the Younger, the tale of the origins of the Lorearthen clan was close to his heart, for his kin played an important role in the story of how the Lorearthen Dwarfs got their name. And in those quiet moments while still getting accustomed to his new friends, Olwe often turns inside himself and finds comfort recalling his father's every word.

The Time Before History

My friends, I beg you. Let us all listen with the ears of children; for my story is your story. Your name-story. It is the story of your noble ancestors, who live on today in our veins as well as in our song. And it is the story of all stories, for it is the story of the beginning of history. For the glorious family Lorearthen, history begins with the Three Brothers. For before the days of the Second Rebellion, we had no name, and, therefore, we had no history.

So it is with the great date of the Second Rebellion that you might think our story should properly begin. But please let us not be too hasty to make a beginning. And so, I beg you, trust with the ears of children when I tell you that our story begins with the Three Brothers who, in turn, have their beginnings in the whispers.

Yes, there is no history before Paxon the Older, Hexil, and Paxon the Younger, at least where the Lorearthen's are concerned. But there are tales that have come up through the ages and some have even lingered in the present; whispers of our people and of the origins of our most sacred gift. Some of these whispers tell us that the earliest of our kin were captured by the legions in the dark days of the world, nearly 800 years before the Second Rebellion. The world was a dark place then, just as it is today. But the darkness that covered every corner of that ancient world was that of the shadow of a centurion's boot in your face.

Out of mountain crevice and cranny, our Dwarf kin were seized, one by one at times, at others whole families sold to the Romans by marauding orcs or victorious armies, or even by some power-hungry and greedy Dwarf kings. And for years the men, women, and children of our race were forced to work as slaves in the mines of that old world power. With the passing of years and the irresistible force of military necessity, however, the whispers speak of our kin being trained as formidable warriors and given great gifts from the elves in return for their continuing devotion and their willingness to help extend Rome's cruel and merciless grip on all free peoples of the Drowned World.

There are also other, different whispers; tales of our kin captured and enslaved whilst living amongst the the remote elves of Gaul. Living in a perfect harmony with these elves, our foremothers and fathers were initiated into their ancient rites, and bred into the traditions of the "armed mage", becoming over the generations that rare combination of physical strength and stamina with an intuitive connection to the arts of the arcane that in the common speech is called simply the Duskblade. And it was this rare sight - a clan of Dwarf duskblades - that proved too much to resist for the murderous, plundering Roman legions.

The First and Second Rebellions

Imagine our people, my listeners, under such conditions. Can it be called a Dwarfing life? Imagine them in chains or in armor, however you choose. Is this the life of a true dwarf? A captive or a wandering thug in open country, or both at once? To their lives and their sacrifices so that we may live a life of freedom under the mountain in true flourishing, we owe a great debt. Help me repay that debt by listening to the last whisper.

For we know that the glorious revolution lead by our own forefathers was not the first attempt to bring our people out of the bondage of avarice and rage and willful pillagery imposed by the Roman filth. Even our great father, Paxon the Younger, spoke to his family about the deeds of one dwarf, known simply as "X", paying great homage in his speeches and valedictions to the great dwarf without a name.

In the heat of a difficult battle that took place at a time now lost in the mists of the past, the great X is said to have turned his magic power and his noble blade sharp and true on the neck the human general, Posthumous, after enduring endless days and nights of bloody drills and and unspeakable abuses at his hand. For his action, the line of X was exterminated, down the youngest son, daughter, and grandchild. Each of the young murdered as all others were forced to stand at attention. Every possession which bore the name of X was ordered destroyed; every object that signified his very existence obliterated. And, in the last insult, our kin and kith were forbade forever more to commit their speech to writing, as a penalty fitting the collective guilt of their kind. They were to become the forgotten ones, those who exist only in dreams of the past.

And it almost happened as they planned, my dears ones. Never forget that. And never let your children children forget it. But for the noble actions of the three brothers, in the year 1000, our people and our gift would have been lost from the world forever. It must be said that our people flourished during the long years after the First Rebellion, their numbers swelling with each new generation until they had reached that most magnificent of numbers, One Thousand. One thousand strong, our forebears stood advanced positions in the well-choreographed Roman system of war. Battle after battle and siege after siege our people proved themselves courageous, fleet of hand and foot, and indefatigably resolute. As the Roman centurions would advance to secure a hillside or crash entrenched positions, the brave corps of Dwarf Duskblades proved themselves indispensable for their appearance would often draw out hidden targets into open combat, leaving themselves completely vulnerable to the instant cascade of brilliant missiles and rays that descended upon them, engulfing them in a storm of searing pain and certain death.

But the story of X was never completely forgotten. On the occasion of the fall of their mother and father in the battle, the brothers Paxon, Hexil, and Xanven made great speeches to the crowds, stirring incantations which curdled their blood and rallied our dear desperate people in opposition against their legion and the Roman way of the world. The Three Brothers called on the motivating spirit of X, and led our people through great trials of fierce combat, to secure their freedom from tyranny. These are the great battles we still celebrate today as the Feast of the Rocky Cliff, the Feast of the Glorious Retreat, and the Eve of the Night Walkers. The three great brothers led our people through these trials, and out across the great fields where nary a tree stands nor rock casts shadow for miles. As they crossed the endless field and valley, it was only with the supreme wisdom of the Three Brothers that final defeat came to the Romans at last. While the Red Plague slept in their tents under the open sky, our foremothers and forefathers severed their heads and spilled their entrails, and spread their ashes to the winds; destroying all markings that would serve to give their victims names beyond death. But this great defeat of the mighty Romans on the Eve of the Night Walkers came at a great cost. For it was during this last struggle that the brave and noble Paxon was struck down by a lone arrow, leaving our people without a leader.

Xanven, the youngest of the Three Brothers, took up his brother's charge and armor, and led our people - our now free people - into the lands beyond the valley. And it is here our story passes fully into our history, for on the other side of the valley lay the deep and age old mountain fortress of the Mineshadow Clan; our neighbors in life and and work and death still today. And although our numbers at the Great Reunion were a precious few - only 150 beautiful souls were destined to carry our glory into eternity - today we cannot even begin to count our real numbers as our lives and our loves and our blood have become so interwoven with our gracious saviors and hosts. Adopting the family name Paxon, Xanven made the deep mountain home of the Mineshadow Clan our home. And on the first anniversary of the death of his oldest brother, Paxon the Younger declared our name to be 'Lorearthen' - the name our hosts gave to us when we had told them of our story and of the whispers that I have now passed on to you.

And you, members of the Clan of Legend all; and you, my children and children children, equal members of the great house of Paxon the Younger: This is your legacy so take heart and take heed. Keep their names alive in your memory. Keep their glory alive through your deeds.

Campaign Update #2. Voyage to Kharschum

2009-02-01T10:24:00.005-05:00

March 20, 2008 - May 8, 2008

The evening began as the party boarded the Scarlet Lady, a modest, 3-masted coracle with a masthead of a woman in a flowing red gown. As the characters climbed onto deck, they became aware of a gnawing fear that seemed to permeate the ship. A search of the captain's quarters yielded his logbook, which described a long and fearful voyage north, during which most of the crew became increasingly afraid of something that they sensed below deck, and began to abandon the ship, despite the fact that they had little hope of surviving in the stormy northern waters. The logbook revealed that a storm had pushed the scarlet Lady far north, and that the captain and his few remaining crew had anchored the ship in the shallow bay of the spired island and abandoned it.

The logbook also revealed that the Scarlet Lady had previously made a voyage to Zuwarah, in Iberia, to deliver a cargo of slaves. In Zuwarah, an eminent figure named Lord Bataar had boarded the ship for the return to Kharschum. Pangold pointed out that the seemingly ancient, leather-bound volume the party found in the Northmen's trash heap mentioned someone named "Bataar the Heartless." Could this be coincidence?

As the party explored the lower decks of the ship, it encountered what appeared to be a shifting mass of shadowy ooze. The party positioned itself around the hatch through which the ooze appeared, and dispatched it quickly. The monster was a living spell - a Living Unholy Blight, to be specific - and had apparently killed the slaves that the party found in the lower hold. How it was created, and by whom, remains in question.

While searching the hold, the party discovered that some of the slaves had carved their names and messages into the punky wood of the hull. One of those names was "Cinna Albarran," Alayna's mother.

The party searched the island, which was little more than a rugged, scrubby ridge that rose out of the ocean, and discovered what appeared to be an abandoned campsite beneath a rocky overhang. As the characters searched through the campers' meager possessions, it was attacked by three undead, which turned out to be Icegaunts, and may have once been the captain and two surviving crew members. After a pitched battle, during which Hrolff managed to turn one of the Icegaunts, the party prevailed and returned to the ship.

The characters then had to wait several weeks for the ice to break up and disperse. Fortunately, the Scarlet Lady was well-supplied, so their stay was reasonably comfortable, save for one night when they were attacked by a troll, which taunted the characters and dared them to emerge from the ship. "Come out, little ones," it growled seductively, "Come out and play." The troll lept onto deck when the characters refused to leave the ship, and another battle ensued. The party again prevailed, and after disposing of the troll's hacked and charred corpse, returned to its winter quarters and its long wait.

By April 15, the sea was clear enough to sail, so with Inaki at the help, the party weighed anchor and sailed south, toward the slaver city of Kharschum. The voyage was long, but with the exception of one ferocious storm that actually drove the ship more quickly to the south than if it had been under sail, it was uneventful until the party reached the Gish River Delta. After winding its way through the maze of channels and bays for several days, the party was attacked by a party of orc pirates, which used a Disguise Ship spell to approach the Scarlet Lady. The orcs brought their vessel alongside the Scarlet Lady and began boarding, while a bare-breasted orc sorceress assaulted the defenders with spells. This battle was the longest and hardest of the night, but through a combination of tenacity and ingeneuity, the party again prevailed.

The party sailed on, until the low-slung, hazy skyline of Kharschum came into view. What will the party discover once it docks and begins to explore the city? What adventures await in the infamous city of slavers and scoundrels? This Friday, we will find out.

Experience Points:
5,550 for 7th level characters
6,514 for 6th level characters

A New Beginning?

2009-01-31T18:51:00.011-05:00

The smell of blood and burning flesh hangs heavily over the deck of The Scarlet Lady. Only moments earlier, the air rang with the screams of the dying, but now, calm has fallen over the scene of carnage. Floating down gracefully through the smoke and haze, Alayna Alberran alights upon the bloodstained boards. Her face is calm. She begins to move down the length of the ship toward the bow, nimbly picking her way through the severed limbs and spilled entrails that cover the deck. With a smirk, she uses the toe of her well crafted doeskin boot to nudge the dismembered hand of an Orc Pirate over the edge of the gunwale and into the sea.

Alayna mounts the fo’c’s’le and proceeds to the bowsprit. In the distance, the great city of Karshum awaits, like a smear of filth on the horizon. She breaths deeply, enjoying and welcoming the temperate weather that she has sorely missed for many long months. It is good to finally have the frigid northern climes and the bleak sunless days behind her. She has discarded her fur lined cloak for the time being and wears only her green velvet bodice and trousers, snug and slung low on her hips. The sun caresses her flesh, pale and flawless as the finest ivory. The breeze, vaguely laced with the tang of spices from the distant port, stirs her lustrous red hair.

The past few weeks have been a torment for her, but now she feels calm and resolute. Ever since she discovered that her mother, Cinna, had been taken as a slave and held within the very ship upon which her daughter now stands, Alayna has wrestled with many conflicting emotions. When not needed on deck, Alayna spent most of the long and stormy voyage from Tigalda brooding below. Now, however, she knows the time for brooding is over.

As she gazes upon the scene before her, Alayna’s fingers inadvertently stray to the scale of brass that hangs about her neck, safe on its leather thong, nestled between her ample breasts. She traces the edge of this cherished item with her finger tip and thinks of her mother.

So much has changed in the last year. Tigalda has taught her so much. Strange as it may sound, that weathered rock on the edge of the world had taught her more than she had ever learned in ghost haunted Zuwarah, the city of her birth. In Zuwarah, she had been a victim, living in fear, hoping for the best. When her magical abilities manifested themselves, she knew that it had been time to leave. On Tigalda, she had finally been forced to admit to herself that her mother and all of the women in her family had been fools. Clinging to miserable and meager lives, hoping for better days to come, refusing to take the initiative and seize control of their own destinies, they deserved what they got in a very real sense. Even her great grandmother Chessa, the one who had coupled with a dragon and given Alayna her sorceress heritage and powers, had ultimately been a mere pawn and plaything for that mighty beast.

It had taken the nightmarish horrors of Tigalda to teach her that one must act upon life before it acts upon you, that one must take what they want and never show remorse about it. On that bleak rocky island, Alayna had vowed to break all ties with the past. She would live for herself and no one else. When she and Kier had robbed that foolish magician in Cold Harbor, she had realized her new path in life. A lust had awoken in her on that day, a lust that she intended to satiate.

Then, in a most incredibly improbable coincidence, her mother appeared. How could it be possible that here, at the almost opposite end of the world from Iberia, Alayna would again cross paths with Cinna Alberran? Such an unlikely coincidence can only be the work of Fate admonishing the young sorceress for her decision to live according to her new found principles of selfishness.

Well, as far as Alayna is concerned, Fate can go to hell and it can bring her mother along.

As much as it pains her, she will not lift a finger to free her mother. It is not that she wishes her ill by any means or that she does not hope for Cinna a speedy release from bondage. But everyone has their troubles in this world and Alayna refuses to be bullied by fate into renouncing her true destiny. Cinna has simply traded one form of slavery for another.

Rask, also enjoying the warmer climate, crawls from his pouch at Alaya’s hip and twists around her arm, slowly climbing until his tiny wedged shaped head is level with her neck. His tongue, dry as ancient parchment, lightly and sensuously caresses her earlobe. Alayna smiles with pleasure, enjoying this small affection from her loyal servant. A long gentle swell slowly lifts the ship beneath her. The timbers creak.

Again, she regards the city of Karshum looming before her, filled with wonder and possibilities. Within that city are thousands of fools willing to be separated their coin. Within that city are thousands of adventures for those bold enough to have them. Within that city are thousands of sensual delights to be enjoyed, slowly and luxuriously. This is surely no place to be with ones mother. Besides, Cinna would not likely understand what her daughter Alayna has become and, to be honest, Alayna does not relish the prospect of explaining it to her. No, that is an explanation that will not be made. The past is dead and will remain so. She is very sorry for her mother, so very sorry. But to follow her new path, she knows she must be hard and unyielding as cold forged iron.

She turns, leans against the weathered and paint peeled railing of the bowsprit, and regards the blood stained decks below her. Her comrades are busy preparing for their imminent arrival in port. Hrolff sits cross legged on an anchor chain windlass, his face and beard spattered with the blood and the brains of Orcs. The brawny Northman carefully sutures a gash in his forearm with a needle and a length of twisted catgut, whistling some strange and haunting melody from his distant and ice rimed homeland. Perhaps sensing her gaze, Hrolff looks up and flashes her a broad and gore-besmeared grin. Alayna laughs, infected by her friend’s good spirits, and turns back to the railing to stare across the greenish, silt filled waters of the Gish Delta. She feels Hrolff’s eyes exploring the shapely terrain of her backside and smiles.

“Ah Rask” she says to the glossy black serpent still nuzzling her ear, “Isn’t it good to be alive?”

Seafaring in the Drowned World

2009-01-26T17:03:00.000-05:00

It should be no surprise that in this world fragmented by rising seas, travel by water is an essential means of transportation. Whether it is casks of olives and amphorae of wine from Armorica, timber and wool from Caledonia, or slaves and contraband from Uyghuria, anything that travels anywhere in the Drowned World does so by water. On a clear summer day in one of the busy shipping lanes, a captain can stand atop the sterncastle of his ship and see uneven lines of sails dotting the distances ahead and behind.

Although the level of technology throughout Drowned World is more or less comparable to that of our own late medieval period, shipbuilding and sailing have advanced much further, to a level that far exceeds the apex of sailing technology in our own world. Even the simplest types of craft, such as the open-hulled longships of the Northmen and the sealhide coracles that ply the waters between the Nethyian Isles, ride the winds and waves with surprising grace. The finest examples of sailing vessels - Hibernian schooners and elven wingships - travel with almost supernatural ease. Unlike so many other things in the Drowned World, however, it is not due to magic, but rather to highly evolved technology and skilled craftsmen.

Despite these technological advantages, seafaring in the Drowned World is still a dangerous undertaking. There are, of course, any number of meterological dangers: sudden storms, waterspouts and fierce cyclonic storms are common in the warm, shallow waters that cover much of the Drowned World, and the blue waters of the Northern and Western Oceans are notoriously treacherous. In the heat of summer, some of the shallower waters become so clogged with beds of kelp and sargasso that ships foul their rudders and become trapped. Many fall prey to orc marauders, or to the swarms of sahuagin that boil from the depths to overwhelm ships and slaughter their hapless crews. In the deep waters of the Northern Ocean, storm-battered ships can be split asunder by submerged icebergs, or attacked by raiding parties of Coelegath. Some vessels simply disappear into the foggy vastness.

Established shipping lanes are the safest places to travel, as they are generally patrolled by warships of lawful kingdoms such as Burgundia and Brittania. These safe routes are mostly confined to the Central Sea and the Gulf of Brittania, where the majority of the Drowned World's commerce is found. Other waters are far more dangerous. The Drowned Plains, which border Uyghuria to the north and the Gull's Neck to the east, are generally considered the most dangerous waters in the world, for they encompass the Lost Archipelago, a locus of smuggling and piracy, and also the Gish Delta, home to several powerful orc tribes, as well as a major artery of the Uyghurian slave trade.

If your party is to return to civilization, it must sail through some of these waters. Good luck, and godspeed...

Next Session

2009-01-24T18:21:00.000-05:00

It appears that if we were to play either night next weekend, we would be missing at least one person, so I suggest we play the following weekend, on Saturday, February 7th. Is everyone game?

Campaign Update #1. Epilogue to Tigalda

2009-01-23T22:56:00.000-05:00

As the long dark of the polar winter finally began to wane, your party, determined to end its exile on Tigalda Island, set off to find some means of returning to the settled world. You were joined by two new members: Erth, a human druid who had fought with Ord-laf during the dark days of Hengest's reign; and BraveSlayer, an exiled goliath who had made his way to Tigalda over the sea ice. Your party first investigated the marooned ship that had carried your reinforcements, but found that it had been damaged beyond repair by the shifting and heaving of the sea ice. The shattered hull had apparently served as a camp for two ogres who met a tragic end there. Judging from the tracks that you found, those ogres were killed and devoured by a troll, whose tracks led to and from the woods on the shore.

As you returned to the shore from the ship, you were met by what appeared to be a desperate grugach. His son, he explained, had been taken by the troll, and he begged you to follow him to the troll's lair to rescue the boy. Thanks to BraveSlayer's intuition, however, you discovered that the grugach was actually a disguised hag. After a brief battle, the hag fled into the forest. Inakai and Erth tracked the hag up a gorge into an enormous amphitheatre in which there appeared to be a small cabin. The cabin was an illusion, however, and the party suddenly found itself up against a hag warlock and three ogres. A desperate battle ensued, during which BraveSlayer nearly lost his life facing down the three ogres by himself, and Kier Tuttlewynde took down an ogre with quick a feint and crushing blow from his gnome hooked hammer. The battle would have been far more desperate had Hrolff the Houseless not grappled the hag and held her fast, preventing her from raking the party with her eldritch blasts. As hrolff slowly crushed the life from the hag, Inakai and Alayna kept up a steady barrage of arrows and magic missiles, while Pangold Silverkin drew two ogres away with a risky bluff and dispatched one of them with Unferth's Bane. In the end, your party prevailed without loss of life, save for Erth's unlucky wolf companion and a brown bear that the druid summoned.

After camping for the night, you pressed on and soon discovered a small grugach village in one of the island's the northwest bays. You were welcomed warmly, and while you drank and rested, the elves described a ship that they said was marooned on an island some four days to the west. The island was unmistakable, for its peak was a narrow spire of rock that could be seen a day's journey away.. The following morning, you set out across the sea ice, through the ruptured maze of ridges and sudden leads of deep blue water. On the first night, you were attacked by a a dire polar bear who must have caught your scent as it hunted across the sea ice. After a harrowing battle, your party prevailed again, and moved on the following morning.

The following day, you passed a strange encampment on a tiny island, where three northmen were living in a hut that they had improvised from their overturned boat. After Alayna cast an invisibility spell on him, Kier investigated the camp. Inside the hut, he saw three bedraggled northmen sitting around their meager fire, and, at the end of the hut, something piled beneath some moldered furs. When he investigated the northmen's rubbish midden on the island's ridge, he found a number of humanoid bones that had clearly been scored by knives, and a leather-bound booklet, which contained only one partial page. On that torn page the following was written: “And so it was that Bataar the Heartless drove Guyuk and his stout folk across the plains into the River Gish, where it meets with sea. Many drowned. Guyuk and the survivors took refuge in the Keep of Kipchak. Bataar crossed the river, surrounded the keep, and two days later broke down the walls. But Guyuk had made a pact with some sinister darkness…”

Three days later, you found the ship, a two masted schooner named The Scarlet Lady, resting in a shallow bay of the spired island, just as the grugach had described. You are now camped on the ice at the mouth of the bay, readying to explore the ship.

Right now, there are more questions than answers. Who were those northmen? Castaways? Exiles? Does the cryptic passage in that book mean anything? To whom does The Scarlet Lady belong, and how did it get here? What will you find when you board and begin to explore? These are all questions that remain unanswered.

Thank you all for your patience and enthusiasm. I can't wait to play again!

EXPERIENCE POINTS
6th Level Characters (including BraveSlayer): 3,675 XP
7th Level Characters: 2888 XP

Campaign Update #24 (by Ironbeard)

2009-01-23T22:55:00.001-05:00

Farewell Aeschere

On February 19 in the year 1051 by Hrothgar Reckoning the following notification was posted on the public boards in the Town of Farholme. It appeared in all of the major taverns—Ashodel’s, The River Shark and the Copper Bell—as well as the Market Square:

“Be it known by all good citizens of the Free and Self Governed Township of Farholme that, as of yesterday, February 18 in the year One Thousand and Fifty Two by Hrothgar Reckoning, the most notable Heroes of Gwudd Hill have returned from their mission of Vengeance, Retribution, and Reckoning undertaken against our enemies in the Kingdom of Blixt.

The aforementioned Heroes have slain our foe, Baron Malsvir, wrought great Havoc, and made much mischief for the dragon born foes who live across the Gulf of Orm.
Their mission was not without sorrow and tragedy, however, as only two of their original six members survived their fateful and historic mission.

May the Blessings of Pelor and Heironeous shine forever upon the Heroes of Gwudd Hill.”

In the wake of your return, the following things are happening in Farholme.

1. Lord Mayor Aglivale, spokesman for the High Council of the Farholme has asked if Prince Hoondaarh’s hide can be hung outside of the Town Hall as a testament to your bravery. Few citizens of Farholme have ever seen a dragon.

2. The High Council has also voted to give three modest stone houses to you as gifts in addition to platinum pieces that you earned. The houses, which sit atop Weather Rock Hill, Farholme’s most prestigious neighborhood, are intended to entice you to make Farholme a semi-permanent base of operations.

3. Several local Bards are already busy composing songs and odes documenting your achievements. One Bard, Caronwyn of Baedelwort’s Alley, has already penned a rather moving lament chronicling Aeschere’s fall in battle against Prince Hoondaarh. She plans to debut her lament, entitled “The Broken Bow,” on February 20 at Ashodel’s.

4. Several other adventuring companies have expressed their own interest in traveling to Blixt in search of treasure and dragon hides as soon as the spring thaws arrive. The Green Cloaks, The Red Swords and Farholme Four, are some of the more noteworthy companies that have expressed such plans. The High Council plans to meet on the First of March in order to discuss the possibility of providing full or partial funding for such expeditions. You can expect to be invited to contribute to these discussions.

5. Tranna plans on taking employment as a weaver in the shop of Aaethne of East Way, Farholme’s most well known weaver. She is utterly heartbroken and devastated about Aeschere’s death.

6. Yrryg of Canaladaer Keep, who happened to be in Farholme for your return, offers Tilo 1,000 gold pieces if he will write an account of his adventures in Blixt and beyond, a travelogue of sorts. He believes that such work would be in great demand and would find itself copied numerous times by the scribes of the Hrothgar.

Well done everyone!

4,669 xp per PC

Anya's Story

2009-01-23T22:54:00.001-05:00

[It is late. The companions huddle around their small fire as the barren forest around them creaks in the wind. Anya pulls her drab woolen cloak tighter around her, gazes at her companions’ shadow-streaked faces, and begins to speak.]

You have been so kind to me, and have shared your stories with me, yet I have told you nothing of myself. It is not because I don’t trust you. We have faced death together several times since you welcomed me into your group, and already I owe you my life several times over. No, I trust you without reservation. My fear is that you will not trust me once you know of my past.

I was born in Throddenoth, the youngest daughter of a humble baker. Life was never easy, but my parents managed to provide for us by working day and night. I never realized how hard that was for them. There was always someone to pay for the priviledge of staying in business, always some petty noble to lay claim to what little profit my parents saw. But I was a child, and my parents sheltered me from those aspects of life as best they could. I had food to eat, a bed in the small apartment behind the bakery in which we lived, and I had my guardian and my best friend. I had my sister, Afa.

Yes, the cleric you spoke of, the priestess of Demogorgon, was once my older sister. I say was because she is no longer the same person. My sister was very different from the woman whose temple you raided, who sent you on that desperate mission to the Abyss. How she transformed from the loving sister I knew to the person she is now I know not. I was not there to witness it.

My childhood came to an abrupt end one winter night. We were all asleep in our common bedroom when we were startled awake by a loud crash from the front of the building. My father leapt up, grabbed the dagger that he kept by his bed, and ran toward the noise. My mother ordered Afa and me to hide.

There was a loose floorboard between our beds. Afa and I liked to crawl through the hole, and crouch beneath the building and play. We hid little treasures that we found there. I jumped out of bed and pulled up the floorboard. As I wriggled through the opening, I heard my father’s voice in the other room. It was loud, frightened. Then a louder cry, and a dull thud against the floor.

What happened next will be burned into my memory until I die. My mother screamed. Someone replaced the floorboard above me. I groped around for Afa – she had been right behind me – but she was not there. I heard my mother cry out, pleading, and then another thud, this one directly above me. Then I felt something warm and wet. It was my mother’s blood, dripping onto me through the floorboards.

I do not know how long I cowered there. I remember the light of dawn graying the room above me, the silhouette of my mother’s form taking shape above me through the chinks, and cracks of sunlight through the floorboards. When I finally emerged, I found both of my parents dead, their throats cut, their eyes fixed blindly on the ceiling. Afa was gone. Nothing else, save the front door that the intruders had broken to get in, was disturbed. Even the lockbox behind the counter was there, with a handful of silver pieces inside.

I was on my own after that. Because I was so young, I had no rights to the bakery, not that I would have wanted to stay there anyway, or been able to run the business on my own. I became a street waif, stealing my bread and sleeping in the tunnels beneath the city, or in the backs of blind alleyways. I learned how to steal, how to become invisible to the people I took from. I learned how to bluff my way out of the most desperate situations, how to distract a others’ attention while I slipped away or filched a piece of fruit of loaf of bread.

As I grew older and began turning into a young woman, however, it became harder to remain invisible, particularly to men. Many of the girls that I shared the streets with began to sell themselves to these men; the money was easier than filching and pickpocketing, and one didn’t have to worry about about dodging the city guard. I was never interested in making my living that way. Not only did I find the men who frequented the city’s prostitutes repulsive – anybody with any money went to a brothel, and only the dregs of Throddenoth used the street girls - I also saw the hidden price of the easy money. Girls disappeared with alarming frequency, and others got so terribly illI that their young bodies withered into those of old women. Instead, Iearned to take advantage of men in a slightly different way. I would win a man’s trust by pretending to be a prostitute, and then rob him before he even had a chance to unbuckle his trousers. Men, I found, were easy victims when they craved sex; if a man was also drunk, robbing him was ridiculously easy.

It was very lucrative. I was able to eat and dress well, and let a room above a shop. It was also very risky, though I did not realize it at the time, drunk as I was with the money and excitement. It was a dank November night when it happened. I was walking down an empty street with a man toward what I had told him was my room. I had already liberated his purse, and was waiting for my opportunity to flee. When we passed a narrow alley, I made my move.

I pressed myself close to him, smiled up at him flirtatiously, and asked if he would excuse me for just a second while I slipped into the alley to relieve myself. The bluff had worked dozens of times; by the time the unhappy fellow got impatient and went into the alley to find me, I would be blocks away. But not this time. As I turned to go, his hand tightened around my arm. “You’re not going anywhere,” he hissed, “until you earn the coin that you took from my belt.”

I tried to escape, but there was no chance. He was a big man, with huge hands and thick, ropey forearms, and I would be hard-pressed to escape today, let alone then, when I was a fourteen year old waif. He dragged me into the alley and beat me. Then he raped me on the wet cobblestones. When he was finished, he beat me again and left me for dead.

I awoke in a small room, lit by a smoky oil lamp on an upturned barrel. I was in a bed, covered in heavy woolen blankets. My whole body throbbed with pain. From the heaviness of the air , I could tell that I was underground, probably somewhere in the tunnels beneath the city. I don’t know how long I drifted in and out of consciousness, but at some point a woman entered the room through a doorway behind me. She bent over me, smiled, and placed her hand on my forehead. As she whispered what sounded like a prayer of some kind, I felt an intense warmth seeping through my body, filling me with strength, melting the cold pulse of pain.

I later found out that I had been found by a member of Heaven’s Shadow, a group of thieves and clerics who worshipped Olidamarra, the god of rogues and tricksters. The woman who had healed me, Morganna, was the group’s leader. Heaven’s Shadow was a charitable organization of sorts, which accepted unwilling donations from the city’s rich and powerful and redistributed the wealth to the city’s poor. Some members were tricksters and con artists, some were burglars and pickpockets, and others, like Morganna, were clerics of Olidamarra who used the deity’s powers to the same ends as the other members. What struck me as most unusual, however, was that each member of Heaven’s Shadow had sworn a vow of poverty. Their lives were deliberately austere so that they could give as much as possible to the poor.

There was one thing I was never trusted with, and that was knowledge of what everyone called the Dark Item. It was a magical object of some sort that the group guarded, but seldom spoke about. Some members refused to speak of it at all, while others seemed to fear it.

I had nowhere to go, so once I recovered, I stayed with Heaven’s Shadow. I was grateful that they had saved me, and was happy to help with the menial tasks that everyone shared, such as cooking, cleaning, and running errands. As the members’ trust in me grew, and as they realized that I posessed some skills of my own, I was allowed to help distribute the purses of silver and gold to the poor, a task that required no small amount of discretion. Morganna took an interest in me, and began teaching me about Olidamarra and his role among the gods. The more I learned, the more my interest grew, until one day, Morganna told me that the god favored me, and that she would like to initiate me as a priestess of Olidamarra.

The next few years were some of the happiest of my life. The excitement and danger that I had so loved while living on the streets was now infused with purpose, and shared with a group of people who had become my surrogate family. I realized that my past suffering had a purpose, for it had led me to where I now was, and had shaped and hardened me for the trials I would have to endure as I worked to mitigate suffering and undermine the corrupt aristocracy of Throdennoth.

One day, while I was on my way back to the caverns after distributing purses, I stopped to watch some jugglers and acrobats. I was transfixed – I had always loved public performances – and was startled to hear someone speak my name. I turned and froze in disbelief. Though she had changed over the years, I immediately recognized my sister. We embraced, both of us tearful and speechless.

We went to a tavern to talk, but the conversation was strangely uncomfortable. Afa told me that she had indeed been kidnapped from our home that night, and that she had spent the years since as a slave in an aristocratic household, but she seemed unwilling to say anything more, and quickly turned the conversation to me. I noticed a tattoo on her wrist when she took a drink – she was wearing a loose-fitting blouse that covered nearly all of her skin – but when I asked about it, she became very evasive. We parted on good terms, and agreed to meet again.

Two nights later, our home beneath the city was attacked. Most of the attackers were men and women dressed in long robes, but one was a terrifying, shadowy creature that seemed to drain the life from anyone it touched. We fought hard, but our attackers were strong, and they had taken us by surprise. I took one attacker down with my daggers – a foul-looking man with half his nose missing – but someone struck me from behind. As I lost consciousness, I saw my companions, my family, dying around me.

How I survived, I do not know. I somehow regained consciousness long enough to cure myself. Everyone, including Morganna, was dead. The vault where we stored the Dark Item was breached and empty. I was tortured with questions. Was it my fault? Had my meeting with afa caused this? I wandered the streets after that, bereft and hopeless. Had I not met you, I do not know where I would be today. And even more importantly, I would not know what really happened that night.

I must face my sister again. With you by my side, I can find the courage and hope to do that. My only question to you is, do you still trust me?

Campaign Update #23. RIP Ardyth (by Ironbeard)

2009-01-23T22:53:00.000-05:00

Campaign Time: January 28 - February 8 1052 HR

And then there were three. Three original members of the Heroes of Gwudd Hill, that is. On January 28 of the year 1052 by Hrothgar Reckoning, Ardyth Lou was slain in the North Hills by “Mother Gray,” a Cave Hag of great infamy. He was felled in the valiant attempt to rescue Tranna, a trusted friend and travelling companion.

Ardyth was killed by a Phantasmal Killer spell, an enchantment that produces an illusory manifestation of one’s worst, most horrific, innermost fears. Interestingly, Ardyth’s worst fear, the nightmare that had haunted more than any other, was the pack of zombies that killed Feng Volen in the ruined village of Kettlemynde. Thus, in a way both Ardyth and Feng, the last original member to die, were killed by the same thing.

Spooky huh.

I for one will miss Ardyth and his flashing scimitars very much.

So when are we playing again?

Experience:
10th Level PC: 500
9th Level PCs: 675

Campaign Update #22 (by Ironbeard)

2009-01-23T22:50:00.000-05:00

After a long and desperate fight, the party killed Lum the Relentless, a bluespawn godslayer bounty hunter.

I'm sorry that I don't have time for a full update, but here's the experience point totals from our last session. I had a great time. Thank you all.

Experience:
10th level PCs: 2,700
9th level PCs: 3,645
8th level PCs: 4,320

In Defense of Chaos (by Post Festum)

2009-01-23T22:49:00.001-05:00

The evening after successfully casting his first two teleportation spells, Tilo Greenbottle permitted himself a minor celebration of imbibery and extended repose. As the crisp evening under the stars passed, now far away from the city skyline of Throdenoth, Tilo felt his head begin to clear. And as it did, a new series of questions began to intrude into the mind of this little halfling.

As he found himself growing in skill as a magic user, the sheer wonder of what he now was able to accomplish was beginning to sink home. If hidden in the potential of the veins of magic that crisscross the universe was the ability to instantly transport matter and energy across time and space with exacting precision, then what wonders could it not possibly create? Learning to fly is no doubt a moment of wonder for all magic users who accomplish it. But it is experienced only as an extension or heightening of one's earlier way of life. Teleportation and telekinesis. These are most fundamentally different experiences. They are not felt as simply being more powerful or more anything than one was before. They truly and deeply alter your sense of what reality is as well as what its ultimate bounds and limits are.

As it so happened, Tilo had also of late been thinking about his moral sense of self. A monological fugue had been replaying in his mind for most of the previous week, with its several competing voices counterbalancing and countervailing one another. While he lay under the stars and forest canopy he began to connect his reinvigorated wonder at the power of arcane art to challenge our old ways of seeing reality to his earlier internal moral dialogue.

For it turns out that although Tilo had long considered himself to be a halfling of a generally chaotic manner or disposition, he had of late begun to question his basic moral stance in light of his growing sense of that behind the dim veil of appearance some essential laws, regularities or purposes exist. Can the chaotic commitment to indeterminacy and context-dependence of moral decision be reconciled with the recognition of such a deep structure and logic to all that is?

In his first full tastes of magic's ability to shudder and destroy preconceptions about what is and is not possible, Tilo Greenbottle believed he had found the beginnings of an answer.

Upon downing his last sip, he turned back toward the Portia Halfling and completed this axiological reverie.

On Burglary

Law? Chaos? Natural philosophers, historians, and scribes of good alignment, as are known to the common peoples of the Hrothgar, have long debated a profound question. If it can be shown that basic lawful assumptions about the formal and fixed nature of moral principles cannot be maintained when the same principles are applied to different possible worlds, then this is the strongest evidence yet the way of chaos and the chaotic way of living is superior to the lawful.

Take the simple burglar. For all those who follow the good, the petty burglar is considered especially or even pardigmatically despicable (often even, it should be noted, by other burglars). This is because, as the wise sages of the lawful good have agreed, the burglar takes what is not his for taking. And what is not ours for the taking is typically said by the lawful to include all things that we don't create with our own hands or energies, that which we did not pay for or did not sponsor the creation of, as well as all we do not secure through voluntary exchanges with others who've acquired their holdings through legitimate means. For example, if a person take the literary or artistic work of another without specific permission or price paid, then they are guilty of burglary.

This, at least, is the devote conviction of the lawful good. But surely this can't be the entirety of the matter. What if it were possible that through arcane accomplishment everyday objects became so essentially transformed from their current state that what it means to "take" an object becomes itself far more complex than typically assumed...?

For imagine that, as if through magic, a common object - for example, the Collected Ravings of Thune the Lesser, Vol. 2 - were to be so transformed as to produce immediate and complete copies of itself whenever one was picked up the table top in the Tower of Lockjat the Arcane Surgeon of Throdenoth. Each new copy picked up is an exact replica of the original, and each new copy is produced through a process that requires no expenditure of raw materials or resources. One could stand in Lockjat's stone tower day and night, year after year, removing copy after copy, until the entire workhouse and open keep overflowed with Thune's petulant rants.

In such a world, passersby of the tower, who happen to be devoted readers and collectors of Thune's works, help themselves to copies. Let us even more assume that each of the copies these passersby collected were themselves possessed of the same power to construct an exact duplicate of itself infinitely. Thus the copies they lift from the grounds immediately duplicate themselves on the spot, so that it is as if they had taken nothing.

These admirers of Thune, seeking to share their new found access to a rare work of this master of causistry, create many copies from their copies, and, in turn, share these copies with others who appreciate or might appreciate its value as a work of dark inspiration rather than as a good for trade or object for profit.

Such a strange world wherein objects can never be extinguished, even though they have been fully consumed and enjoyed by their creators or rightful procurers, is most certainly not our own. But it is not all to unfamiliar. And in this other possible world we find that to help oneself to a copy doesn't seem rightfully or best understood as a kind of "taking" in any traditional sense for nothing that previous existed before the "taking" has been lost or even removed through the "taking". And, therefore, the collectors and sharers and the admirers of Thune are not properly understood as thieves or criminals at all. The lawful, in their attempt to crystallize moral goodness and formalize it into fixed rules, run asunder on the grounds of this new reality. For in it helping oneself uninvited to the product of another's creation without recompense would no longer be a violation of the good, but possibly one new expression of it.

To the thinking of this gentle author, recognizing that what heretofore had been the unquestioned "fact" of a physical object's scarcity and that such a "fact" can change is key. If this basic fact about objects were to somehow change, then so too must the moral insistence that collecting magically reproduced copies of the creation's of others without price being paid is always an act of theft.

The chaotic person understands this. No moral principle, however deeply-rooted in our traditions, is beyond revision in light of the shifting boundaries of the real.

So to insist that price be paid before the moral taint of burglary can be fully discharged, can be shown to be a preposterous exaggeration of what (under a different reality) once might be a perfectly helpful ethical guide. It is this truth that the lawful always fail to comprehend.

Of what sense is it to insist that price be paid for an object of which an infinite and unconsumable supply exists or else one is a burglar? Why, under the altered conditions of reality described above, one can even imagine that great societies of like-minded individuals would grow like weeds in the fertile muck, each collecting, discussing, and sharing these objects freely and without hesitation. These great societies of individuals who are bound together through a common appreciation of the nature of the object and not its value as a tradeable commodity would be completely and utterly misunderstood if looked at through today's eyes as nothing more than organized crime. They would be, in the eyes of the chaotic, glorious new forums through which individuals can grow and change and express themselves in their quest for the good life.

Campaign Update #21 (by Ironbeard)

2009-01-23T22:48:00.000-05:00

January 10-20, 1051 HR

The morning of January 10, Her Holiness Lady Ishtuk summoned Aeschere and Whren to the Temple of Tiamat in Throdenoth. She asked them if they were still interested in learning about the whereabouts of Afa, priestess of Demogorgon and leader of a cult cell that the PCs have just recently broken up. It turns out that Afa, finding her position in Throdenoth seriously weakened, has decided to spend the winter in the company of Prince Hoondaarh, son of King Yed.

Prince Hoondaarh is a Dragon Prince, son of King Yed (Monarch of Blixt), brother of Duke Malifop (Duke of Yarag). He recently emerged as the sole male survivor from his clutch in the rites of combat 11 years earlier. Like some landless royalty in Blixt, Hoondaarh has attached himself to the military and has distinguished himself well in fighting on the western marches.

Ishtuk also explained that Hoondaarh has taken possession of an ancient ruined temple complex as his lair. This is an ancient temple that was once devoted to Demogorgon in ancient times (more than a millennium ago) when the land was ruled by a human kingdom that succumbed to the worship of this demon for some time.

Apparently many royals in Hoondaarh’s position often come to resent the political structure of the kingdom that confers elite status upon them while simultaneously excluding them from true power, land and armies. Some of these royals will even go so far as scheming to undermine the government of Blixt. Sadly this is the route taken by Hoondaarh.

Ishtuk has learned from her spies that Hoondaarh has been secretly working with and supporting the Cult of Demogorgon in the hopes of sowing widespread chaos across the land. Apparently, he hopes that in the ensuing political instability, he can seize power somehow or at the very least improve his station.

Ishtuk’s spies have informed her that Afa is spending the winter as a guest in Hoondaarh’s lair where she is plotting strategy. The PCs agreed to go and kill Afa and hopefully kill Hoondaarh in the process, Ishtuk offering to provide access into the lair with the secret password “Starry Night.”

Ishtuk also informed the PCs that a feared and renowned bounty hunter named Lum the Relentless has taken interest in them and knows that they are in Throdenoth. She advised them to leave the city as soon as possible.

On a side note, later that evening Whren returned to the temple for the nightly sermon and ceremony, the highlight of which was the burning of a captive elf.

The following day then, the PCs decided to finally make their assault on Lakjat’s domicile, making contact with Grushchow the Goblin and Zed Rigour, members of the local thieves’ guild, and securing information to allow them entry through the lower cellars. First however, Whren bluffed entry into Lakjat offices by posing as a prospective client who was interested in purchasing some draconic grafts. This provided the party with valuable reconnaissance.

Once inside, the PCs found a true house of horrors defended by fiendish magical traps and horrifying arcane constructs. The final battle, at the foot of Lakjat’s tower, was an epic one indeed. The frosty January night was illuminated by explosive bursts of flame and arcs of lightning as both sides squared off. Things appeared to be lost until Lakjat was finally felled by the crafty Whren, who got off a last minute shot with her wand of magic missiles.

The next day, the party decided to leave town despite Zook’s plea to Whren that she stay with him and join his troupe as a permanent member. And that was that. Tilo teleported the group to a spot about 85 miles north of Throdenoth, somewhere near the Saben Monastery. From there the group journeyed overland for about a week until they reached the southern reaches of the North Hills.

Somewhere in those hills awaits Prince Hoondaarh. Somewhere behind you lies the Lum the Relentless. Who knows what the future may hold.

Experience:
2,813 for 9th level PCs
3,467 for the 8th level PC (Whren)

Halfling Logic (by Post Festum)

2009-01-23T22:47:00.000-05:00

During the first evening of his return to Throdenoth, after the discussion about where to proceed next had run its course, Tilo retired early and could be seen swiftly scribbling into his journal.

On Differing Abilities

It is ancient custom to suppose that all creatures of our world can be compared across six essential traits or attributes - Strength, Intelligence, Dexterity, Wisdom, Constitution, and Charisma. And while there is certainly much that can be criticized in any attempt to wholely reduce the diversity and range of existing creatures to simple categories, there is also, undeniably, a wisdom to this approach.

Our world's diversity expresses itself through each of these characteristics, creating the wide array of differing personalities and skill combinations we call "class" primarily through relative adjustments between these many different abilities. No wonder, then, that differing classes tend to see their particular ability gifts as THE most important ability and their weaknesses as THE least important or valuable. Is there a way to answer this age-old question that gets beyond parochial self-interest and the tendency to think that what you are is the best there is? What ability is really the most valuable? And, by extension, which class is the most able?

Consider as a possible candidate the choice of barbarians and fighters and monks and paladins - pure strength. Of course, more is meant by strength than simple brute force. On the contrary, those who are fleet and skilled at scaling cliffs we properly call "strong climbers" as well, as do we refer to the stoutest of swimmers. "She is a strong swimmer" or a "strong climber" are not an accident of speech - they are references to the key if general ability of muscle and physical frame to produce acts of great power. Such power might strike us as a perfect candidate for the most valuable ability, for countless stories are told of those men both great and small who devote their lives to the pursuit of such power for what seems like no other reason than its mere possession.

If it were possible to value power for its own sake, than the strong would have the right to call themselves best. But, alas, although we can indeed place the words "power valued for its own sake" in order next to each other, this doesn't guarantee that what we are saying has sense and meaning. Try to conceive for yourself of a creature who truly desires power for nothing but its intrinsic qualities...Just of what can you conceive? In all cases strength and power serve some other goal or some other master beyond themselves. Those whom we most often claim to desire strength for its own sake can be more accurately said to desire it for the pleasure it provides them or the satisfaction they enjoy at its enactment. But the power to enjoy or have enjoyable experiences are far from intrinsic to the ability of strength. It seems, then, that just as we cannot truthfully conceive of a circular tower constructed in the shape of a square (because it both a physical as well as a conceptual impossibility), so too our inability to conceive of power and strength being valuable without reference to some other end or object must mean that such a state of affairs cannot exist, the grand poetry of the bards not withstanding.

On close examination it becomes clear that what has been said above about strength equally applies to all other abilities as well. For of what good is charisma or dexterity except in what they can do for the charismatic and the quick? And it is always possible to imagine situations in which each distinct ability can become a weakness or problem for its wielder. So, strengh is valuable when its obejct or goal is valued and strengh is not valuable when its purpose is not. Constitution is valuable when stamina and long-life are desirable and not when they are not.

There is one exception to this infinite regress of purposes and values. The wide scope of abilities we broadly label 'inteliigence'. There is indeed much that intelligence is good or valuable for, but what I have in mind is the more basic point that intelligence alone is a prerequisite for valuing at all. Without intelligence, no purpose, no goal, no master is worth serving, for to have worth at all it must be valuable to a someone - that is, a being who can understand themselves as existing over time and as possessing desires in the first place. And this basic capacity or ability is none other than what we call intelligence. Intelligence makes valuation possible as it is the very source of value itself.

At this point Tilo broke off from his furious scribbling, as he realized that his goal of self-clarification had been accomplished. If intelligence really is the source of all value, then surely it followed that creatures of higher intelligence have a rightful claim to being more valuable than their lessers. Put in another way - Why aren't more intelligent creatures simply worth more than others? Tilo shudders at the next thought that follows inextricably from the first: Under what conditions would it be acceptable and logical to sacrifice creatures of lesser intelligence, including his companions, to save the greater minds of the party?

As Tilo's intelligence grows, a chasm has begun to widen between he and his fellows, and he knows it. He realizes that he is committed to the Heros of Guad Hill, despite the cynical conclusion he just reached. There were many reasons why he was happily willing to continue accepting an equal partnership in the group as opposed to seizing its reigns for his own ends. Most centrally of which, the bond of true friendship that tied him to the surviving original members of the group - Aeschere, Whren and Ardyth - the four remaining planks of a ship that has been rebuilt all about them. But he fears that upon reaching the conclusion that it is only logical that the intelligent have more right to life than the lessers, he has succeeded only in producing an elixir of mind so corrosive that he will never be able to contain it and that, even more, it is bound to dissolve all attempts to constrain it, including all ties that might try to bind it.

Campaign Update #20 (by Ironbeard)

2009-01-23T22:46:00.001-05:00

The night’s events opened with the party encamped in the shadow of an ancient iron fortress on the bleached, scorched plains of Pazunia, a perpetual blood red sun hanging overhead in a copper green sky. Heaps of corpses and carrion lay strewn across the battlefield and were heaped at the foot of the fortress’s rusted yet formidable walls.

The PCs were approached by a mysterious demon, wreathed in continual flames with tattered skeletal wings, who emerged from the iron edifice. He suggested that he would allow the party to use the inter-dimensional portal within the fortress if they would assist him by killing another demon, an enemy who had been dispatched by an unnamed adversary to make a final assault on the fortress. Reluctantly, the PCs agreed.

The battle did not go well. The demon, a towering twenty foot tall blue skinned monstrosity shod in iron with cloven hooves and horrific horns, dominated the PCs and would have utterly annihilated them had it not openly disdained fighting such an inferior foe and left the field of battle. The demon forced its way into the fortress and, intent on fulfilling its mission, began to wreak havoc within.

Left with few options, the PCS (Aeschere, Ardyth, and Elizar) rested for a day and then entered the fortress through its now ruined and blasted portal to re-engage their enemy. The second encounter did not go better than the first. In fact, it went worse. The PCs fought a desperate fight, but when all was said and done, Elizar was slain, gored and impaled on the fiend’s wicked horns and then trampled to a bloody pulp beneath its hooves. Ardyth was mortally wounded and would have died as well were it not for the valiant efforts of Aeschere who, still severely weakened from an earlier encounter with a Chasme, managed to drag him at the very last second through the inter-planar portal. Unfortunately, Ardyth beloved and prized weapons, the scimitars Dreamstealer and Nightrazor, were left behind in the fortress.

Nevertheless, it was a dramatic moment—Aeschere and Ardyth barely crossing through the mortal as the towering fiend bore down on them, its glaring red eyes filled with lethal hate, its horns spattered and smeared with gore, its hooves stained red by Elizar’s entrails.

After arriving home, the PCs reunited with Whren the rest of Zook’s troupe. Needless to say, it was a welcome homecoming, though one tinged by sorrow. Everyone, especially Isa, mourned the death of Quarian, the elven ranger who never made it back home.

The next day, after running some errands, Aeschere and Whren went to the temple of Tiamat, having been summoned there by Ishtuk, priestess of the Five Headed Queen. There they learned that the priestess had indeed learned of the party’s identity and that a writ of outlawry had been issued for them in the names of Hennix, Earl of Tun, and Baron Malifop of Charir, the father of Sir Gar the Bloody. Ishtuk, however, gave no indication that she intended to act upon the writ, claiming that your party had been useful for her purposes and that she may yet have further uses for you.

This is where we left off. Whren is still suffering under a terrible curse and is still possessed by the Demon Belphagora. The Chalice of Eluriand is still unsecured. Where do we go next?

392 xp each for Aeschere and Ardyth

The Berserker Rages

2009-01-23T22:45:00.000-05:00

Suddenly all the music, raucous laughter and dancing stopped. At the bar was a large, burly, very angry looking Half Orc with a very bad attitude. Strangely he was holding what looked like a pile of lumber in his hands. "Bar Keep, your sign got busted up. Funny how that happened after my fist hit it. I guess they don't make signs like they usta. I wonder if that would happen to yer face" With that the Bugbears guarding the Pikeman's Revenge jumped into action. Krusk felt a sudden snapping of a wooden club over his skull. It did nothing but cause wood shards to fly everywhere. Krusk got that old familiar feeling coursing through his veins again... the feeling that got him through so many battles. Hard to describe what he felt at that moment. A low buzz started somewhere behind his brow, his whole body began to quiver. No thats not it, more like resonate. Then his muscles started to contract, his eyes first became slit like then opened wide. A low guttural roar started somewhere deep inside him then seemed to explode from his chest. He reached a level of pure action. The trap sprang, the tensed muscles erupted and the seven bug bears that seemed to pounce on him just as suddenly were airborne and slammed into the far wall of the bar. They settled into a heap. From out of nowhere more and more Bugbears came. The result was always the same. Yes Krusk was raging again. The Euphoria was building... Krusk lived for the opioid like rush that he felt at these times in battle. A delerium of pure destruction overcame him as furniture, bodies and glass all melded into a most unusual form of projectiles. He was having such a good time that he forgot to draw his greatax. Just as well he didn't even need it at times such as this. Minutes passed and the rage coninued. The Bartender hide his rather portly hide under the bar.

From the corner of the great room a rather strange group consisting of a halfling wizard, a rather seductive gnome and a human warrior of sorts watched the action, taking great care not to get hit by various pieces of shapnel and not to upend their tankards. They appeared to observe the beserker's behavior in a rather approving manner yet they tried to stay out of the fracas. A nod of approval here, a wink to a member of the party there, and the occasional semi hidden smile of knowing that they could use a creature like this in their adventuring party. Especially since the recent lose of their ranger companion. Yes a beserker would add more than little muscle as well as some woodsman skill that they sorely needed if they were to accomplish their mission.

Finally the endless stream of airborne bodies ended, The bar was totally quiet... Except for the booming laughter of the Half Orc. "So bar keep, any thoughts as to what yer new sign is gonna be?? Mebbe "The Flying BugBear". Why don't ya serve me up a tankard of yer finest ale. Then ya can tally up the damages to the furniture and we'll call it even. A good fight always puts me in a good mood". The bartender stared in utter disbelief for he was sure his life would end this evening. Seems that the beast was ready to forget the insult on the sign of the "Pikeman's Revenge."

Out of the corner of his eye Krusk spotted the strange group in the Great Room. He was rather suprised that the group showed no fear, no weapons drawn, nothing. They just sat calmly amidst the turmoil drawing on their tankards. He noticed the looks they were giving each other and swaggered over to their table. What are ya fellas, and ahem lady looking at... Ya want a little of what the bugbears got. I am always looking to oblige. With that the warriorlike fellow said, "Actually my friend we have a proposition for you..."

From the street the laughing sound was at once contagious and fearful in its depth; followed by "Barkeep ale for what is left of the house, tonight all hands drink on Krusk's coin" The music, dancing and raucous laughter began anew.

Campaign Update #19. New Year's in Hell (by Ironbeard)

2009-01-23T22:43:00.000-05:00

Campaign Time: December 8 - January 4 1051-52 HR

Last session was literally a journey through hell. The Heroes of Gwudd Hill began the night with a twenty day journey across Thanatos’s Plains of Hunger, a journey ably led by the newcomer to the party, Elizar a half vampire ranger. Along the way, they encountered a Solamith who they dispatched without too much difficulty.
Eventually, they arrived at the City of Straight Curves, a gloomy and haunted metropolis on the banks of the river Styx. They hoped to meet the wizard Beleg, a mortal who Elizar had heard had the power to return the party to the Prime material plane. Unfortunately, the rumor proved to be false. The city was desolate, largely abandoned and inhabited by phantoms,demons, and dispirited mortals.

The party thus decide on a new course of action. They learned from a doomed mortal that they met that if passage down the river Styx could be purchased from a Yugoloth ferryman, it would be possible to travel to Pazunia, the first and topmost layer of the abyss, and find a gateway home. This is precisely what they did. The ferryman provided them with directions to an ancient fortress that supposedly contained just such a portal. According to this outsider, a savage battle had recently been fought at this location and the fortresses defense should be considerably weakened.
After traveling across the parched and withered landscape of Pazunia and fighting a desperate battle with a Chasme, the PCs arrived at the fortress. There, before its ancient iron walls, on a plain littered with the carnage and carrion of recent battle, the party fought a pitched battle with two Arrow Demons who almost killed them. Fortunately, they prevailed and managed to secure entrance into the fell pit of evil.

That is where we left off. Who knows what further evil may lie within? Could you be on the verge of finding your way home or will this hope elude your grasp yet again?

3,166 xp per PC

The Free and Good Life of Milo Greenbottle (by Post Festum)

2009-01-23T22:41:00.002-05:00

Not being a dull halfling, Tilo has made note of late of the peculiar predilection of his compatriots to stand stout as oaks in battle, but to sneak off into the night aping little innocent goats whenever the opportunity for sex presented itself. To be sure, he did not begrudge his compatriots their desires which are seemingly induced by the lateness of the day. But still, as one by one his battle-tested friends have succumbed to the presence of even the slightest erotic temptation, Tilo cannot help but frown a very modest disapproval.

But his slight chagrin at his friends behavior is tempered by his recognition of his own prejudice. This sort of self-analysis seems to be happening more and more in recent days as Tilo has found his Intelligence to have increased noticeably of late. He is biased, to be sure, when it comes to the matters of the heart and body, and he knows it. And as he has done many times before, Tilo turns to the Portia Halfling to write down the heart of the matter. What follows is a short excerpt from his entry entitled: "The Free and Good Life of Milo Greenbottle" written late in the evenings during the party's first nights in Thanatos.

Milo Greenbottle was the first-born halfing twin of Guppa and Cora of the Greenbottle clan of Southwaite, formerly of the Bucket Halfing Train. Milo was, by all accounts, a philosopher and lover of life, old well beyond his years. He was also a romantic, who believed that true love would only be known by those who willingly and completely gave themselves over it. Above all, Milo believed in the halfing idea of The Good Life - that there exists an objective answer to the question - How best to live one's life? - that applied universally to all intelligent creatures, no matter the species, as long as they were of good or neutral alignment.

Milo had many friends and a great many more who wanted to be his friend. In light of his naturally persuasive and amiable way, Milo was able to talk openly to his friends about his views on love, life, and real happiness without sounding the least bit silly or sanctimonious (not an easy feat to accomplish, believe me). From the time he was old enough to think clearly, Milo set about finding answers in life and, talking to anyone friendly soul who would care to listen. And while very few were ever persuaded by Milo's own romantic views, almost without exception they liked him even more than they did before, for Milo had an inexplicable way of simply making other people happy with his presence. Consequently he wrote and performed many songs and composed and recited many poems for a growing public following.

According to Milo Greenbottle, being free and happy amount to doing what one wants out of life. To deny yourself an action or accomplishment, a conversation or an adventure, out of fear or concern was to shackle oneself in a most unfortunate way. "Intelligent life forms, and halflings in particular, are each born free. But everywhere they enslave themselves," Milo would often pronounce. "The halfing idea of the splendis dior" -- the good life -- "can only be won by forever overcoming any self-imposed barrier to achievement and the satisfaction of desire. The monks, it is widely known, seek the abolition of desire. But who could ever call any monk both free and happy? No, aching lack and burn of desire is to be overcome, but by following a path of satiety, not abolition which would have us be more dead than alive."

By his writings and humble speaking fees, Milo made a considerable living for himself in Southwaite. By age 21, an incredibly young age for halfings, barely considered older than a child, Milo Greenbottle had his name listed in the town's Registry of the Wise by popular acclaim, earning him a token position on the Southwaite Business Council. As his reputation for insight and wisdom grew, Milo's songs and common-language novels became increasingly must-haves in the wealthy and intelligent circles of Southwaite. And as his fame and fortune expanded, he was publicly questioned to expand his insights about the full satisfaction of desire, freedom, and happiness.

For example, on one occasion, the Natural Philosopher's Guild of Southwaite invited Milo to answer questions put to him by Headmaster Axel of The Marshall School. Milo took the stage alone, in the shiniest of silk pantaloons and blouse colored red and white respectively, and elaborated thusly:

"But surely you cannot be claiming that happiness and caprice are the same thing," asked Axel, "For to conflate freedom with foolishly doing what you want, and happiness with a life lead following freedom of this sort, is to equate the highest of virtues with the lowliest pile of garbage." He continued to stand at his podium from the floor of the auditorium, leaving Milo to sit alone onstage and deliver his answer.

"Freedom is doing what you want, this thesis I will defend," responded Milo slowly and deliberately. He looked over the audience as a whole as he continued. "But those of you who have never sang my songs in a tavern amongst comrades, or who have never read my treatises but who have rather scoffed at them for their 'popularity', will no doubt have missed my repeated explanation that what we truly and most deeply want is love."

"Let me explain with a parable of sorts," continued Milo with a mesmerizing, almost sing-song delivery. "Imagine if the world and our lives in it were one incredibly complex game being played out by player-gods. Imagine further that their is one god above all the others who is responsible for crafting our world and for creating the playground for the other, lesser divinities. Each lesser god is in control of one small piece of our world, but the greater master divinity is left to oversee and to maintain the joviality of the game."

"If you can imagine such a possibility, then imagine one more wrinkle. Imagine that the great master god creates scripts or stories into which our individuals lives and fortunes are fit and our decisions channeled. Our every adventure, down to the most banal detail, handcrafted and set in stone or sluice, whatever metaphor you prefer. Our every choice, chosen for us, excepting all but the smallest detail. Would this...could this be a world of freedom for creatures such as you and me? My answer is an eternally resounding 'No' and I challenge anyone to speak against it. To those who feel that a world in which our lives are games taken out of our control, must assuredly agree with me that being free means being able to do what you want, not what the great master in the sky plans."

Axel approached his podium. "Fine. Freedom is doing what you want. But what of happiness? Why would we think that freedom so conceived will yield the splendis dior - as your folk are want to call it? Whither the link between freedom and real happiness? Do enlighten us, young sir. And, if you would, do not content yourself to simply chide myself and learned colleagues for not having sufficiently digested your writings. But tell us plainly: Why does doing what you want guarantee you will be happy?"

"Because when we are truly free we will always seek to choose that which we love," answered Milo flatly. "You wise men of Southwaite mock me when you call me learned or astute. The only truth I can share with you that has the full confidence of my intellect is that intelligent creatures always knowing choose what they love. No doubt this love can take a variety of forms - from the love of destroying orcs or the unfortunate undead, to the love of a mother for her child, but in all cases when the results of their choices are made clear to them, creatures such as you and me choose love."

Milo stood and held out his arms in an open embrace of the crowd, his philosophical sermon coming to a close. "Freedom to do what you want, as I have taught, emphasizes the wanting over the doing, and rightly so. Imagine once again our world is a game played by divinities. But, whereas before the great master god controlled our fortunes and the twists and turns of our lives, now the lesser gods choose to inhabit our individual lives, getting to truly know us, our quirks, perversions and deep hopes. Now when they act and when they choose, these lesser gods choose only from our point of view. So that when we act their exists a parallel, pre-established harmony between what we would choose if we were in control and what we do in fact choose. Under such a scenario we are just as good as free. And I for one would be happy to embrace this parable if it turned out to be the truth of the universe, for if they truly know us, then the lesser gods would have no choice but to move us closer and closer to that which we love. What we call the good or happy life is just another name for this motion."

The deep irony of Milo's speech that night, unknown at the time to all but his closet of kin, was that Milo had lived this philosophy of freedom-as-satiety and love. And it proved to be his undoing. For Milo's life-long love had been Caistina Housewell who became through marriage the Lady Caistina, wife of the Lord of the Ham. The love story of Caistina and Milo unfolded time and time again from their earliest romantic years. And yet, given the distance that class and family had placed between them from the start, neither could ever find a way to be totally and completely for the other at the same time. And yet, true to his creed, Milo would never let go of Caistina, even after she became the wife of another halfling. Secret indiscretion followed upon secret indiscretion, and the affairs of Milo and Caistina rose to the level of public scandal on more than one occasion, with accusations of false paternity and criminal cuckolding splashed across the town's weekly gossip leaflets. And still Milo would not give up his love for Caistina.

It came as a great shock to Milo's parents, but to hardly anyone else, when his bloated body washed against the docks very early one morning during his 22nd year. And the Lady Caistina stayed out of public view for nearly six months until the failure of the local magistrate to discover the cause of his untimely death was all but forgotten.

Tilo concluded the entry at this point, leaving the moral of his own retelling unstated, but, he hoped, obvious. Freedom and happiness cannot be just about doing what you want when what you want is what you love, Tilo thought. Happiness and freedom are more about learning to love what you have and get. This is a deep wisdom that he made a mental note to explore in more detail later.

But for now he was content in his thought that where Milo had cut his own life short in his failure to recognize that to some love is given, but to others a different destiny awaits, he himself would never make such a mistake. Even if there was the great game in the sky that spun out our world like a long, epic poem or song, wouldn't that be in many ways preferable to the meaningless pain, sorrow, suffering and death that surrounds all those Tilo knows? No amount of making your own choices would remove this stain of meaninglessness. What good is the ability to do anything if no thing more than any other thing is exceptional, curious, begs close exploration or investigation, or is, in short, worth doing? "No, if we must be the playthings of gods, give me a true great master story-teller god," Tilo said to himself as he gently dried the ink of his latest entry. "If their tales be finely crafted enough, filled with opportunities to find excitement, intrigue, and to make yourself a hero and to show your mettle, then I prefer a divine story to infinite choices."

Campaign Update #18 (by Ironbeard)

2009-01-23T22:41:00.001-05:00

I think we can all agree that last session saw things go in several unexpected directions.

No sooner had the Heroes of Gwudd Hill been left on the Plane of Thanatos by Afa, Whren Briarwhisper managed a daring and unconventional escape. She did so by summoning a Succubus name Belphagora to her cell and making a fiendish pact. Belphagora agreed to open the door to Whren’s prison, but only on the condition that the gnome rogue allow the demon whore to possess her. While this tactic initially struck me as extremely surprising, especially given Whren’s normally cautious nature, the move proved to be extremely wise.

Meanwhile, the rest of the party moved across the Plains of Hunger on Thanatos with little problem to speak of. For the most part, they managed to evade the planes resident dangers, not the least of which are the enormous hordes of zombies that continually wander across the lifeless landscape.

Things went well until Quarian fell in valiant battle against a Cloud Giant Skeleton at the base of Baragh’s tower. I’m sure that we will all remember Quarian in our own ways. For me, it was always the paradoxical tension between his dark cynicism and his lusty embrace of life that made the character so interesting. I will miss him.

Once within the tower, the PCs made surprisingly quick work of Baragh the Pitiless and successfully recovered that Rubric of Akham. The trip back to the rendezvous point with Afa proved more challenging, however. Without Quarian (a ranger of course) to guide them, our heroes were unable to find the point at which Afa was supposed to meet them to return to the Prime Material Plane and were thus left stranded on Thanatos.

Fortunately, in the course of their travels they made the acquaintance of one Elizar, a half vampire mortal who had traveled to the Abyss in search of a cure for his seemingly unquenchable bloodlust, a quest that he had failed in apparently. Elizar claims that he has heard rumors of a possible way back to the prime material plane however. A mortal wizard is rumored to reside in a place called the City of Straight Curves that lies about one month’s journey to the west of your current position. This wizard supposedly can arrange transport of mortals back to their home planes, for a fee of course.

At this point it should be clear of course that, had not Whren managed to escape from Afa’s clutches, she would have been sacrificed after her comrades failed to meet Afa at the rendezvous point. Thus, while Whren’s strategy is certainly fraught with danger and will certainly have consequences, it did undoubtedly save her life. Ah those clever gnomes. How can you not love them?

Nocturne

2009-01-23T22:39:00.000-05:00

Aeschere lay awake in the darkness of Tranna's tent, his rough fingers trailing absent-mindedly over the pale curve of her hip, the steady whisper of her breath the only sound in the leaden silence. The nights in Northwaite, where he had spent many nights, and Farholme, where he had spent only a few, had not been so silent. In those other cities, there had been the incessant yapping of dogs, the occasional slur of voices in the distance, the squawl of feral tomcats, fragments of muffled conversation. Here, in Throdenoth, there was nothing. When darkness fell, the city seemed to draw into itself, to tense, to wait. It was a silence pregnant with menace.

It was Tranna's pain that had drawn him to her, drawn him out of that purgatory of despair and hatred that Bronwyn's death had thrust him into. As the party fled up the stairs to the roof, Aeschere had looked down, and that image of Brownyn's savaged body still confronted him every time he closed his eyes: she was nearly hacked in two, a jagged rib jutting crookedly from her back, a thick trail of blood and viscera splashed across the stone flags. Though he had grown to care for her deeply as a comrade and friend, he had not loved Bronwyn in the same way he had come to love Tranna. To love someone so zealous would have meant giving up too much of himself, and as beautiful as she was, Aeschere had not been willing to do that. Still, he admired her greatly, and found himself striving to please and impress her, despite his efforts to remain aloof. Not only that, but her very ideals became increasingly appealing, and after time, he ceased to question them.

After she died, those ideals seemed utterly meaningless. That a kind and loving god such as Heironeous could allow such widespread evil and such utter misery as that found in the Fallen Lands, Aeschere could accept while Brownyn lived, for her very existence offered some hope of justice and salvation. When she was gone, however, so was that hope. The pervasive evil of Blixt - of all the world save the Hrothgar, so far as Aeschere knew - seemed to roll in on him like a sickening fog and smother him with hopelessness. And so he had fought back with the only thing he had ever been able to trust: his bow. True, his murder of those two mongrelfolk had won him and his comrades entrance to the monastery, but there were certainly other ways. Aeschere had killed them because they were part of this vile land, and he could feel nothing but hatred toward them. He had laughed out loud when they fell so easily.

The other image that Aeschere could not forget, however, was of Tranna huddled by the dying fire in her threadbare cloak, her words dissolving into clouds of breath in the cold autumn night. He had taken little notice of the quiet tatterdemalion who shared his camp until she told her story that night. As he listened to her speak, he was choked him with a rush of emotion that he was still unable to sort out. How could he let her sit there and shiver when he had a purse full of gold? He wanted to not only make her warm, but to assuage her pain, to help her heal. The next day, after he bought her a new cloak and saw the gratitude swell in her eyes, the evil seemed to draw back a breath.

He hadn't intended to bed Tranna that night, not so much because he didn't want to, but because he had little faith in his own meager charms and was deeply afraid of pushing her away with a clumsy attempt at romance. Still, it happened, perhaps because Tranna seemed to quietly encourage his overtures, first by moving closer to him and resting her head on his shoulder, and finally by pressing her finger to his lips and smiling when he began stammering about her beauty and his feelings for her.

He had never experienced anything quite like the passion that he felt as she knelt before him and slowly removed her tattered kirtle and ran her hands across his chest, her small, freckled breasts luminesced in the blue haze of moonlight seeping through the tent fabric. He should have lain there and allowed her to make love to him, but when her long her hair spilled over him as she teased his ears and neck with her lips, when her soft nipples brushed across his belly as she slid between his legs and took him in her mouth, he was siezed with such a violent rush of want that he siezed Tranna by her shoulders, pressed her onto her back, and clumsily mounted her, thrusting and groping until he finally penetrated the fullness of warmth and wet within her.

How long he hunched over her, thrashing and grunting clumsily, he didn't know, but when he looked into her face, he saw not passion or love, but pain and sorrow. Tranna's eyes were wet with tears, her lips drawn, quivering. Aeschere pulled away, muttered an awkward apology. Tranna smiled weakly, turned away and pulled her blanket around her.

A sickening wave of self-hatred rose into Aeschere's throat. For untold years, Tranna had been used by that vile half-dragon, and had suffered abuses that he dared not even imagine. He had wanted to show her tenderness, yet his love had become violence, and he had become merely one more abuser in a life that had already known far too much pain and debasement. How could that have happened? Had the violence and bloodshed that his life as a warrior required turned him savage? He wanted to run from her tent cursing himself, scream into the naked night and never return. Instead, he lay down next to Tranna, wrapped his arms around her, and closed his eyes.

He awoke to her warm breath in his ear, the chill of her fingers running up his thigh and between his legs. This time, he simply looked into her eyes, brushed his fingers across her cheek, and kissed her. He lay there as she straddled him, reached between her thighs and guided him inside her. His fingers roamed her body as she held his face in her hands and kissed him, her tongue twining with his, her long breaths warm on the cockles of his neck. As he cupped her buttocks in his hands and pulled her tighter against him, she arched her back and sighed, a single, liquid syllable stretching itself from her lips. He slid his hands up the curve of her hips, but as his fingers strayed across the small of her back, she seized his hands and twined her fingers in his. She moved atop him effortlessly, her pale skin refulgent in the dim light. Their breaths quickened. She bent over and kissed him, her tongue probing wildly in his mouth, her hips driving against him. Aeschere felt as if he were falling from a dizzying height, spinning and freefalling. Tranna drove her fingers into Aeschere's chest and whispered his name as she tightened and throbbed around him. After a moment, she slid off of him and lay down next to him.

Tranna slept but Aeschere did not. A wind rose out of the west, riffling the tent canvas, driving away the uneasy silence. Tranna turned in her sleep, and as aeschere reached down to pull the blanket back over her, he saw her naked back in the wan light. It was ridged with scars. Had the half-dragon whipped her because he was displeased, Aeschere wondered, or because it pleased him to torment her? Yet she had survived it. Behind her quiet demeanor was a strength unguessed at. He ran his fingers through her hair, and pulled her close to him. "I love you, Tranna," he whispered.

Tranna sighed quietly in her sleep.

Descent into Hell (by Camp 17)

2009-01-23T22:38:00.000-05:00

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrghhhhh. Horrible agonizing pain, blood pooled about me. What, what is this?? My wrists, these puncture marks, my eyes. The light hurts. OH OH the agony what has happened? Uggh my neck, so sore so painful, so weak. Let me feel it with my hands… Wait. What is this wound??

“Take it slow brother elf; ye have been on a rather harrowing adventure my friend.” Friend?? The voice sounds familiar, yet distant. "Peace upon thee Quarian, Tis I, Aschere."

With the realization that he is with his compatriot Quarian begins to come back to consciousness. Slowly his thoughts clear, the pain eases. However the weakness is profound. As he begins to remember he tells the tale more to himself than to his party. Trying to make sense of the insanity.

Quarian recalls the sense of hopelessness, the dread, the anger. Bound in a devilish stitching ... like a suckling pig for the roasting. Try as he might he could not free himself from the fiendish bonds. He almost had the gnome free, two more slices and the cursed work would have been undone. Oh why had he not prepared the Wall of Wind spell? The worst of it was the complete loss of sight and hearing. He had a sense of being carried somewhere and being dumped on the ground like a sack of turnips. Until…

The feeling of cold steel against his throat. So this was to be it then. Countless battles fought, moments of terror and moments of euphoria. Years of finely honed swordsmanship. To meet such an ignominious end slaughtered like a goat on the alter. There was a moment of screaming searing pain and then … nothing absolutely nothing. A black void. Darker than the deepest night. No senses at all. Awareness almost completely gone, yet Quarian still had a sense of himself as some entity, exactly what he could not say.

As quickly as the void enveloped him it was gone. Simple gone. To be replaced with a heightened sense of awareness of being. All his senses were overwhelmed. Most unnerving were the sounds. A horrible cacophony of screams moans and tormented insane laughter. Above it all Quarian hears loud snarling sounds, the snapping of jaws and growls. There is also the sound of rushing water. NO worse than rushing. A raging torrent.

Suddenly Quarian is aware of his sense of smell… it nearly overtakes him. A vile rotting sulfurous smell worse than any dung heap. He fights off the urge to wretch.

His vision clears slowly. The sight before him is so horrid he believes it may be an illusion, a leftover from the fugue of his passing over. Yes, Quarian is aware that he is dead. Hmmmmm Simple as that … dead. Somehow he thought it would be more dramatic. More climactic. Other than that moment of absolute nothingness it was as simple as walking thru a doorway. Suddenly the snapping of jaws and a putrid breathe brings Quarian out of his thoughts. Before him is a massive beast, a three headed dog, snarling drooling fangs, long claws and a spiked tail. The beast is about 6 feet tall, thick of chest. Evil emanates from its very soul. It is guarding an impassible violent river. The river Styx; separator of the dead and the living. Yes Quarian had indeed passed over.

Despite his heightened sense of hearing, smell and vision. Quarian was totally at a loss for direction. He found himself unable to discern direction. He could tell up from down but that was it. No East or West, No North or South. Quarian was robbed of his greatest and most cherished skill… His ability to range. This realization is devastating. He has no clue as to where to go, how to travel, how to explore. He may as well have been blind and deaf.

Out of the murk and confusion a woman approaches. She is veiled and cloaked in black. Her voice is haughty, condescending, insulting. Yet somehow familiar.

“Oh great warrior, dosth thou not know thy way??? What hast happened to the mighty Wild Elf?? Oh how the mighty have fallen.” Quarian responds in a booming yet raspy voice that echos in his mind, “Woman, declare thy self. Who arth thou?” She responds only with laughter, insane mirthless laughter. Again out of the murk another figure approaches. A spectral visage of a man, likewise a Wild Elf. The figure embraces the woman as her cloak falls to the floor revealing her nakedness. He kisses her with a devilishly forked and sinuous tongue penetrating her waiting and desirous mouth.

Quarian is beyond understanding and has no time to figure out the scene playing out in front of him for almost at the same instant the two figures appeared flames erupted from the ground around him. The sound of war drums beat around him and hordes upon hordes of Orcs crest the surrounding hills and attack Quarian.

Suddenly Quarian feels a searing pain in his right hand. Quarian senses that the sword he is holding starts to vibrate and emanate a white hot glow. The sword appears to scream for the blood of the Orcs. VengLäk comes to life Quarian’s fog lifts completely. All is made manifest.

Mercilessly murdered by the henchmen of the Demon Bitch. Throat slit while unable to defend himself. Like a pig to the slaughter. Cast into the underdark for the sin of slaying his beloved Vadania Siannodel in a similar fashion. Now forced to witness the treasonous couple for all eternity. Forced to fight the spawn of the darkone beyond the end of time.

Quarian screams in a rage, “then let it be so.” He pushes back the agony of his understanding and wielding VengLäk (or is it wielding him?)throws himself into battle against the Orcs. The blade thrums and chants in his hands. He is awash in the blood of Orcs… a baptism of Hell and Evil. He feels no exhaustion, no hatred, no anger, no exhilaration of battle. Quarian is machinelike in the efficiency of cleaving Orc skulls. Yet the entire time he is fully aware of the unholy copulation of his beloved and her lover in front of him. No matter what direction he turns in battle there she is; her legs spread and wrapped around the bastard in innumerable positions and forms. The guttural sounds of the Orcs, the crushing of bone, the splash of blood, the screams of orgasm all blending into a vile hellish opera. Worst of all is the continued laughter of the traitorous bitch.

The Laughter brings a new level of awareness to Quarian. Punishment?? An eternity of fighting Orcs? An Eternity of guilt over killing a bastard adulterer and a whore betrothed?? Quarian yells out, “Fuck the bitch, she is not worth my soul.”

As Quarian yells out his curse he stops swinging VengLäk. The blade grows cold and in one motion he thrusts it into the ground in front of him and takes to his knee. The throng of Orcs falls on him. Suddenly there is a calm and a peace that descends upon Quarian; he is finally free of his guilt.

Almost at the same instant there is a frigid white light and a wracking pain courses through Quarian’s body, he shudders uncontrollably. The light coruscates from around and within him almost with a life of its own. Again Quarian looses all prospective of direction, of self, all sense of feeling. There is an indescribable combustion of sound and at the same time total quiet. A clashing of light and dark, soft and hard, spirit and material seeming to battle in his body and in his skull. Real and unreal, dimensions twisted…

Then nothing but a cold wet dungeon floor beneath him; and a brother Grugash kneeling in front of him obviously relieved and troubled at the same time.

Campaign Update #17 (by Ironbeard)

2009-01-23T22:37:00.000-05:00

Campaign Time: November 12, 1051 HR

Last session was truly a night of surprises. Not long after entering the Temple of Demogorgon via a secret entrance and discovering what appeared to be a den of true sexual perversion your party was beset by a pair of Bar-Lgura. From that point on the evening was a mixture of successes and, at least temporary defeats. While Ardyth, Tilo, and Aeschere pressed onward and managed to penetrate to the inner shrine of the facility, Whren and Quarian were beset by a Broodswarm, stitched up by its horrid black threads and taken prisoner.

When the rest of you finally confronted Afa the evil cleric in charge of the temple, she confronted yowith a grim and difficult decision: either surrender unconditionally or she would execute Whren and Quarian. Perhaps thinking she was bluffing, or perhaps believing you could still save your comrades,you elected to fight. This resulted in the tragic death of Quarian who, lying helplessly bound and stitched, had his throat ripped out by a Wight. At this point, you opted to acquiesce to Afa’s demands.

Once captured though, you were not sacrificed to Demogorgon the self styled Lord of demons, but rather were presented with an intriguing offer from Afa. Though you had done great damage to her temple and had slain several of her minions, she recognized your formidable martial prowess and devised a better use for you. She proposed that she would raise Quarian from the dead and grant you your ultimate release if you agreed to undertake a mission for her on Thanatos, the one hundred and thirteenth layer of the abyss, home of Orcus and domain of the undead. She wished you recover a certain object, a book entitled the Rubric of Akham that was owned by Bahragh the Pitiless, a sorcerer and worshiper of Orcus who lived over a millennium ago and who was granted undead status upon his death as a reward for his service to the evil demon lord. Afa reckons that Bahragh still has the Rubric of Akham in his possession where he resides as a vampire on Thanatos. Afa believes that if she can recover the rare tome and kill a minor servant of a rival demon lord she can increase her own powers and raise her status in the cult of Demogorgon. She believes that you will be the perfect instrument to help her accomplish this purpose.

Reluctanstly you agreed, but Afa, in order to insure your cooperation required that a hostage remain behind. Whren Briarwhisper, our plucky and beloved gnome rogue agreed to fulfill this role.

Thus the evening ended with you standing on the bleak, frostrimmed Plains of Hunger, one of the abyss’s vastest and most inhospitable wastelands. Above you burns an enormous full moon, filling the sky with an unnatural glow. Before you, in the distance and barely perceptible on the horizon lie the Final Hills, your destination. Somewhere in those hills awaits Bahragh, the vampiric sorcerer and key to your salvation.

XP Awarded:

0 for Quarian as he died and had to be resurrected

1,500 for Ardyth, Aeschere and Whren

1,925 for Tilo

Many thanks, dear friends... (by Whren)

2009-01-23T22:36:00.000-05:00

I would like to extend my warmest gratitude to my brave comrades, who selflessly partook of this mission to free me from the dreadful curse that has befallen me. To Quarian, who, with tremendous valor, furiously tried to free me from the wretched restraints that bound us, you have my utter respect and deepest thanks. Since it was my misfortune and, perhaps, foolishness, that caused our latest predicament, I have agreed with humbled heart to remain a captive of the Cult of Demogrogan. Dear friends, do not fear for me. I will accept the consequences of my actions, however, your wiley gnome Mistress of Plunder has a few tricks up her sleeve.

So, carry on, warriors. I will keep my eyes turned to the horizon.

~Whren

Metaphysics, Magiphysics, and the Misologue, or 'Why I Hate Illusionists' by Tilo Greenbottle

2009-01-23T22:35:00.000-05:00

Tilo Greenbottle has grown to like the gnome Zook much more than he had expected, and on many occasions over the last month Tilo has almost brought himself to explain his deep antipathy for the school of illusion with this wise old showman. But, on each of these occasions, Tilo eventually convinced himself to say nothing. He has learned over the last several years of his life that, despite his undeniable intelligence, he often seems to be unable to express himself as clearly as he'd like in conversation. Additionally, while Tilo notices the easy way in which many of his compatriots are greeted and treated even by strangers, he is always well aware that something about him tends to bring out suspicion in all those he wishes to persuade. Consequently, not being an idiot halfling, Tilo decided to express his thoughts and confusion over illusionists in a form that has become comfortable over the last several months - an essay in his growing tome Portia Halfling (The Knowing Halfling). What follows are a few excerpts of Tilo's epistemological thoughts on the subject which he would only share with his compatriots if they asked.

*****

People often have the wrong idea about magic users in general, and evokers in particular. The popular view, at least on the Hrothgar, is that of all the schools of arcane arts, evocation and its practitioners are the most mindless and unintellectual of all magic users, deliberately choosing a school of specialization that leads to the atrophy of mind by completely emphasizing brawn over brain.

As is usual, the popular view couldn't be more mistaken. Perhaps it is true that many evoker sorcerers fit this description (hence the old mage adage that while it is not true that all evoker sorcerers are stupid, it is true that all stupid sorcerers are evokers), but such a description utterly fails to accurately characterize any magic user who has made evocation her self-conscious calling.

I, myself, once shared such a popular prejudice against evocation, although I had never once understood it as a prejudice before I met my first evokers in the Academy in Northwaite. To my total surprise, the evokers were often the most erudite and studied of all teachers and colleagues. And while all magic users understand the singular importance of growing their comprehension of the essential magical nature of reality, again and again I found the practitioners of evocation to be more committed than most to, forgive the expression, laying waste to all barriers to the powers of intelligent reason to unlock the arcane secrets locked behind reality's veil. Evokers, with their research that allows them to channel raging sluices of miasmal destruction, are committed to the view that reality had to be completely understood magically.

When you look at reality magically, magically reality looks back at you. This is the first great arcane truth.

And this philosophy, adopted completely by evokers, strives above all to keep the distinction between the magical and the mysterious. To look at reality magically is not to see the basic nature of reality as ineffable or unknowable. No, to look at reality magically means to embrace and embody a point of view as one apprehends that which is; a point of view that pierces the non-magical veil of inert matter and energy. Of course these are just words on parchment. Their full appreciation requires much training and study.

The evokers at Northwaite were insatiable scholars and students of the physics, metaphysics, and magiphysics of our world, always craving more and greater understanding. They were far from the brutish magical thugs I had always envisioned. They were even delicate and thoughtful and, above all, insatiably curious, at least when it came to their scholarship, research, and teaching. And through the course of my studies I discovered that the intellectualism and curiousity of these evokers was no accident, but intimately related to the task of casting an evocation spell from study and memory. I ultimately concluded that the specific channels of magically reality that evokers seek to open, guide and manipulate require a closer attention to the details of their inner workings on the part of the spell caster. A necromancer or diviner might possible get by successfully on some level of intuition, but for their part evokers seem to only succeed and thrive when they develop something far greater than a working knowledge of magical reality. They must strive for complete comprehension and mastery. And as I have grown in experience as a practitioner of this school, I have learned first hand the terrible importance of an evoker curbing and limiting that arcana into which he taps.

To the studied evoker, then, with greater knowlege of the magical nature of reality comes greater control. So greater knowledge is always sought, sometimes even for its own sake. If you spend any time with magic users, you will undoubtedly hear them utter the insult Misologue from time to time. To the studied evoker, Misologue is the greatest insult he can issue. Short for Misologisist, a Misologue is a hater of reason. Those who see only chaos in the cosmos are haters of reason. Those who assume that reality cannot be comprehended are haters of reason. You know a misologist because they often have to perform great feats of mental gymnastics in order to accomplish their denial of reason, and yet they abound and no shortage of examples can be produced. They deny what all magic users (and evokers in particular) know to be true - that the veins of magic that criss-cross the fabric of reality can be grasped and understood entirely, and that there is nothing ultimately mysterious or unknowable in existence.

And this is, ultimately, why I hate illusionsists. In and through their tricks, their deceptions, their slight-of-hand conjuring, they endlessly encourage skepticism toward intelligent powers of comprehension. They encourage the hatred of reason. The distrust they sow bends otherwise clear thinking beings toward panic and fear and induces attempts to flee from comprehension of the order behind what is only apparent disorder. No doubt this is not the chief or explicit aim of illusionists themselves. But of what matter is their self-
understanding when their actions serve only to strengthen the misologue? And, what is worse, illusionists, as brothers and sisters in the arcane arts, can be expected to know better than the common folk what havoc they wreck. They are all too well aware that their cosmic fakeries exist because magical reality is knowable and not shrouded in mystery. And yet they revel in their power to obfuscate and confuse and to shake the epistemic foundations of the subjects of their spells. I have never met an illusionist who I have not since learned has taken deep satisfaction in her power to reduce a being to a confused and whimpering idiot who can no longer tell fiction from reality.

***

It should be noted that Tilo's wholehearted embrace of the evoker dislike of the illusionist school has put him at odds with his halfling family and community. Illusionists are especially valued in halfling society, many of whom are held in extremely high esteem and are often cared for and provided for in their later years at the expense of the community as a whole.

Campaign Update #16 (by Ironbeard)

2009-01-23T22:34:00.000-05:00

Last night’s session began with a somewhat surprising (for me at least) twist. Just as your party had finished listening to Zook’s tale and was preparing for bed, Whren Briarwhisper made a sexual advance upon the gnome illusionist. He seemed very happy to oblige the little rogue and invited her to share his bedroll with him. But while Zook’s lovemaking skills soared to incredible if not epic heights, Whren rolled a 1 on her sexual performance check. Some individuals around the table seemed to derive great humor from this failure, especially given Whren’s relentless taunting of Quarian for his rather disappointing showing with Isa. Some even went so far as to suggest that the roll was a kind of poetic justice. Whether the hand of St Cuthbert, God of Justice, tipped the roll or not, we will likely never know, but the next day Zook till seemed very affectionate toward Whren and agreed to teach her the deeper secrets of illusion magic.

Later that day, perhaps growing bored of the monotony of camp life, the party went looking for employment as mercenaries and found temporary work in the employ of House Argos, a landless noble family that has grown quite wealthy in the mercantile trade. Apparently someone named Sir Gar (aka Sir Gar the Bloody), a brutal and cruel son of the Baron of Charir, had taken it upon himself to harass the shipments of House Argos as they passed through his father’s territory. The knight was unfairly imposing arbitrary and exorbitant taxes upon these shipments. Finally having had enough, a representative from House Argos hired your company to travel to Charir (less than a day’s journey away) to kill Sir Gar on the condition that you remain discrete concerning who hired you. Needles to say, you fulfilled your contract to the letter, killing the knight and Bluespawn Burrower (pictured above), but allowing a witness to escape.

On the day after your return to Throdenoth, however, Tranna informed you that the market was abuzz with gossip and talk concerning Sir Gar’s killing. Many believe that the killing was perpetrated by the very same group of outlaws that had been causing so much trouble in the north, particularly around the Barony of Gix.

Feeling the need to lie low and get out of sight for a while, your group decided to return to the dwarven tomb and explore the deeper level that you had previously discovered beneath it. After camping for a night in the under-tunnels beneath the town, you made your way to the tomb and eventually robbed the grave of some long dead warlock. Unfortunately, the warlock’s ghost was still in attendance and he did not seem eager to part with his burial tribute. Thus began a long and hard fought battle with a Warlock Ghost. Things began to seem scary indeed when the ghost actually took possession of Aeschere’s body and used it to attack his teammates. Eventually, however, Aeschere took a stunning blow from the flat of Quarian’s Longsword, Vengläk, fully in the face and was knocked senseless. Once the ghost left its now senseless host, it proved to be more easy pickings for Quarian who quickly dispatched the fell apparition. Within the tomb you found an ancient and rather powerful magic tome, the Ars Divinica.

After all of this wild action and brawling, the evening ended with intrigue. Following the advice of Lady Riminoc, Whren presented herself at the home of Lady Zemshar of House Vershoshar, who used to be a member of Throdenoth’s High Council but who had recently been expelled from it in disgrace. Rumor has it that she had been caught seducing several members of the Duke’s private seraglio, a charge that she strenuously denied. Because of her family’s status, she avoided the death sentence, but was kicked off of the council as punishment. Whren turned in a spectacular one gnome performance before the noble woman (a performance which, incidentally was given in the nude) and seemed to gain Zemshar’s confidence. So taken with Whren was the lady that she actually entrusted our gnome heroine with a secret mission. She gave Whren a locked box with explicit instructions to keep it hidden and secret until the lady or one of her representatives came to collect it. Under no circumstances was she to open it. Everything seemed fine, if a bit mysterious, until the next morning when news arrived in Zook’s camp that Lady Zemshar had been found dead and dismembered in her home.

Driven by her curiosity and perhaps a little concerned about her own involvement in the affair, Whren told the rest of the party about the box and decided to open it. Within she found a strange iron rod, covered with what appeared to be magical runes, and having strange and jagged broken ends. No one among you could determine its nature or its purpose. Unfortunately for Whren, the moment that she laid eyes on the object, a terrible curse was laid upon her.

Having no one else to turn to remove the curse, Whren went to the Temple of Tiamat. There, Ishtuk the High Priestess offered her a deal. She would remove the curse if Whren and the rest of her adventuring party agree aid her in performing a delicate and potentially violent duty. She wants you to strike a blow against the Cult of Demogorgon that has recently been plaguing the Church of Tiamat across the kingdom. This cult of Demogorgon, the self styled Lord of Demons and Demonkind, sprang up about two years earlier and appeals mostly to those Blixtians who are not of Draconic heritage, humans primarily who feel disenfranchised in Blixt’s social hierarchy. It seems that not everyone is content to accept their rightful place in the natural order of things. Of late, the cult has been waging what amounts to a terrorist campaign against the worshippers of Tiamat. Humans who worship the dragon deity have been disappearing or turning up murdered. Most assume that they are being kidnapped and possibly sacrificed to Demogorgon. This is part of the cult’s attempt to discourage the worshipping of Tiamat. Lady Ishtuk has recently learned through her spy network of the existence of one of this cult’s temples, hidden deep beneath the city. She could send her own troops to eliminate it, but she is hesitant to do so. She suspects that certain elements in Blixt’s aristocracy are secretly supporting the Cult of Demogorgon, not because they directly believe in its goals, but because they are jealous of the Church of Tiamat’s power and are eager to see it diminished. Needless to say, your party has been contracted by Ishtuk to descend once again into the under-tunnels beneath the city and route out this threat. See you next time.

3450 xp for Whren

4200 xp for Aeschere, Quarian, and Ardyth

Zook's Story (by Ironbeard)

2009-01-23T22:33:00.000-05:00

Zook sits before you, carefully stoking his pipe. He wears a long, voluminous robe of deep, almost blackish, purple. A tall conical hat, half as tall as its wearer sits upon his head. The hat is purple, like its owner’s robe, and made from densely woven and packed felt. Its cone curves gradually forward, rising until its peak terminates well above and slightly before the gnome’s face. A tiny silver star depends from the hat’s apex. Surely, some minor cantrip must be in use to keep this absurdly tall and crooked headgear affixed to its owner’s head.

About his waist, he wears a broad belt of leather from which hangs a wide assortment of pouches, bags, and purses of all sizes and materials.

There has been much discussion in camp about the fate of the poor gnome at archery contest earlier day, discussion that prompts Zook to opine on the subject (as he is often wont to do on so many subjects).

“There is little doubt that this morning’s scene was unpleasant, but don’t jump to conclusions about the little fellow, the one strapped to the archery target. He was probably some sort of miscreant or outlaw. Not that there’s anything wrong with being a miscreant, only with getting caught. Or he could simply have made the mistake of seriously upsetting some high ranking personage or other. But don’t judge our land too harshly based upon what you saw this morning. You see, Blixt is not such a bad place to live as a gnome, presuming of course that you make yourself useful. This is what we gnomes have always done and what we must always do in order to survive in a place such as this.”

He blows a large wreath of pipe smoke and strokes his pointed and meticulously trimmed beard.

“I was born and raised in the Burrow of Aylesbury, a small community of gnomes in the Bald Hills. [editor’s note: these hills rise bleakly in Blixt’s southernmost corner]. Our burrow was only thirty miles or so from Versvesh, Blixt’s southernmost city (a large town really) and only port on Lake Ostryd. Aylesbury was, and still is to this day, part of the Barony of Vex, a minor holding ruled at that time by Baron Aurumand of House Harkonin [editor’s note: this is the same noble house that your old friends Barons Malsvir and Ulrahir and Lady Remshvix now Baroness of Gix, belong to]. The Baron’s holding, Vex, was comprised mostly of rocky hill like terrain, most of its tenants being kobold miners who delved the earth for gems and copper. Over the years, these kobolds had made the Baron’s family quite rich as Aurumand’s manor afforded the only market in which they were allowed by law to sell the raw materials that they retrieved from the earth. The Baron bought copper from his tenants for cheap (above and beyond that amount which was his yearly due in rent) and in turn sold it in Versvesh at a much higher price.

My people, the gnomes of Aylesbury, had not been allowed to settle the more gem studded and richly ore laden hills, that privilege going to the draconic kobolds. The older generations of our burrow thus struggled to make due. But make due they did. They learned to grow barley on the slopes near Aylesbury and, using the ancient recipes that our people guard so carefully, they malted, fermented, and distilled the grain to produce the beautiful amber colored elixir known as uisge-beatha that is so highly prized throughout the kingdom and even exported to far off lands and cities like Darang-Geb, Thrang, and Marburg. The Aylesbury distillery generated considerable profits for our Baron. We paid our yearly rent to him with barrels and barrels of the stuff, barrels that he, in turn, sold for tremendous cost in Versvesh.

So my point is,” drawing deeply of his pipe and exhaling an enormous carp that rises in ever widening circles into the night sky, “that it is only by making ourselves useful that we gnomes avoid gracing the dinner tables of dragon folk who rule this land.”

His hand, bejeweled with a gaudy collection of rings, dips into one of his many belt pouches and emerges with a pewter flask.

“This is not to say, of course, that we should be servile to these beasts, only that we assume the semblance, dare I say the illusion of servility. This is why we gnomes, I believe, are so good at illusion magic. To survive in Blixt I learned early on that our lives are a war and we gnomes are all traitors, all spies in the enemy's country. We live with our heads in the dragon’s mouth, so to speak, and we overcome them with ‘yeses,’ and undermine them with grins. All the while we survive.”

Zook unstops the flask, takes a long sip, pauses a moment to savor.

“As a young gnome I demonstrated an aptitude and an unusual talent for illusion magic. I studied with the best artisans of the chimerical arts that my burrow had to offer and, soon, I had outstripped my teachers. Thus, when I entered my late childhood, my thirty sixth summer to be exact, I was sent to join Baron Aurumand’s household as a magical entertainer. In his manor I conjured up all manner of phantasmal delights and figments of wonder for him and his guests. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, especially after that horrific spectacle of this morning, that it was a tough audience in the Baron’s home. I learned to entertain and, in so doing, I avoided the stew pot. So well did I ingratiate myself to my lord that one summer, my fifty first summer, to be exact, he sent me to Darang-Geb to continue my studies at the feet of a master illusionist. He paid the whole fair and the cost of my tuition. By the time I returned to Vex, I had mastered my art so well that I was no longer satisfied to perform for simple room and board, engaging as the Baron’s raucous and sometimes violent celebrations usually were.

The time I spent in Darang Geb had given me a taste for travel and the road and I wished to strike out on my own and pay my own way as an entertainer. But I was now bound by debt to the Baron. He had not paid for my training in Darang-Geb so that I could run off and pursue a career as a wandering illusionist. He would never agree to such an arrangement and I knew better than to ask.

“I had a better plan though.” He chuckles and knocks his pipe against one of the stones that ring the fire.

“Unfortunately for him, I had spent much of my time in his service compiling vast amounts of evidence that chronicled the Baron’s involvement in a variety of highly illegal smuggling operations. Apparently, the Baron, while he enjoyed the rich profits reaped from the selling of gnomish liquor, did not enjoy paying the exorbitant taxes levied on such goods by the Duke of Versvesh. He had thus been secretly employing gangs of pirates and rogues to transport the precious fluid along channels unknown to the local bailiffs and tax collectors. Needless to say, the Duke’s men were very interested when I arranged to have said documents transported anonymously to the provincial court. Baron Aurumand was arrested and stripped of his rank, a major black eye for House Harkonin and one from which they have not entirely recovered. The Barony of Vex was thus granted to a new lord, though there was much rivalry and intrigue surrounding the transference of the title as it was much coveted for its wealth in metals, gems, and whiskey. While, technically, my services as entertainer should have been owed by right of fealty to my new master, in all the ensuing confusion, debate, and skullduggery, no one could be much concerned about the absence of a single gnome. I thus slipped away and established residency in Versvesh, well trained in the arts of phantasmagoria, and ready to begin my new career as a traveling mountebank.”

He leans back and passes his flask to Brryrrn, the kobold bard.

“So you see, it’s not such a bad fate to be gnome in this kingdom, provided that one knows how to survive.”

Campaign Update #15 (by Ironbeard)

2009-01-23T22:32:00.000-05:00

Campaign Time: November 3-November 7, 1051 HR

Last night saw some interesting twists and turns indeed. The evening began with some furious action as your party explored the rest of the dwarven tomb deep beneath Throdenoth Hill. First, you returned to the shrine of Moradin where the Dwarven Ancestor who guarded it proved to be less of challenge than he had been the previous evening. Then after plunging deeper into the depths of the tomb, you encountered an old friend (of our gaming group at least) a Boneclaw. Things looked dire until Tilo incinerated the dreaded creature with a cone of fire. On a final note here, you did discover a shaft, apparently not part of the tomb’s original construction that drops to some unknown depth deeper in the earth below the Hill.

After returning to the surface and Zook’s camp, you learned that the Show of Wonders intends to spend the winter in Throdenoth and has sought out more permanent lodgings. The highlight of your first evening back must surely have been Quarian’s seduction of Isa. Whether it was the impressive gift that he presented her with (his old masterwork longsword and the promise of future lessons in its use) or some other factor, Isa agreed to share his bedroll and treated our elven ranger to a truly spectacular evening of carnal pleasures.

On the following evening, Aeschere followed suit and bedded Tranna, after taking her on a shopping trip to Throdenoth’s market square and purchasing a new cloak and hood for her (a beautiful piece fashioned of well oiled deerskin dyed a lustrous black. It is lined with heavy felt for insulation, trimmed with the fur of white rabbits, and secured at the neck with a finely wrought silver chain).

On this same day (November 6), Whren made contact with the town’s Thieves’ Guild and made arrangements to purchase information regarding the existence of a secret entrance into Lakjat’s quarters from the udertunnels.

Perhaps the most interesting development occurred on the morning of November 7 when Aeschere entered the town’s annual archery contest. Aeschere proved himself to be quite a competitor in this match, easily besting most of the opposition and advancing without much trouble through the first and second rounds. Things became problematic , however, before the beginning of the third and final round, the round in which Aeschere had only last year’s champion (a Bugbear named Zorachk) to beat. A cruel surprise revealed itself, however, when the contest official called for a naked gnome prisoner to be brought forth and tied to the target board, a crude bulls eye painted on his chest. The autumn air rang with the prisoner's terrified screams and pleadings. So great was his panic that the little fellow soiled himself while pinioned to the target board, a development the earned cheers of delight from the audience. Forced to decide between shooting to win (thus killing the gnome) or pursuing some other course of action, Aeschere opted to forfeit the contest and claim a moral victory. The crowd, consisting mostly of Bugbear mercenaries and humans of variously unsavory dispositions, jeered and hooted this clear sign of weakness on the archer’s part. Aeschere, however, was not swayed or goaded into changing his position. Soon after, the crowd lost interest in the spectacle of this strangely principled elf and began to break up.

But the morning’s events were not yet over.

As the crowd dispersed, still muttering its disappointment over its unfulfilled blood lust, Tranna quietly approached Aeschere, her movements were purposeful and confident. Meeting his gaze with eyes that shone wetly with tears, she strode up to the archer, twined her arms about his neck, pressed her willowy body against his, and whispered but one phrase in his ear. “Thank you.” She then brushed his lips with a kiss, soft and salty, before returning to her duties at the camp.

Thanks to all of you for a great night of gaming. I had a lot of fun.

Tranna's Story (by Ironbeard)

2009-01-23T22:30:00.000-05:00

[editor's note: the following story was told in Zook's encampment on the evening of October 3o. It was told shortly after Isa had finished relating her tale.]

“As you know, I come from the Forest of Nan, but there is more to me than that. I hope I do not seem presumptuous, but I thought that, as long as we are sharing tales, you may be interested in mine. Though I am ashamed to admit it, I am tainted by the blood of the fiends who rule this kingdom.”

She sits by the fire with her knees drawn up under chin. She wears a shabby cloak of green worsted wool, moth eaten and frayed. Not much protection against the chilly late autumn air, but it’s all she can afford given the meager wages Zook pays her for washing pots and gathering ox dung for the fire.

How well do you know her, Tranna the Elf? She has accompanied you for almost two months since you rescued her from the seraglio of Baron Malsvir and agreed to return her to her home in the Forest of Nan. She has helped you by providing useful information on more than a few occasions, but until now, she has been reticent about sharing information of a personal nature. You watch her, waiting for her to continue, her eyes hidden behind long honey colored bangs.

“One fine autumn day, some one hundred and five years ago, my mother was set upon and captured by a Blixtian raiding party while gathering mushrooms with her friends in the forest. Such raiding parties are, of course, a common danger in our woodland home as the Blixtian nobles like to hunt my people for sport and profit. As you know, Elven females are highly prized in Blixt as sexual consorts and fetch high prices in the slave markets of the largest towns. On this particular day, the young half dragon scion who led the hunting party was so overcome by my mother’s beauty that, instead of immediately chaining her with the rest of the prisoners, he led her off into the brush, flung her to the ground, and ravished her. But his bestial lust proved providential for my mother. While he was momentarily disoriented after spilling his seed, my mother seized a rock, dashed his brains all over the forest floor and fled.

I am the child of that unfortunate union.

For some reason, I have never shown any outward physical signs of my mixed parentage. In my case, the Elven stock seems to have completely predominated over the draconic. This, I am told, is rare but not unheard of when our two species mingle. But the circumstances of my conception proved to be a hated curse for me from which I spent my entire childhood struggling to escape. You see, among the Elves of the Forest of Nan, it is forbidden for one to knowingly consort sexually with anyone of draconic blood. So feared and hated are the horrid lords and ladies of that kingdom by my people. The elders of my tribe know all too well that, in Blixt, elf dragon hybrids are accepted and sometimes allowed to rise to positions of power. It is a tragic irony that, while being generally despised by the Blixtian aristocracy, elves are also valued in that Kingdom as breeding stock. More than a few of the offspring of these abductees have returned to Blixt. While these prodigal elves are welcomed and allowed to assimilate into our tribes, it is greatly feared that they will reproduce and bear more half dragon offspring into our midst. Can such potential traitors be trusted? In theory, yes, but no one wants too many of them around. My people have come to fear the taint of dragon blood almost as much as they fear the swords and arrows of the Blixtian raiding parties.

I was thus raised and treated with love by my community, accepted as almost any other. But I always understood that physical intimacy between me and any other member of my tribe was strictly prohibited. This ban became excruciatingly painful when I entered my late adolescence, a time when young Elven lads and maidens are encouraged to spend much time exploring their world. It is often said that these are some of the best years of an elf’s life, a time when one can freely indulge in explorations of the geographical, intellectual, and physical kind. But the latter were not for me. I recall with great bitterness the many mornings when I, with forced smile on my lips, would nod and listen to my female friends recount with painful exactitude the details of their many nightly trysts and forest assignations with their ever rotating round tables of lovers. Indeed, on some summer nights in the Forest of Nan, cries of passion are more commonly heard than the hooting of owls and croaking of bullfrogs. Many were the nights that I lay in my tree top home, listening to such cries while my bitterness crushed me like a hot stone buried within my chest.

Then I met Fenwick. Fenwick Sage. He was a Forest Gnome and a great craftsman renowned for his elaborate skill at metalworking. There is little interaction between our races, though we share the same forest demesne. Occasionally we will come together for mutual defense or trade as was the case on the day that I met him. He had come to my village to trade jewelry, mostly silver, for the cunning fabrics that we weave so well, highly prized by the gnomes. When I admired the quality of his handiwork, he looked at me for a long moment without speaking. He then reached into his worn leather kit and produced a finely wrought silver chain from which depended an almost perfect fire opal. He held it out to me and said that it would perfectly match the quartz sequins on my linen gown. I blushed and told him that I could not possibly accept such a gift, especially from someone I had just met. He replied that he was not in fact offering it is a gift, the pendant’s value being far too great for that. Would I be willing to trade? I cringed in embarrassment, but he shrugged the moment off and invited me for a walk.

That afternoon we walked and talked for hours beneath the forest canopy, our conversation ranging far and wide between the general and intimate. Fenwick had such passion for all things in the natural world and he expressed himself with a wit and eloquence that I had not believed existed outside of fey kind. His eyes sparkled with mirth when he looked up at me, his head barely rising to my waist. So engrossed were we in our conversation that we did not realize that dusk, and then night, had spread their soft and purplish wings over the forest.

We found ourselves in a rare forest clearing, the stars spread out like spilled sugar against the night, the air smelling sweetly of fern and pine. We looked at each other, not speaking, for a long moment. Then, he reached and plucked a sequin from my gown, holding it before me. The sequin flashed into bright light and transformed into a beautiful fire opal that blazed with an internal glow so great that the entire clearing swelled with its radiance. He then took the blazing opal, stretched his arm as high as he could reach, and, standing on tip toe, carefully placed the gem among the stars overhead. When he removed his hand, the new star remained, held fast in the firmament, burning among the wheeling constellations above. So great was his skill at his gnomish illusion magic that my star burned all night, spilling its radiance upon us as we made love on the mossy carpet below.”

Tranna pauses and looks at the sky above your heads.

“In him I found someone who could be my friend and more than a friend, someone who was not bound by the taboo restrictions of my people. Someone who I slowly grew to love as improbable as it may sound. Soon, I was slipping away for days at a time and making the long journey to visit him in his workshop hidden below the forest floor. He took me below the earth, into the cool, dark, stone refuge of his home where he fashioned his wondrous creations. And there I had my desires fulfilled for the first time.

His skill as a craftsman extended well beyond the field of metal and into the world of physical pleasure. Oh yes, in his workshop, I learned a craft of a different sort. His smaller size and weight provided me with advantages that I would not have enjoyed with an Elven lover. I delighted in holding him at arm’s length before me or sitting him upon my knee and thoroughly exploring his small, nude body. He was hard, strong, and earthy, the muscles of his chest brawny, yet somehow delicate. I held his hands and guided them over my body for hours, his small dexterous hands, so skilled at shaping and molding precious things, so adept at gently probing and coaxing the secret places of the earth. I investigated the cleft of his buttocks, round and firm like stones polished by a forest brook. I gently cupped his testicles, smooth and brown like two hazelnuts, in my hand. It is true that, owing to the diminutive stature of his race, his manhood was scarcely larger than an Elven child’s. But he made up for this with a virility that could shame a centaur and by pleasuring me in other, more imaginative ways as well. He worshiped my body, in his gnomish manner, as if I were a treasured handicraft produced by some great master. To him, my loins were an exquisitely crafted chalice to which he would lovingly press his lips and drink deeply. I can vividly remember the long and delicious afternoons that we spent together in his underground smithy, his tongue clamped between my thighs like a fiery ingot held in the tongs of a greedy metallurgist. He satisfied me for hours in this manner, hammering and sintering my sex until I flowed like molten copper.

Our love was a craft upon which we lavished all of our skill, but it was a secret affair. If the other elves of my village knew of it, I would have been the object of jokes and stories for years to come. I had never heard of any romantic liaisons between our two races. Thus no one knew where I had gone when I did not return to my village on the morning of my one hundredth birthday. A party had been planned, but I would not be in attendance. I did not return because, on my journey home from Fenwick’s workshop, I was set upon by Blixtian raiders. Fenwick was with me, having planned to accompany me to just beyond the outskirts of our village’s patrol border. He could have run and hid, gnomes being so adept at such things, but he chose to stay to try and help me. A decision that I’m sure he regretted.

We were captured, taken from the forest in chains, and sold to the household of Baron Besumo of the Fiefdom of Ux. The Baron, after tiring of me, eventually sold me to another slaver who, in turn, sold me to Baron Malsvir, the sadistic beast from whom you rescued me. The last I ever saw of my beloved Fenwick was” she pauses again her voice cracking, “on a plate as he was served for dinner at Baron Besumo’s mid winter table.” Tranna’s face shines wetly in the fire light and she seems to struggle as if uncertain about continuing. “I was made to serve at the feast, wearing the humiliating silks of his pleasure girl. He made cruel jokes in front of me to his guests, obviously reveling in my misery and his dominion over me. After eating of my former lover’s manliness, he exclaimed that,” sobbing now, “that it was delicious having, been so thoroughly steeped in elf juice.”

Tranna wipes her face with the back of her sooty hand.

“It may seem odd to you that I would wish to return to my people after all this, but the Forest is the only home that I have ever known. Though little awaits me there but a life of unfulfilled longing, I must tell my family what happened to me. I owe them that. Fenwick’s clan should be told as well. Also, unlike some of you,” she looks at Zook and Isa in particular, “I just cannot see myself living forever among these Blixtian devils, trying to blend in, and hoping be tolerated among those also shunted to the margins of their society. No. I must return. I leave the timetable open your convenience, but I humbly ask that you fulfill your promise to me and return me to my home.”

She sighs and regains control of her emotions. Her face is turned upward. Her eyes still moist in the starlight.

[editor's note: Tranna referrences sugar in her story. While sugar is not known among the elves of the Nan forest, this exotic delicacy is known in Blixt where the locals import it from lands far to the south. It only graces the tables of the most wealthy. Tranna must have learned of sugar during her tenure as a pleasure girl for Barons Belsomo and Malsvir.]

2009-01-23T22:26:00.000-05:00

A Dark Dungeon and Muddled Thoughts (by Camp 17)

2009-01-23T22:25:00.002-05:00

Drip, drip, drip… the infernal sound was driving Quarian mad. “What in creation was a wild elf doing in this dismal dwarven lair”, thought Quarian. He longed for the hills and forests of home. A price on his parties head. A surgeon grafting dragon parts to humans. Spiders. Traps. His mood was growing dark, yet a small flicker of light was trying to break free… she did comment about a warrior and his ability to handle a long sword.

Pahh nonsense, he had more urgent matters to attend to. He hoped the Ward spell would hold. Quarian knew a smattering of magic and his mentor Tilo was unconscious. The poor little guy didn’t stand a chance against that hulking stone beast. Yes they had gotten themselves into a fine soup. His fool of a brother Grugash thinking he could take on the beast and nearly getting himself killed in the process. Quarian had done as much as he could to alleviate the rash elf’s suffering. His shoulders still ached from having to run while carrying Aschere to safety. He could not leave a fellow elf behind at a time of need.

Ardyth was fast asleep… damn humans and their need for sleep!!! Wren was busy tending to his wounds. Speaking of Wren… she has not been herself as of late; all this talk of Tiamat and dealings with these vile dragonfolk. And that story about Bronwyn and the pendant and witches and poems… it was starting to worry Quarian a tad too much… gooseflesh rose up on the otherwise unflappable elf’s neck. Not a soul to talk to… that’s OK thought Quarian. Since the night his world was torn asunder he had become accustomed to the loneliness. Accustomed yes… but as of late it was starting to grate on his nerves.

He was watching Wren as she was fussing over Ardyth. Suddenly he was all too painfully aware of how utterly alone he was in the world. This rag tag bunch of travelers (they called themselves the Heros of Guadd Hill… wherever that might be) were all that he had and he almost lost them in this Dwarvish hell hole… Damnation to the entire race of sawed off little rock chopping bastards.

There was that flicker of light in the back of his mind again…. "But I'm really only interested in warriors who really know how to wield their longswords". Was he imagining that perhaps she was hinting at her feelings… nah she was too hardened, jaded, distrustful of men. Still he had seen a brief flicker of softness when she said that to the party the other night. Seems that they may have the need for companionship in common. Gods know that she has had an equally difficult life as he has had. That conversation the other night totally changed Quarian’s perception of Issa. He had only thought of her as another strumpet with particularly seductive eyes. Another human trollop. Yet after her tale was told his heart went out to her and he was smitten. These feelings stunned him as surely as Aschere and Tilo were stunned by the dwarven stone giant’s hammer. He had believed that he had long ago buried all possibility of affection and contact with another’s soul. His mind was made up. If they got out of this dwarven cesspool alive he would go to her and tell her his feelings. But how?? He was a warrior not a lover. He had no concept of how to talk to a woman let alone romance her. Perhaps a gift, a token of his heart? Well there was the task at hand to worry about first… get out alive. Then he had to figure out how to hide all the oyster shells in the land.

Campaign Update #14 (by Ironbeard)

2009-01-23T22:25:00.001-05:00

Campaign Time: October 31 - November 2, 1051 HR

Last evening witnessed a variety of events and a couple of scary moments for the heroes of Gwudd Hill. You spent the day of October 31 exploring the town of Throdenoth and trying to gather information about your upcoming endeavors and adversaries. Some of the highlights: Quarian discovered a writ of outlawry posted for your group offering a bounty of 500 gp for each of your heads. Quarian also killed a bugbear who attempted to start a fight with him in The Pikeman’s Revenge, the only tavern in town that serves elves. You learned that an archery contest will be held in the Market Square on November 7, the winner’s purse being 500 gp. Lakjat, as you discovered, is an arcane surgeon and a citizen of prominence in the town. Whren also learned that the Thieves’ Guild in Throdenoth is rather powerful and that she can make contact with them by seeking out Gruschow, a legless goblin beggar who can be found every day in the Market between the fruit vendor and a kiosk that sells used clothes.

On November 1, you met Helmdug the dwarven artificer and his associate, Kipper. Kipper led you on a long journey that led deeper and deeper into the labyrinthine maze of tunnels that that honeycomb the Great Hill upon which Throdenoth has been built, finally arriving at the secret entrance to the dwarven tomb. Therein, you encountered a host of difficulties: deadly traps, a tomb spider and her horrific offspring, and a dwarven ancestor that came within a hair’s breadth of ending Aeschere’s life. You did manage to locate and secure what appears to be the ancient scrolls that Helmdug sent you recover. Quarian also acquired a weapon of some great power, Vengläk, a sword of Orcs Bane. The evenings events ended when, battered and bloodied, with Tilo and Aeschere unconscious but stable and likely to recover, you decided to camp in the entrance hall of the tomb, apparently intent on continuing your explorations that following day.

Good work everyone. I thought you all fought quite well and worked together as a team.

Experience: 2,030 per PC

A New Path (by Whren)

2009-01-23T22:23:00.000-05:00

Whren awakens and pulls her raven hair away from her sweaty neck. She clutches the pendant of Tiamat that hangs between her breasts and regards her companions. She has the utmost respect for her comrads, to be sure, but a desire burns within her that she cannot explain. She rises and slips away silently into the night.

The loss of Bronwyn has left Whren the only female in the group and though the two did not always see eye to eye, the isolation Whren feels now weighs heavy on her. Her party’s recent companionship with Isa especially has driven Whren to consider her own sexuality. As she watches the reactions Isa’s naked, writhing body stirs up among men, she resents her comrads attitudes that she is just one of “the guys.” Aeschere, Quarian, and even Tilo have had fantasies fulfilled through the passionate services of servants of desire, and now with Isa, their fantasies may be reborn. “And what of me?” Whren sighs, “I am left to satisfy my own, for no male I have encountered bears the seductive power that is kin to Isa’s.”
Though she has proven herself in battle, thievery, and scouting, she sometimes feels overlooked as a woman, and longs for sensitivity and understanding. Even Ardyth, with whom Whren has had a sordid past, has become withdrawn in his own thoughts, and is less eager to sit and converse.

Ah, but what of Zook and his traveling players? She has proven herself well among them, and earned an audience with Lady Riminoc herself. Clearly, the Lady was taken with her, and Whren must confess that the adoration was a welcome change from the doubt that she sometimes feels among her friends. It was this that drove her to make a vow to Tiamat and begin her service to the Dragon Mother.

As she ponders the events of recent days and her perplexing dream, her lust for treasure blossoms within her. Yet, as she reviews what she must sacrifice to the goddess, a pang of guilt rises in her throat. Though she does not want to become truly evil, Tiamat is an evil goddess. How will this affect the strain she already feels among her male companions?

Whren swallows the thought, and decides to practice the act that has found her new respect. She starts her dance and spells and begins to chant Madame Leota’s words:

“Serpents and spiders, tail of rat,
Call in the spirits, wherever they’re at.

Rap on an oak, it’s time to respond,
Send us a message from somewhere beyond.

Goblins and ghoulies seldom seen,
Awaken the spirits with your tambourine.

Creepies and crawlies, toads in a pond,
Let there be music from regions beyond.

Wizards and witches, wherever you dwell,
Give us a hint by ringing a bell.”

Perhaps it is the excitement of her new role as follower of Tiamat, or the suppressed desires deep within, or maybe the unseasonably warm October night, but whatever the cause, Whren feels compelled to bathe in the moonlight in the nearby lake. A shiver runs down her back as she removes her shift and wades into the cool water. Once immersed, she runs her hands over her naked body, rinsing the oil of thesbian she had so carefully applied earlier. Her breath quickens as she caresses her breasts, thighs and the tender folds of skin between them until finally she is overcome with a passionate surge of desire. She shudders as the sensation weakens, and slowly opens her eyes.

The white figure of a woman wrenches Whren back to the reality of the woods, and she quickly emerges from the water, desparately trying to cover her nakedness from the stranger. The figure approaches, and Whren gasps as the stranger moves into the moonlight. There, before her, stands Bronwyn, fallen comrad of Whren, and faithful cleric of Herronious. Whren tries to speak, but Brownwyn reaches out to cover her mouth. Her hand moves to the pendant that hangs around Whren’s neck. She studies it a moment, then begins to tighten her grip on the chain from which it hangs. A madness that Whren had never seen shone in Bronwyn’s eyes as the chain pushes into Whren’s flesh. A shriek from Whren suddenly breaks Bronwyn’s concentration, and she drops the pendant. Whren falls to her knees, gasping for breath and watches as Bronwyn backs away from her, seemingly horrified at having caused Whren pain. The madness in her eyes is replaced by despair, and she slowly backs away from Whren, then vanishes into the trees.

Suddenly feeling very vulnerable, Whren rushes to dress and hurries back through the woods to camp. She has much to think about...

Isa's Story (by Ironbeard)

2009-01-23T22:16:00.000-05:00

She does not speak much, verbally anyway. Body language seems to be her favored idiom. But tonight, your first night in Throdenoth, is different. As you relax in Zook’s camp, pitched in an empty lot in the town’s mercenary quarter, your eyes are inevitably drawn to her. Isa lounges before the fire like cat, her supple body wrapped in a long cloak of gray felt lined with otter fur. The firelight plays across her features as she casts back her cowl allowing her jet black hair to cascade freely. She regards you with black eyes set beneath her long and dusky lashes.

“Since I seem to be an object of fascination for some of you, perhaps I should tell you a bit about myself.”

She pauses to lift a wineskin to her lips. Her head tilts back and she enjoys several long and delicious swallows of the well spiced and potent drink. Finished, she licks her lips with the tip of her sensuous tongue.

“I was born in the City of Darang Geb, a large metropolis that lies on the eastern edge of Lake Ostryd [editor’s note: Lake Ostryd serves as Blixt’s southern border. It is approximately the same size as Lake Ontario in our world]. The city is a grim and dark place, ruled by the Church of Hextor whose red robed priests hold the entire populace in a grip of fear and dread. It is a large city, home to some twenty thousand souls, mostly human, and its sphere of hegemony extends for almost two hundred miles across the surrounding plains. From their citadels of stone the high priests also seek to extend their influence into other lands as well, some quite distant. If you have ever encountered a priest or disciple of Hextor anywhere in your travels, it is likely that he was connected in some way to Darang Geb. Most of the luxury goods that can be found in Blixt pass through my home city and the priests have grown quite wealthy as a result.

I remember little of my early child hood. I have no idea who my father is. My mother sold used clothes and picked rags by the wharfs of the city. What little money she earned was spent to purchase the juice of the purple lotus, a drug which she consumed in copious amounts as she sought some measure of escape into the world narcotic dreams and hallucinations. She was, to say the least, a very poor provider for me, her only child, and so most of my early years were spent on my own, wandering the streets and slums of the city, learning tricks of survival from the many urchins who were growing up under similar circumstances. One had to be careful as the agents of the Holy Church would often visit the slums to snatch a young girl or two, victims destined to be sacrificed on the altar of the Many Handed One.

As I entered into early adolescence and began to ripen sexually, I noticed that I was increasingly becoming the object of the lust of others. My bitch of a mother noticed it as well, because when I was twelve, she sold me to a brothel, a house of pleasure where I was to be trained in the many ways of giving delight to men. I have no wish to recount in detail the horrors that were visited upon me in that so called house of delights. I tried to escape on three separate occasions, but failed each time and was whipped severely. Like all of the girls there, I was routinely subjected to a regimen of beatings, druggings, and rapings, all designed to break my spirit and reduce me to a state of utter subjugation. The sexual tastes of the men of my city tended strongly towards the cruel and sadistic, but then how unique are they really? Somehow, I endured. In that house I learned to dance and to perform, skills that would serve me well in later years. It was also there that I learned that my body and sex worked like a magnet to which men were inevitably drawn like handfuls of cheap metal. I learned that even in my abject state, I could exploit this ability.

In no short time, I became one of the most popular girls in the house and had many regular “customers” if one can call them that. In addition to the regular townsfolk who made up the majority of the brothel’s clientele, I entertained traders and merchants from lands as far away as Narul, Thrang, and Mahrburg. Even members of Darang Geb’s ruling elite would occasionally frequent our water front house of pleasure intent on slaking their bestial longings and inflicting their cruel perversions upon their city’s less fortunate classes. The worst of all was when once an Outsider, a being from some hellish other dimension or plane, came to visit me. Such abominations are rare, but not unknown in Darang Geb as the priests are known to summon them for a variety of fell purposes. I did not realize that night that my service had been purchased by a devil, as he came to me in human guise. It was only when we were locked in the heat of deepest passion that he revealed his true form to me and . . . "

Isa trails off, her gaze drops, and for just a moment, her haughty demeanor seems to drain away. But she quickly regains her composure and resumes.

"One individual, a merchant sea captain who owned a galley that regularly plied the waters between the Darang Geb and Versvesh [editor’s note: Versvesh is a Blixtian port town on Lake Ostryd], developed a particular obsession with me. Whenever he was in port, he would always make of point patronizing me, often renting me for an entire evening as opposed to the more customary hour. He was a fat and sweating pig of a man whose sexual appetites ran well into the realm of what most would consider exotic, but by this point in my young life, very little could surprise me in that area. But, in him, I began to sense that I would find the means of my escape. I thus took pains to carefully stoke and tend the fires of his lust, all the while biding my time. I convinced him to believe that I was delighted to be nothing but his subservient private slut who actually reveled in the innumerable sexual degradations that he heaped upon me. The fool believed me, as so many do. Eventually, in the Month of the Red Moon when the streets of Darang Geb run red with the blood of sacrifice, he bought me from the brothel owner and took me with him aboard his ship. There I served him, in the manner to which he had become accustomed, as his personal cabin girl, helping to add some spice to what is otherwise a long and tedious voyage.

I did not serve him for long, however. In fact, I only served him for one voyage—though I could hardly call it a “maiden” voyage—to Versvesh. Our first night in that port, I laced his dinner with a generous dose of purple lotus juice. I had used my very nimble fingers to appropriate this dosage from another customer back in Darang Geb and had carefully kept it hidden and secreted about my person for weeks as I waited for the right opportunity to use it. That night, I made my way quietly over the side of the ship while the good captain slept, wrapped in a near paralysis of drug induced fantasia. He slumbered so deeply, in fact, that he barely stirred when I used the broken shell of a fresh water oyster to neatly remove his testicles before making my departure. Farewell my captain.

In Versvesh, I survived by my wits, blending in with the substantial underworld population of the town. In that world of thieves, actors, harlots, scoundrels and the like I refined my skills as a performer. It was not a bad life. I found that my dancing abilities had such a powerful effect on men that I could often twist them to do my bidding and lavish me with coins and gifts. But competition was fierce in a town like Versvesh and sheep can only be shorn so many times before they begin to get wise. Eventually I met Zook. He convinced me to join him and travel the countryside with this traveling show. I soon learned that, while city folk were easily swayed by the sight of my charms, the country bumpkins in the provinces were utterly spell bound. How pathetic are these fools. Three twitches of my ass and they’ll drop a week’s wages at my feet."

As if for emphasis, Isa extends her legs and rests her feet before the fire. She wears knee high boots crafted of oiled doe skin, the exotic leather molded snugly to the curves of her calves.

"But no one will ever own me again. Those who try,” she says raising her cloak to reveal a dirk strapped to her creamy yet well muscled thigh, “learn the hard way. More than a few of these provincial clods have made that mistake and lost parts of their anatomies that I’m sure they wish they had back. Don't get me wrong though. I'm not saying that I don't enjoy the attentions of a lusty lad between the sheets as much as the next girl does." She pauses to indulge in a throaty chuckle and adds, "But I'm really only interested in warriors who really know how to wield thier longswords.

"So now you know a little bit about me. You will find that, if treated well, I can be a good friend in a scrape. Just don't ever fuck with me.”

With that, Isa falls silent and takes another pull at the wineskin. She stares off in private reverie, watching the lights of Throdenoth glittering on the steep hill slope that rises above the camp. The late October air is cool and carries the barest hint of future snows.

Whren's Dream (by Ironbeard)

2009-01-23T22:15:00.000-05:00

On her first night in Throdenoth, Whren is visited by a very curious dream.

She finds herself walking down a natural cavern tunnel of sort. The walls are of limestone and slick with moisture. Stalactites hang from the ceiling and the tunnel slopes steadily downward. After walking what could be hours, she notices that broken statues lie heaped along the edges of the tunnel. Broken arms, torsos, and heads of marble and granite litter the ground in a chaotic jumble. Pausing to examine the wreckage, she lifts a head and studies it carefully, wiping the grime and filth that obscure its visage. After a few moments, she recognizes the face as that of St. Cuthbert. The deity’s stern countenance stares upward at the tunnel’s ceiling, his expression of admonition directed to no one but the stalactites overhead. Whren lets the head fall back into the pile with an echoing clatter. She suddenly becomes aware of a distinct glow coming from just beyond a bend in the tunnel ahead.

Continuing her journey, she soon enters into a vast underground cavern, the ceiling of which is lost in darkness above her. Before her an enormous pile of treasure rises like some vast sand dune in a far away desert, its upper crest teeters at an impossible height above Whren’s head. The edges of the pile cannot be seen either as it stretches for as far as the eye can see in each direction. The sparkling hill is made mostly of coins, millions and millions of gold, silver, platinum pieces. Uncountable numbers of gemstones of all sorts stud the shimmering vista. Emeralds and rose quartzes, onyxes and moonstones, lozenges of jade and white sapphires, opals, diamonds, golden beryls, and aquamarines all glitter in unimaginable numbers. Half buried and jutting haphazardly from the vast pile, like lost wrecks on a golden beach, countless numbers of handicrafts dot the fabulous landscape. Everywhere that Whren’s gaze lands, a different object tempts her. A silver crown studded with pearls and agates. A richly carved, ivory scepter with an amber head. A chest carved entirely from amazonite feldspar, its surface a richly carved mosaic of birds and feathers. Swords forged of the finest adamantine and bearing guards encrusted with rubies. A solid gold bowl covered in the finest filigree of platinum, its base ringed with amethysts. A marble statue of an elephant, its tusks tipped with balls of solid gold, its eyes blue laced agates. Vases and amphorae, taller than a man, fashioned from the finest ceramics, and containing almonds, nutmeg, orange blossom, and tea. To her left, peeking from the dazzling sea of coins, sits a sparkling decanter carved from a single block of quartz crystal and filled with what must be wine of some rare a highly prized vintage. She sees many rare tomes, their pages made from the finest vellum and illuminated with exquisite artistry, their covers crafted from rare and exotic leathers and embossed with electrum. Strings of pearls, longer than the span of a human’s arms, lie draped over these objects like garland.

As she gazes upon the scene, the glow reflecting from it slowly swells and intensifies to become blinding haze. But though the incredible light now obscures her vision, the glare is not unpleasant. Rather, its warm glow suffuses her with a sensation that verges on intoxication. Slowly, ten points of light begin to emerge from the haze, ten points where the glow seems to have coalesced into pockets of even greater luminescence. What sort of gems could these be? Whren quickly realizes that these gems are in fact eyes, five sets of beautiful female eyes gazing at her from out of the glow. A voice is then heard.

“Look upon it Whren. Is it not magnificent? There is no end to the wealth that can be yours. The world is filled with fools who are too stupid to deserve what they have. Prizes should go to those who are clever enough to take them, do you not agree? I can help you in this endeavor and all I ask is that you make some small contribution to my hoard. Don’t be swayed by others who might tell you that I am evil. I am evil to be sure, but I have little interest in your morality. Ours will be a business relationship. Help me increase my wealth and I will help you to increase yours. Serve me and you will be richly rewarded”
With that the beautiful golden light winks out and Whren awakens in her bed

Campaign Update #13 (by Ironbeard)

2009-01-23T22:13:00.002-05:00

In which Whren achieves no small success as an actor and becomes a worshiper of Tiamat . . .

Campaign Time: October 17-October 31, 1051 HR

Even though we did not play for long last session, a surprising number of things developed. On the second day of your travels with Zook’s Show of Wonders, you entered Osvith, a land holding in the possession of Her Holiness, Lady Riminoc, a priestess of Tiamat. Zook set up camp outside of the Village of Rabea, Osvith’s principle settlement. You learned that Lady Riminoc belongs to the House Vershoshar, a Blixtian noble house descended from elven stock. The evening’s show was by all accounts a tremendous success, particular for Whren whose debut was very well received. By artfully combining her acting skills with some crafty prestidigitation, she brought the house down. She did so well, in fact, that later that evening, she was invited to give a private performance before Lady Riminoc herself in the Temple of Tiamat.

Unfortunately, not everyone had such a good time. Whether it was the effects of too much drink before the show or the intoxicating effects of Isa’s temptingly gyrating backside, a Bugbear mercenary in Her Holiness’s employ became aggressive and decided to raise trouble after the performance. Zook felt that it was probably the presence of the elves Aeschere, Quarian, and Tranna that was provoking him. The matter was settled when Aeschere challenged the goblinoid to single combat and slew him taking an ear as a grisly trophy.

Later that evening, Whren performed before Lady Riminoc herself and acquitted herself in spectacular fashion by turning in another brilliant performance. No doubt this was because of her formidable acting skills combined with the effects of a generous dose of “oil of the thespian” with which she had slathered herself before the performance. The lady could also tell (through the use of her mysterious and terrible diving insights) that Whren had recently made a very generous sacrifice at one of Tiamat’s altars (hearken back to the Saben Monastery), a fact that immediately endeared the gnome to the half dragon noble. Lady Riminoc was so taken with Whren, in fact, that she presented her with a finely crafted holy symbol of the Dragon Mother. Whren capped the evening off by making an additional sacrifice to the Scaly Deity and abasing herself in loving devotion before Tiamat’s altar. Perhaps the greatest plum of Whren’s night came when Her Holiness presented the gnome with a letter of introduction to Lady Zemshar of Throdenoth, Riminoc’s sister. If ever in Throdenoth, Whren is urged to seek out Lady Zemshar and perform before her. Whren also learned from the priestess that a sinister religious cult devoted to the Demon Demogorgon has recently sprung up in Blixt and has declared itself to be the enemy of Tiamat’s Church. Any information about this dangerous group that the gnome turns up in her travels would be welcomed and rewarded by Lady Riminoc.

The following day, Zook’s troupe resumed its journey to Throdenoth. The next week and a half passed by rather uneventfully as the group gave two more performances before arriving in the Province’s capital town.

Throdenoth is, of course, the largest town that any of you have ever seen, though it has but a population of 2,500 souls (more than half of which are human). You have learned that Throdenoth is the main power center of the Province of Yarag. It serves as a market for the surrounding baronies and fiefdoms to sell their surplus goods while it simultaneously provides a source for almost all of the manufactured goods, arts and crafts of the province. The roads to and from Throdenoth are busy with two way traffic; foodstuff and raw materials flow into the town and manufactured goods flow out. The town also serves as a clearinghouse and site of hiring for mercenaries. Most of the local lords in the province rely on mercenaries to fulfill their feudal military obligations just as much as they do their local populations. All of the province’s lords have representatives in Throdenoth that hire companies of such. It is ruled by Duke Nogumar, a Very Old Blue Dragon. The city is built on the slopes of a steep and rocky hill that conceals the ruins of a very ancient dwarven settlement. Below the streets of Throdenoth lies a labyrinthine and multi-leveled network of tunnels, galleries, secret passages and rooms, some of which are used by the citizens of the town, most of which are not. Most of these passages and tunnels, however, particularly those of the deepest levels, are uninhabited (by surface folk at least) and have only been explored by the bravest of souls. Most believe that many as of yet discovered areas still lie beneath the hill.

Not long after your arrival, Aeschere went looking for someone to enhance the enchantment on Angel’s Kiss, his Elven long bow. He found such a person in Helmdug, a dwarven artificer. The price that Helmdug asked for the work was higher than that which Aeschere could afford. Fortunately though, he offered a compromise. Helmdug has commissioned Aeschere (and the rest of your party) to explore an ancient dwarven tomb lying beneath the town of Throdenoth, the existence of which he has recently discovered. He is particularly interested in a certain artifact that he has not yet named. If Aeschere returns with the artifact, Helmdug will enchant is bow for a dramitcally reduced rate. He has instructed you to meet either him of his representative two nights hence at a local tavern, The Pikeman’s Revenge. There he will reveal the details of the mission.

So, a great deal has happened and continues to happen. Just to help you keep everything straight the following threads are in play:

1. The Chalice of Eluriand supposedly resides in Throdenoth in the possession of someone named Lakjat.

2. Aeschere has made a deal with a local magic dealer to recover some as of yet unnamed object from an ancient dwarven tomb that lies in the labyrinth of passageways deep beneath the town.

3. Whren has in her possession a letter of introduction from Her Holiness, Lady Riminoc to her sister Lady Zemshar of Throdenoth. The letter bears Her Holiness’s personal seal and is intended to be used as an open invitation to perform before Lady Zemshar.

4. Whren also learned from Lady Riminoc that a secret and dangerous religious cult is operating throughout Blixt, a cult devoted to the worship of the Demon Lord Demogorgon. Her Holiness has offered rewards and favors for any information that may help root out and eliminate this heretical sect.

I’m interested to see what further threads you start in the sessions to come.

So, are we on for the 25th of July?

Blixtian Demographics (by Ironbeard)

2009-01-23T22:13:00.001-05:00

A couple of questions have come up regarding the population of Blixt and its racial make up. Consider the following to be general information that you have gleened while travelling across this kingdom over the last month and from your conversations with Zook as you march alongside of his gaily painted wagon.

Blixt is a multi racial society. At the social apex are the dragon rulers (King Yed and his children) and the half dragon aristocracy. The majority of the population consists mostly of kobolds, lizardfolk, goblinoids, mongrelfolk, and humans in roughly equal numbers. Members of each respective group tend to organize themselves in their own settlements. Thus, Ss'kanda, the largest village in Gix, was a predominantly lizardfolk settlement that owed fealty to Baron Malsvir. Scattered throughout the land are kobold mines and warrens, goblin and bugbear towns, and even human settlements. Incidentally, humans tend to be more numerous in the larger towns and more established villages.

Despite this tendency for settlements to be oriented around a dominant race (or species to be more exact) there is considerable intermingly among the various groups. It is a testament to the strength and ruthless power of Blixt's political structure that such disparate groups coexist as well as they do. We could say in our world's parlance that Blixt is somewhat of a "Balkanized" society; if the draconic dominion was ever to fade or crumble, the various factions would fragment and countless warring tribes would be at each others throats. Even given the fact that society is effectively held together under Yed's scaly fist, local tensions, minor rebellions, and blood feuds are not at all uncommon.

Other, more traditonally "good aligned" races ar not unkown in Blixt. Elves, halflings, gnomes, and dwarves are rare, but not completely alien. Members of these races exist on the margins of society or find ways to carve out a niche for themselves among the dominant population, usually by working some specialized profession or craft (such as entertaining or performing). Thus the sight of Aeschere or Quarian travelling down the road might raise an eyebrow, but would not necessarily provoke an immediately hostile reaction. Elves can be Blixtian after all. There is in fact a cult of elves (the Cult of Shanosis) that has devoted itslef to the study of draconic lore and power. Members of this group, while not numerous, are well known throughout the kingdom and many even hold positons of great power. Remeber that Aksana of the Disciples of the Eye was in fact an elf (who appeared to have dragon wings grafted onto her back). Also, recall that a significant portion of the King's seraglio is elven. Thus, many of Blixt's half dragon aristocracy are in fact half dragon/half elf. While some elves such as those who dwell in the Forest of Nan (Tranna for instance) are hunted and enslaved, this is because they are not Blixtian, not because they are elves. The Forest of Nan actually lies outside of the nrtheastern borders of Blixt. So to be clear, while an elf would certainly face a fair share of racial predjudice in Blixt, he or she would not be automatically treated as an enemy. The degree to which an elf will be accepted by his or her fellow Blixtians is directly proportional to the amount of respect he or she can command, usually by performing a valued or usefule trade or by being very dangerous and really good at killing people.

It is the same for gnomes, dwarves, and halflings. These groups are not common in Blixt at all, but if a group of Blixtian travellers crossed paths with, say, a gnome on one of the kingdom's roads, they would not immediately assume that the gnome was an alien or a dangerous interloper that needed to be killed or arrested. This is not, of course, to say that said gnome would receive a warm reception either, just that the sight of him would not set off alarm bells or anything like that. Thus, while elves, gnomes and halflings are certainly looked down upon as a general rule and have lower social staus, they are not automatically treated as enemies, criminals, or potential slaves. Those who are outsiders and are known to be such receive much worse treatment, however. Again, the attidude of Blixtian society towards a person depends more (but not entirely) on whether or not he or she is Blixtian than their race.Thus, in a Blixtian town one might find a gnome craftsman who is gainfully empoyed, while a gnome slave who was born somewhere else is being auctioned off just down the street. Interestingly, gnome slaves are sometimes purchased from southern markets as food. They are considered a great delicacy by many nobles in Blixt.

Campaign Update #12 (by Ironbeard)

2009-01-23T22:11:00.000-05:00

It was tough going for a while, but after a fierce slugfest, you cleared out the entire Saben Monastery. It was an evening of flying fists and snapping bones. After leaving the monastery, you decided to journey to the northwest, intent on returning Tranna to her home in the Forest of Nan. Though you learned that the Chalice of Eluriand had been sent to one Lakjat of Throdenoth in payment for a debt, you opted to avoid Yarag's capital town, fearing that too many of your enemies might be searching for you there.

Just one day's march away from the monestery however, you met a travelling group of entertainers, Zook's Show of Wonders. The troupe consists of Zook himself, a gnome illusionist, Brrurrn, a female kobold bard, Isa a female human bard (a dancer of no small ability as Ardyth can attest) and a gruff Bugbear guard who speaks very little. Tilo hit upon the idea of joining the troupe and using them as cover to enter Throdenoth. After being promised a solid gold statue of a dragon as compensation (part of the loot stolen from the monastery), Zook agreed to take you on as guards and manual laborers.

All except Whren. After learning that the gnome rogue actually had some acting ability, he has told her to prepare a one act, one gnome scene as part of the show, Whren is told that she will appear after Brrurrn's musical performance on the Hurdy Gurdy and before Isa's dance number.

See you all on Wednesday

Campaign Update #11 (by Ironbeard)

2009-01-23T22:10:00.000-05:00

Revenge of the Small Races

Campaign Time: October 1 - October 14, 1051 HR

(Sorry about the delay in getting the update posted) After your escape from Baron Malsvir’s castle, having successfully accomplished your mission, your party decided to return Tranna to her home in the Forest of Nan. Two days into the journey, however, you were accosted by agents of Baron Ulrahir, lord of the neighboring holding of Gherv. These agents escorted you to a temporary encampment where the Baron made you his offer.

He explained that he is the first cousin of Malsvir. Malsvir’s sister, Remshvix, is set to inherit his holdings now that he has been murdered. Ulahrisk wished to kill Remshvix and thus inherit the barony for himself as he would be the next legitimate heir in line for the title. This would give him two contiguous Baronies along the coast and considerably enhance is power and prestige.

He cannot murder the good Lady Remshvix himself, however, as that would violate the rightful laws governing inheritance. Lord Hennix, the Earl of Tun, overlord of the entire region would almost certainly deny his right to inherit his cousin’s holding if it was suspected that he killed Remshvix. If a band of dangerous outlaws were to kill her, a band of outlaws that had already been proven quite formidable, then that would be a different matter. After some brief, but canny negotiating, your party accepted Ulrahir’s offer and set off to ambush Remshvix as she journeyed from the Town of Throdenoth to Gix to assume her new role as Baroness.

The ambush took place in a small wood on the southern border of Gix. Despite your careful planning, however, Remshvix, a powerful sorceress, managed to escape by assuming Gaseous form. Having failed to fulfill your end of the bargain and having already received half payment in advance from Ulrahir, your party decided leave the immediate vicinity of Gix as soon as possible and continue.

Your journey continued northward to the banks of the Sevran River. Here, Tranna reminded you that the Saben Monastery lay one days march upstream from this point. Earlier, in Malsvir’s castle, you received intelligence that suggested that one Aksana, a high ranking monk at the monastery, possessed the Chalice of Eluriand. She also revealed that she had heard many rumors that the monks held a variety of powerful magic devices in their treasury. Whether driven by a desire to recover the sacred relic of Pelor or by your own greed, you decided to reconnoiter the monastery in search of an entrance.

Unlike your assault on Malsvir’s castle, this time you opted for stealth and deception. First, you murdered a pair of Mongrelman serfs who were en route to the monastery with a wagonload of supplies. Then, Ardyth, Aeschere, and Quarian concealed themselves within three large barrels on the back of the wagon while Tilo and Whren disguised themselves in the Mongrelmen’s clothes in order to bluff their way past the monastery’s guards. Amazingly, the plan worked. In a move reminiscent of “The Hobbit” the three fighters concealed within the barrels found themselves carried within the monks’ fortress by the monastery’s servants.

After the fall of night, the three of them crept from their hiding place intent on pillaging the place. Meanwhile, outside, Tilo and Whren decide to infiltrate the fortress from above. With the aid of a Fly spell courtesy of Tilo, the two alighted upon the monastery’s roof and quickly dispatched the guard. While other, more timid adventurers might have been content to hold their position, these two pressed on and entered the upper levels of the monastery.

No sooner had they done so, they found themselves face to face with Aksana herself, a powerful monk and a Disciple of the Eye. Worse yet, Aksana was supported by a Lizardman monk and a Kobold Ninja. Their escape cut off, Tilo and Whren had no choice but to fight. In what has to be one of the most memorable combats of this campaign, the Halfling wizard and Gnome rogue actually carried the day and defeated Aksana and her thugs. Superior strategy and a little luck allowed the small races to win this one.

One last detail: The two found a note upon Aksana’s corpse that shed more light upon the whereabouts of the Chalice of Eluriand. This was a note from one “Lakjat of Throdenoth” thanking Aksana for the Chalice that had apparently been given to him in payment to some sort of debt.

Experience Points: 3,270 per PC

Campaign Update #10 (by Ironbeard)

2009-01-23T22:09:00.000-05:00

Campaign Time: September 1 - October 1

As you spend your first night in camp after fleeing the the holdings of Baron Malsvir, Tranna, the elven concubine of the Baron relates the following information to you about this strange land that you have found yourselves stranded in:

Blixt is a feudal monarchy ruled by a king, a Blue Dragon Wyrm named Yed. King Yed the Beneficent is his main title. He has a chief consort, a female blue Dragon, but she holds little direct political power. She does, however, wield considerable “behind the scenes” power in the court. Each of the kingdoms three Dukes also has a Dragon consort as well.

As Dragons are known for their voracious sexual appetites, King Yed and his three Dukes also keep extensive seraglios of sexual slaves, mostly humans and elves. It is quite common for these slaves to bear Half Draconic children for their royal masters. Curiously, while the mothers of these offspring are slaves, mere chattel, their children have royal Draconic blood flowing in their veins and are thus considered to be of royal birth themselves. These Half Dragon descendents form a complex layer of aristocracy directly below that of the ruling Dragons. In fact, much of the actual running of the day to day activities of the kingdom falls to these aristocrats. The most powerful and favored of them have been granted land holdings themselves along with the titles of Earl and Baron. These positions are hereditary, though the court can always revoke a Half Dragon family’s right to rule a fiefdom for unsatisfactory service.

A few times each decade, each of the royal consorts, the King’s and the Dukes’, births a clutch of eggs. The female Dragons use a complex set of ritual divine spells to ensure that few Dragons are hatched from these eggs. Rather, they typically give birth to a wide ranging variety of Spawn of Tiamat (MMIV). These various creatures are sent off to be bred further or serve in the armies of Blixt’s feudal lords.

Occasionally, however, the sacrifices to Tiamat and the divine rituals performed in her honor are deemed unsatisfactory or simply don’t work. In these cases, actual Blue Dragons are born. These royal offspring are raised together in a kind of cohort group until they reach adulthood. At this point, Blixt law requires that all of the members of a given group engage in ritualized tournament combat to death so that only one survives. This system ensures that a line of descendents continues, while limiting the amount of potential rivals to King Yed’s power. The most senior of these royal offspring can potentially become a Duke of one of Blixt’s three major provinces, that is, if a vacancy presents itself. While females can hold office, most typically enter the clergy of Tiamat as a means of advancing in political power.

Outsiders often wonder why the fiefdoms and minor holdings are ruled by Half Dragons and not by the younger blue Dragon descendents of the King. It is widely believed that by restricting the amount of true Dragons in the kingdom and the amount of power given to them, the King lessens the potential for rivalry. The Half Dragon nobility are much less likely to directly threaten the King’s power. This, of course, does result in a potentially unstable distribution of power. The younger Dragons technically have much higher status and rank within the kingdom’s hierarchy and yet they do not have access to land and troops. Because these Dragon princes and princesses are considerably excluded from direct governance of the realm, they tend to be rather spoiled and self indulgent, often given to cruel whimsies and exotic entertainments to relieve their boredom. Basically, these Dragons are princes in name only. Some of them leave Blixt entirely. Some choose to serve as elite combatants in the service of other “lesser” nobility. Most, however, simply establish lairs somewhere within the kingdom and live in relative seclusion. These Dragons live somewhat outside of Blixt’s feudal hierarchy, though it is understood that they still owe fealty to the King and the Dukes and can thus be called upon for service if needed.

The church of Tiamat also wields considerable power in Blixt. The clergy of this organization is largely female in composition and its clerics give birth to many of Tiamat’s bizarre and monstrous spawn that serve throughout Blixt in a variety of capacities. Tiamat has a church or shrine in every single holding across the land and this organization forms a kind of parallel government in the kingdom. Technically, the church has no direct power, but the blessing of Tiamat is considered to be essential in any undertaking. Her holy matrons thus form a considerable force to be reckoned with.

Culture: In Blixt, Dragons reign supreme. They are the undisputed rulers of the country. Below them are the Half Dragons. Below the Half Dragon is everyone else. In Blixt, the more Draconic someone is the more prestige and potential power they can acquire. The kingdom is thus home to many schools, cults and cabals that are devoted to studying, worshiping and emulating Dragons in a variety of ways. These include the Dragonfire adepts, the Dragon mages, and the disciples of the eye just to name a few.

The holdings furthest from Teslereng, the capital, tend to be populated by greater numbers of humanoid tribal creatures, kobolds, lizard folk, and goblins predominating. All of these creatures swear fealty to the Baron or Earl who rules the larger territory. The towns and cities are also home to such creatures but significant numbers of evil humans live in them as well. This is because the towns tend to be centers of artisanship and skilled handicrafts. Humans tend to be better at these endeavors.

Relations with Neighbors: While Blixt is an extremely militaristic society, it is not expansionist in its overall outlook. Blixt’s foreign policy reflects the basic psychology of Dragons. When all is said and done, Dragon’s are all about the defense of the lair and the hoard. Nevertheless, the kingdom is surrounded on all sides by enemies and thus needs a powerful military.

To the east lie the Usk Mountains, home to many fierce creatures and Giant tribes. While the giants of the Usk have not formed anything approaching a level of organization above that of a tribe, they raid the eastern holdings of Blixt almost continuously. Bands of Fomorians are particularly numerous in the Usks and pose no end of problems to Barons of Blixt. Beyond the Usk range lies the ruined city of Urufar, home to Necromancers of Matozar. Every decade or so, these mysterious and death worshipping wizards send hordes of undead minions and abominations through Hell’s Gap against Blixt. The hordes have always been beating back, however, but as is the case with the walking dead, there always seem to be more of them.

To the southeast and south lie the Shroudshar Marshes and the shores of Lake Ostryd. While some waterborne trade takes place on the lake (mostly centered on the Blixtian town of Versvesh), the marshes shelter all manner of weird and fearsome creatures that continuously prey upon the surrounding environs. On the southwest, Blixt is bordered by unorganized battle plain simply known as The Wild. No natural boundary divides Blixt from this territory and during the spring, summer and fall, the kingdom is routinely assaulted by raiding parties of orcs. These orcs are of the Bloody Hand Tribe that dwell to the north and the Yellow Eyes who hail from the burnt hills to the south. It is also common for raiding parties of gnolls to storm up from The Packlands to the south. While these humanoid raids pose little threat to the overall security of the kingdom as a whole, they necessitate the maintenance of a constant military defense to the south
To the west, the Ash Peaks loom. Though this mighty range forms a protective barrier for the lands of the Bloody Hand Orcs, it harbors many dangers of its own, most notably, trolls and lots of them. And while the northern coast along the Gulf of Orm is perhaps the least threatened border of Blixt, it too sees its share of dangers as human barbarians from the north descend upon it every summer in their longboats.

Quarian's Demons (by Camp 17)

2009-01-23T22:08:00.000-05:00

In the dark corner of a common room of an inn like so many inns across the peninsula there is seated a rather unlikely pair. In the darkest and most remote seat facing the door in his usual state of constant alert, despite six or seven tankards of ale, there sat a wild elf. He was dressed in his customary browns and greens, as always he blended into the shadows too easily. The darkness and shadows reflected his mood perfectly; in fact he seemed to absorb the shadow from his surroundings. In contrast his companion wore garishly bright and colorful clothes, too many colors for most taste. While the larger stature wild elf melted into his surroundings the diminutive Halfling stood out like a beacon. The only apparent thing they had in common was the fact that they both were intently studying the bottom of their tankards.

Suddenly the wild elf, Quarian, cleared his throat and in a half mumble, half croak addressed his drinking companion Tilo Greenbottle, “Halfling twice now you handled yourself well and bravely in battle. I am impressed by your valor. Are ye brave enough to hear my tale of horror?”

“He speaks! He speaks!!! Three hours and seven tankards of ale pass and now you decide to say something utterly unintelligible. Thank you for the compliment by the way.”

“Tis not easy for one who has been wandering the wilds tormented by his sins to discuss openly, my brave little wizard. But I fear the loss of my mind if I do not finally confess. This entire night mare with the succubus and my slaying of Bronwyn has opened some old wounds. Wounds which tear at my very soul, may Corellon Larethian forgive me. As I have said, are ye strong enough to stomach this most vile and odious tale?”

“Yes, yes, get on with it before The Captain’s Quarters runs out of ale. Sorry Quarian, I know this must be difficult for a reclusive wild elf. I am here, speak my friend.

I have not heard kind words in many a leaf change Greenbottle, thank you. Twas not always so with me…

As you know I hale from the forest Earil-Gael. I was the first born son of a well respected family. My father, Tharivol Galanodel, was chief elder of the clan council. Early on my prowess as a huntsman and scout was recognized and I was raised to become the leader of the clan. My role as huntsman and scout was to protect the clan from danger... marauding bands of orcs and such. In the tradition of high clan members my betrothal to a clan member’s daughter with similar position was arranged. Unlike most arranged betrothals ours was different… we were deeply in love. It was more than a marriage to assure political success. Vadania Siannodel and I promised our lives to one another and were to be wed on our 115th midsummer’s night. Unfortunately the life of a ranger takes him away from the clan sometimes for weeks at a time. My beloved grew restless and one of the elves with great (if not misguided) ambitions saw an opportunity to simultaneously unseat my future on the clan high council and take my betrothed.

The most foul Laucian Meliamne seduced Vadania while I was on a mission to rid our lands of a marauding band of Bloody Hand Orcs. I arrived in the village earlier than expected after a particularly fierce battle. Unbeknownst to me Laucian spread the rumor that I had been killed in battle and of course he was there to comfort the fair Vadania. Excited to see my beloved again and flush with the thrill of battle I burst into her apartments to find her lying with Laucian. In an uncontrollable rage I cleaved the foul scum in two and in the process decapitated my beloved as she attempted to intervene.

Halfling as you know we elves hold the sanctity of life dear. The punishment for murder is harsh, no matter what the circumstances. I was ostracized from my clan, banished from my beloved Earil Gael, stripped of all rank and honor. I was never to see my loved ones again. To an elf loss of family and clan is worse than death. I left vowing to somehow restore honor to the Clan Galanodel and restore order to my life.

As I began my climb through the Girdle of Hrothgar I detected smoke in the distance… coming from the forest massive plumes of inky black smoke that can only signify one thing. The Orcs had once again raided; without my leadership and battle prowess the clans were doomed. I raced headlong through the mountains, across the swamps that I knew so well, over glade and stream only to arrive to a smoldering heap. All was lost, what had been a symbolic loss of all that I knew and loved was now very real and palpable. All that I knew lay in ruins and piles of raven picked bones.

Still I was determined to somehow avenge this loss and return honor … I relentlessly chased the orcs over the girdle, I waged a one elf gorilla war. Orcs fell by the thousands. Sometimes as many as a hundred a night… I became legend among the Black Hand. I was known among the orcs as Henk Thokk Holg. “Bane of the Black Hand” in the common language.

I stumbled upon your party after one of my missions ended and I was falling back to reorganize myself and prepare for my next wave of death…

The never ending slaughter of the Orcs had somehow blunted the pain that I felt over the loss of my beloved, the agony of feeling my blade bite into her flesh and severe her spine. That utter terror was beginning to fade. Buried deep in my soul. Buried that is until my blade cleaved into the flesh of yet another fair and good woman. In the moment that Beowyn fell all the vile refuse of my life came screaming back. From that place where I had buried it. I saw not only Beowyn laying in a pool of blood, but the body of my beloved Vadania, the cleaved skull of her lover Laucian, the burned remains of my father, my mother and my brothers, sisters, and fellow clans men. All is again lost. Tilo my friend when will the madness stop, how can I rid myself of this never ending evil that has perverted my existence. Perhaps if we can bring back Beowyn. Perhaps that will appease the Gods, will reorder the universe. We must we must bring her back. We must Tilo!!!!

Campaign Update #9 (by Ironbeard)

2009-01-23T22:07:00.000-05:00

The Northwaite Horror

Campaign Time: August 20-August 28, 1051 HR

What a strange and violent night it was. To recap:

A Succubus name Hela arrived in Northwaite about 6 months ago and, posing as a whore, purchased a brothel, Mirabel’s, in the town’s working class fisher district. She promptly set about using her abilities to seduce her clients and manipulate them to sow fear and horror in the town. Her goal was to ensnare as many of the town’s population possible in order to create as much misery and chaos as she could.

In particular, Hela ensnared Titus Burg, Northwaite’s captain of the guard and chief investigator. Burg is also a cleric of St Cuthbert and the leader of the Grey Watch, Northwaite’s city guard. Hela kept him under her control through a combined use of Charm Monster and Suggestion spells as well as powerful diplomacy and Bluff skills. She used him as a pawn to make several arrests and accusations against the citizens of the town. Her favorite tactic was to cause one of her minions to commit a crime and then use the Captain to arrest and convict some innocent person. Titus would claim to have ascertained the truth through the use of a Zone of Truth spell, though this is a complete lie. He has subsequently confessed to you that he really believed that Hela was a Solar, an angel who assured him that the victims of his deception were in fact thoroughly evil and that he was helping to accomplish some larger good that he could not fully understand.

Recently, a merchant in the town, one Tholeth of Low Street, learned that the new madam in town was more than she seemed (he made a will save and escaped with his life). Hela, fearing exposure had one of her minions kill him and frame Hollyhanna Trickfoot, a rival whore, for his murder.

This is of course where you stepped in, unraveled the mystery and terminated Hela’s existence on the material plane. Along the way you made some new allies, learned much about the Town of Northwaite, and even commissioned a poem commemorating your adventures from the bard, Osgood Greenmantle. Perhaps Hela's mistake was in not finishing you all off when she had the chance during the fight at Mirabel's. Why she chose not to do so is anyone's guess, but Barnabus the Evoker suspects that the demon delayed killing you because she wished to toy with you further. Such fiends often do not wish to merely kill their foes, but to play with, humiliate, terrorize and demoralize them as much as possible first. Perhaps she underestimate you all.

The evening was not without its tragedies, however. Bronwyn, the paladin and chief negotiator of your party, was slain by Quarian the ranger who had fallen under the fell Demon’s enchantment. Fortunately, however, Bronwyn’s body was recovered. Perhaps the clerics of Heironeous at Castle Arwaihir can raise her from the dead.

On the fifth day of your stay in Northwaite, you finally receive an audience with Lord Harold III, the Lord Mayor of the town. He expresses his deep gratitude to you and awards each of you who have survived with 1,000 gp for the great service that you have performed for the town.

1,500 xp for each of the surviving PCs