Ruins of Adventure

Chapter 2: Handle With Care: Part 7

In which the Paladin's composure is shattered...by a skeleton...

GM

With the two outriders scouting around, you are able to find a safe campsite, and have no further issues in transit to it. The other side of the bridge runs to a clearly defined, half-paved road, running through a surprisingly dense forest. About two hundred yards from the river, you find a place that has clearly been used by previous traveling parties. A side trail, wide enough for the wagon, has been cut to a small clearing, about fifty feet off the road. The canopy of the surrounding trees provides decent coverage against being spotted from the sky, though the fact that the trees seem to move more than the wind would indicate is a little disconcerting. Stones have been piled around the edge of the clearing, forming a wall about two-feet high, and a stone fire-pit in the center shows signs of recent use. There is even a small feed-plot, providing extra grain for the animals. You are kind of surprised that it is not already in use when you arrive, but, given that it is just getting dark, and is pouring rain, you suspect that most travelers would probably have pressed on into the city, probably by the more easily navigable eastern bridge. Aside from the tracks of other travelers, there are no signs of predators or or threats.

As you pull into the clearing, Rant hops down from the wagon and unhitches the worn-out oxen. Teldicia starts rummaging through the stores you purchased at Jerome’s looking for tarps, stakes, and other necessities.

Lyra

Lyra helps Teldicia dig out the tent, blankets, sleeping bags, tarp, tinderbox, and cooking supplies. “What do we want to fix for supper?”

Carrying the cookpots over to the fire pit, Lyra looks around. “If all the caravans camp in the same place, won’t those who make a living raiding them know exactly where to look for them? If we’re setting watch I’ll be of more use after a few hours of rest.”

Donovan

Donovan looks at Lyra, somewhat surprised by her travel-savvy, “A watch? That’s a good idea, glad someone thought of it. I was just planning on getting a bite and going to sleep…” He grins sheepishly. “What’s the best way to do that? There are six of us, plus Amara, and everyone needs to get some sleep, Do we just take shifts?” He goes into the back of the wagon and starts looking through the food stores. “I need close to two hours in the morning to study, prepare my spells, and identify that shield, so if we’re doing shifts I can take the last one—though I guess I could do some of that on the road if someone else can drive.”

Lyra

Lyra shrugs. “I’m not really sure about the details. Mother travelled quite a bit before she settled down in Waterdeep, and was cautious to find something off the main paths, but not so poorly travelled as it had its own dangers, on our way here. She had no shortage of warnings on the dangers of travel and being caught unaware.”

Frantiska

Frantiska scans the forest once more before dismounting,and beginning to remove Thistledown’s tack. She carefully piles her saddle and gear underneath of the wagon so that they can dry out a little, and leaves Thistledown loose to graze. She then starts scouring the surrounding forest, especially near the trunks of broad-leaf trees and low-lying shrubs for caches of dried leaves, twigs, and other potentially dry tinder and kindling to get a fire started.

GM

Desite the rain and inexperience on the part of several of you, you manage to get the camp pitched with relative ease. Frantiska manages to scrounge a few handfuls of relatively dried leaves to use as kindling, but creating a fire during a thunderstorm is still quite difficult. Finally Hurd, used to a nomadic lifestyle, suggests what his tribe often did, which is to re-pitch the tent over the fire-pit to keep the rain off. Thirty minutes later you are all huddled under the tarp around a merry little blaze. The two oxen and Hrud’s sturdy pony are tethered grazing in the glade nearby, watched over by the unusually intelligent and steady warhorse. Rant collects some rainwater and treats you to a simple, yet filling soup of chickpeas, onions, and mushrooms—the fruits of his labor volunteering in the slums. By the time supper has ended, everyone is feeling a little better—even Hrud’s headache has dissipated. After two hours the storm finally blows over and you are treated to about of half-hour of daylight before you turn in for the night, serenaded by the host of insects, frogs, and night-birds emerging after the rain.

During the middle watch of the night, Hrud is awaked by the sound of a snapping twig, startlingly loud against the sudden silence of the forest around you. The fire is still burning and Frantiska sits staring at it, appearing oblivious as if asleep despite being upright with her eyes open.

Hrud

Hrud, who was sleeping in his bedroll by the fire, takes a moment to register the noise. Then, realizing what he heard, quickly rolls to his feet with sword in hand, his back to the fire. Scanning the darkness for movement, he shouts, “Sampeyan ora dijupuk kula maneh, asu-pasuryan!”

Donovan

Donovan, sleeping on an extra trap spread out underneath the wagon so as to stay dry while also not subjecting the others to his snoring, starts awake at Hrud’s shout and hits his head on an axle. He jolts back to the ground and curls up, groaning before half-crawling, half-rolling out from under the thing. “What’s all the noise for?” he asks in drawled tones, between yawns, his eyes only half-opened.

GM

Hrud hears another twig snap, followed by the sound of footsteps converging on your camp from the south and west.

Hrud

Back still to the fire, Hrud moves to face southwest, sliding his sword into his belt and taking up his shortbow as he does so. He knocks and arrow and prepares to fire.

Lyra

Hrud

Hrud, perceiving the clawed, feral-looking abomination to be the most dangerous of the three, lets fly with this shortbow.

Frantiska

Standing there, ready for the attack, Frantiska stares at the skeleton, as if there is something familiar about it. Hearing Lyra’s scream, the realization dawns on her, that is my sword! It had to be, the skeleton charging at her was carrying Sir Guy’s Spoon! Suddenly the memories of the last day come flooding back uncontrollably—the girl being raped, the executions, the lecherous dwarf, the rain, the weir, the water…the black water…

She gasps, choking, striving for air. She looks at the mud caking the skeleton. The black water. She gasps. That was almost me. I was in that mud. She gasps again, so hard to breath, she thinks.

She hears Lyra screaming in the background, I…can’t…breath…

She struggles for air. She can feel the water filling her lungs, her vision going black. She gasps one more time, then lets out an ear-piercing shriek, perfectly matched in tone and volume with Lyra’s, as if in stereo. Her paladin’s composure broken, her legs buckle. She looks at the skeleton one last time…

…and RUNS!

GM

Seeing Lyra and Frantiska melting down, Amara adds her own high-pitched note to the chorus of screaming. The blaring noise finally getting through, Teldicia rolls over, stuffs her fingers in her ears, and sits up, looking around utterly confused, “؟ چه همه که سر و صدا است!” she yells, in a language that is somehow painful to hear.

Ready for the incoming creatures, Hrud stands his ground and unleashes a flurry of arrows at the feral-looking abomination. Three of the four strike home, right in the thing’s center of mass, but seem to bounce harmlessly off its leathery hide without leaving a mark of any kind.

Frantiska spins on her heels to run, but is struck in the back by the fast-moving skeleton with a strong downward stab. The point of its blade slams into her back with enough force to knock her to the ground, not piercing her skin, but hurting like a blazing iron. She slumps limply to the ground.

Brother Rant leaps to his feet, mace in one hand, and shoves his holy symbol into the skeleton’s face. “THE POWER OF TYR COMPELS YOU!” he says in a bold voice, clearly unfazed by the undead creatures’ presence. Of course, it soon becomes clear that they are equally unfazed by his.

Donovan crashes upon the zombie, swinging wildly with the magical broadsword. Despite having his head turned away, trying not to look at the disgusting, rotting corpse, he feels the blade cut deep. With a sickening tearing noise, the thing’s left arm falls away at the elbow, thumping onto the ground taking the huge hammer with it.

The feral red-eyed thing stays crouched on the wall, watching the chaos intently with what looks like a smile.

Lyra

Lyra’s scream cuts off abruptly as Frantiska slumps to the ground. “No. Not again. YOU LEAVE HER ALONE.” She staggers out of the wagon, reaching out with her powers as she moves to protect Frantiska’s prone form.

Donovan

Donovan stands there holding the sword, mouth agape for a moment, amazed that he hit, let alone severed the things arm completely. He lets out a whoop and begins singing in his best death-metal growl as he gleefully hacks at the thing again.

Dancing round the bonfire as they weave their witchery
Disembrained bodies coming back from the dead
Disembowelled hands take the brains from your head
Because once you look into their eyes
You’ll see their faces is full of worms
A heap of guts in clever disguise
Their aim to make you zombified

No! (No!) It can’t be you, you’re dead! (Dead!)
No! (No!) You can’t bury me, I’m alive! (Alive!)

Lusting for treasure and killing for wealth
Enslaving the natives and toasting your health
Drums of the voodoo gods are sounding out in the swamp
Resurrection ritual, it’s you that they want
Once you look into their eyes you’ll soon become a ghoul of gore
Zombies teach cannibals to be afraid
They’re cruel like never before

Approaching the plantation at the setting of the sun
Now you’ll see before your eyes what voodoo rites have done
Retiring to your mansion to count your wealth once more
Fingernails will scratch the pine as you’re throwing back the door to say…

Frantiska

Frantiska feebly tries to crawl away, clawing at the dirt with her fingernails, but finds she does not have the strength. She croaks quietly, “Help…the water…drowning…can’t…breath…must…escape…”

Hrud

Hrud drops the bow, frustrated that his arrows had no effect. Drawing the Fang of Mace from his belt, he stalks over to the smirking creature and, with a mighty roar, swings with all his might.

GM

There is a shudder in the ground beneath the skeleton as bits of dirt and sod vanish to be replaced by a doorway to nothingness. Lyra and Rant get a brief glimpse of the ground far below as the skeleton plummets through the hole, tumbling end over end, and vanishes.

On the other side of the clearing, Donovan strikes up a song and lashes out at the zombie again, scoring a vicious blow. Hrud rushes up beside him, swinging at the wight perched on the wall nearby. Just as he is preparing to swing, the skeleton, still spinning lands, sword first, right on the head of his quarry. The impact of the magic shortsword caves in the wights skull, and the impact with the ground sends pieces of skeleton flying in every direction. Unable to stop his swing, Hrud spins with the follow through, the long reach of his blade just missing Donovan, but cleaving right through the zombie’s neck and upraised arm, sending both extremities sailing splattering into the nearby trees.

The three creatures apparently defeated, Rant drops to his knees and says a prayer of healing over Frantiska. Teldicia looks at all the fuss, sees that it is over, rolls back over and is quickly sound asleep.

Donovan lets out a scream that would do a horror-film school girl proud, then begins hitting the head over and over with the hammer until it is a fine, pulpy mess.

When he is sure that the zombie is not going to talk to him anymore, Donovan starts poking through the pile of corpse-pieces for other valuables.

GM

You find no jewelry, armor, or other valuables on the bodies. However, as you search, your trained eye notices that the funerary wrappings on the wight are covered with slightly faded magical script, almost like someone had transcribed a spellbook or scroll onto the shroud before interring the body.

Donovan

Donovan looks distastefully at the feral corpse’s smashed head, then at the gore-stained wrappings. He sighs and shrugs, “It’s been a weird night anyways, might as well get to it.” He sets down the weapons, rolls the body over, and begins carefully unwinding the rags.

Hrud

Donovan allows himself to be helped up. He thanks Rant and goes to collect the sword and hammer, putting both beneath the driver’s seat of the wagon. He mumbles “goodnight” to no one in particular and crawls back under the wagon to sleep off the events of the last several minutes. As he dozes off, he contemplates the buxom devil-ess on the other side of the fire and wonders how much souls were going for these days.

Lyra

Lyra heads back into the wagon and carefully unstrings her bow before curling back up in her sleeping bag. The disciplined breathing she’d been forcing herself to do for the last several minutes giving way to sobs.

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APR/2014

Chapter 2: Handle With Care: Part 6

In which the party finds a tower in the river...

GM

Just past the cemetery, the river running to your right begins to widen and then rejoins the main branch. An old broad-crested stone weir, with a tall tower in the middle divides the river into two, splitting it around the city. A high, stone footbridge runs from the weir-tower to the ancient walls of Veljevo Castle, though a fifty foot section of the middle of the bridge appears to have collapsed long ago. The water above the weir has pooled into a shallow retention pond, and the accumulation of pollutants behind the weir make the water a deep, greasy black, and makes the smell almost unbearable.

At the north end of the pond, where the river narrows again, is a relatively new-looking suspension bridge. The bridge is just wide enough for a wagon to cross, accessed by long wooden ramps, and held up by chains connecting to pilings driven into the ground about twenty feet on either side of the river, avoiding the foul-smelling black sludge of the river-banks. Even at the narrow point above the pond the river here is still very wide, such that you can just barely make out the far bank through the rain.

Donovan

Donovan glares at the ox, “Don’t cross me, Mr. Brisket, or I’ll make you live up to your new name.” He then sits back and lets the cows do their job, finally pulling the wagon to a stop by the bridge. He climbs down from the driver seat and looks up at the darkening sky, realizing that he has lost all track of time with the rain and the distractions from the cemetery and the hobgoblins. He walks over to the edge of the prairie and relieves himself in the grass, then returns to the back of the wagon. “I’m starving, and I doubt much of anything is going to bother us in this weather. Let’s have some lunch before we cross the river…”

Frantiska

Frantiska looks back at the cemetery as they ride away, trying to ignore the nagging sense that something is following them. When the wagon stops, she dismounts and cups her hands, taking a drink of the rainwater and releasing Thistledown to graze at the near-edge of the prairie. As the others start getting into the food, she wanders down for a closer look at the weir and the castle beyond it—though it requires all of her training and determination to not flee from the stench. She walks quite close to the edge of the river, stepping carefully to avoid the sucking black mud, and briefly considers wading out across the weir to check out the tower. Luckily, the thought of drowning in that disgusting black ooze wins out over her curiosity about the old ruins and she turns and walks back to the wagon instead.

Hrud

Hrud stands at the edge of the river, looking at the weir and the structure standing forlornly on the other side, his nomad spirit stirring within him. “«I’d like to see what’s in there.»” Turning back to the party sitting on the wagon, he asks “«Do we have any rope? I don’t think I need it, but better safe than sorry.»”

Frantiska

Frantiska grabs a rope and an oddly-ridged, heavy-headed arrow from her saddlebags. “Apakah kita melakukan ini?” she asks, walking back down to the weir. She gives Hrud a strange smile, as if somehow elated at the thought of wading across a disgustingly polluted stream and climbing a rickety old tower, and thankful that someone talked her into it, not that he had actually said anything of the kind. “No anchor on this side,” she says, tying the rope to the arrow. She strings her longbow and takes careful aim at a chink in the wall of the tower.

Donovan

Donovan sits at the back of the wagon, a hunk of cheese in one hand and a hunk of bread in the other. He takes a bite, then sighs when he sees Frantiska and Hrud playing down by the weir. “Hey!” he shouts, trying to be heard above the rain and the river, “Stay away from the water. That stuff will kill you!”

GM

The arrow bites deep into the old stone of the tower, and a few sharp tugs on the rope tell you that it is sufficiently secure. Brother Rant tosses a handful of nuts and dried fruit into his mouth, then ties a scarf around his face to guard against the stench before walking down to the weir. Teldicia comes behind him. “Are you two really going out there?” she asks, coughing and gagging a little. Rant looks at the rope, shrugs, grabs the end and walks as far away from the river bank as it allows, then kneels down, pulling it taught and bracing it.

Hrud

“«I don’t intend to drink it, Dawn-of-man»” Hrud says, as he gathers his two-handed spear. As he passes the Rant, he says, “«I have heard tale of clerics purifying food and water, is this something you can do?»”

Making his way to the rope pulled taught across the weir, the barbarian stands to the cleaner side and, looping his his arm around the rope, begins to walk across the weir, using the spear as necessary for balance or support.

GM

Rant nods, «Normally Tyr could do that for me, yes. But the water fro Barren River has resisted all attempts by our priests to cleanse it. Also, do not misconstrue Donovan’s words—even touching the black water is dangerous. People who have fallen into the river have suffered an amazing number of strange maladies and boats taken up-river may rot out within a day.» As Hrud steps onto the weir, Rant calls after him one more time, «Just be careful!»

Frantiska

Frantiska slings her bow back over her shoulder, takes hold of the rope, and edges her way out onto the weir behind Hrud.

Hrud

“«I will!»” Hrud calls back. However, as the makes his way further out, the smell, which was merely unpleasant from the side of the river, becomes almost tangible to the barbarian’s sensitive nostrils. ‘Maybe this was a bad idea …’ he thinks to himself, but refusing to loose face with the others – especially now that Frantiska has stepped out after him, Hrud presses forward, albeit a little more carefully than before.

GM

You slide across the weir, taking care not to get anything but the soles of your boots wet. When you are about half-way to the tower, you hear a horrible, piercing shriek. Immediately thereafter, two creatures come hurtling out of the black water of the pond, strait at Hrud and Frantiska’s heads. As they fly over, narrowly missing the both of you, you see what looks like a three-foot-long toad with a long, caudal tail, and a pair of flying-fish style wings instead of front legs. Their broad mouths are full of very sharp-looking teeth.

Frantiska

Frantiska reaches down and pulls Sir Guy’s Spoon from her boot. Maintaining a grip on the rope with her other hand, she slashes at the fish-thing flying overhead with the enchanted shortsword.

Donovan

Donovan heaves a giant sigh, “I just wanted some lunch…”. He hops down from the back of the wagon and runs down beside Rant, preparing to cast a sleep spell if more of the flying, frog-fish creatures should emerge from the murky waters of the pond.

Lyra

Lyra drops her apple core in the grass as she hops down from the wagon and picks up a quiver, bow already in hand. She nocks and draws, waiting for their next pass.

GM

As Hrud stands dazed and wincing at the horrible sounds, Frantiska rips the sword out of her boot-sheath and swings it in a high, arc over her head. The blow has enough force that it looks like it should have gutted the fish-thing, but instead lands solidly on the thing’s abdomen and sends it hurtling onto the bank where it lands with a dull thud and stops moving.

The second creature, sailing right past Hrud’s head, splashes into the water of the stream below the weir and then re-appears ready for another leap.

Lyra stands, feet planted pointing towards the river, gripping her bow tightly. She knocks and arrow and lets fly, the string snapping painfully against her forearm and the arrow fishtailing into the mud of the riverbank, nowhere near the fish-thing.

Teldicia starts to move when she sees the creature readying to leap from the water again, as if wanting to run down and help, but stops just shy of putting her bare feet in the muck at the edge of the river. Her forehead crinkles a bit and she stares at the water for a second before shouting, “Watch out, there are more of them, a LOT more!”

Frantiska gasps and crawls blindly in the direction she assumes to be up, swimming through the muck, guided by the hook yanking on her pants until her hands contact something more distinctly solid, then collapses onto the muddy ground.

Hrud

Hrud starts to thrust the spear (pointy side up) down where Frantiska went under when he notices the eruption of foulness over on the shore. Seeing the elf woman alive and (relatively) safe, the barbarian decides that staying on the weir is certain death. The closest thing to him being the tower, he makes for it as fast as possible, looking for a way inside – hopefully before the chaos of the last few seconds dies down and brings the attention of the creatures back to him.

GM

The tower juts up from the center of the weir, some forty or fifty feet tall, and has a tapered look to it, with the base half-again as wide as the top due to its function as a dam dividing the river over the weir. Water surrounds it on three sides and runs right up to the base of the tower. To the south there is a stone and earth levee which keeps the rivers separate and runs out to connect to the island which is effectively Old Phlan, though it appears to have been heavily eroded. In fact, it looks like it has eroded enough that there is no way to circumnavigate the tower on foot.

There are no entrances near the bottom that you can see, though you cannot see the other side of the tower without swimming around it. The only opening you can see is the broken bridge about three-quarters of the way up on the south side. Because of the tapering structure and crumbling stonework, it looks like it would be an easy climb for you, despite being slick with rain.

Lyra

Lyra looks over the muddy gouge. How long would the land bear the scars of her impulsiveness? But Frantiska is alive, and that is what mattered. Stepping carefully through the thick mud, Lyra makes her way over to where she collapsed. “Should we take her over to Brother Rant, or the wagon?”

Donovan

When the water stops, Donovan scrambles to his feet and carefully makes his way down the muddy slope. He heaves Frantiska onto her back, grabs her under the armpits, and begins to drag her towards the wagon as best he can, taking advantage of the reduced friction the mud grants and trying to at least keep her head and upper torso elevated out of the mud.

GM

As the gate closes, you hear a grunt, and notice Brother Rant still straining to anchor the rope, sweat beading on his forehead. Clearly noticing this too, Teldicia curls herself back up on top of the rope, stands up, and walks carefully across to the far side, reaching it about the same time as Hrud. She reaches up onto the side of the tower, finds a fingerhold, and easily steps up off of the rope, her feet planted flat against the sloping wall of the structure. When it becomes clear that no one else is depending on the rope for support, Brother Rant lets go, allowing it to slump into the water, and sits down on the muddy ground, breathing heavily, his arms shaking slightly.

Frantiska coughs herself awake, expelling another gout of the disgusting black liquid from her lungs, and rubs her eyes with her, amazingly, clean hands. In fact, all of her skin is somehow still clean, as if the sludge simply cannot adhere to her immaculate flesh. She rolls herself over and deliberately heaves a few times to make sure no more of the water is inside of her. As she kneels on all-fours in the back of the wagon, her arms, somehow no longer the tight mass of coiled muscles they were only minutes ago, shake violently.

Sadly, the same cleanliness does not extend to her clothing. Her dress is black, reeking, and dripping—not only with the disgusting water, but literally dissolving in the contaminated sludge, liquefying and dripping off her body in putrid globs. Shuddering she jumps out of the wagon, her legs almost buckling underneath her, and begins tearing off the offending clothes and flinging them away before the wagon becomes contaminated as well. Only when she is completely naked does her head snap around, casting an enraged, near-murderous glare at Donovan and Rant, certain in her mind that they are enjoying the spectacle.

She stands there for a moment, the perfect picture of elven beauty and indignant rage, then her face goes pale. She pivots and looks at the pile of discarded items, then plunges her hands into the mess, pulling out her bow. Ruined. Even if the water were not corrosive and putrefying, the wood, strung and fully tensed, cannot handle that level of saturation. She sifts through the pile again, realizes that the pick and Sir Guy’s Spoon had been in her hands when she went under, and comes up with her last remaining weapon, a simple short-sword. She drops to her knees and begins sobbing, this has been, without a doubt, the worst day ever! she thinks.

Lyra

Neither speaking nor actually looking at her, Lyra hands Frantiska a blanket.

Frantiska

Frantiska reaches out with one hand and wraps the blanket around herself. «Thank you,» she says in elvish.

Lyra

Setting the Fang of Mace beside him, within easy reach, he situates the stick between his legs so I won’t roll away and retrieves the flint & steel from his belt pouch. Just as he’d done thousands of time before on the Ride, Hrud begins to strike.

Teldicia

What? No, it’s nothing I did. It was there since we met? Not as much as that waif Lyra, but more than nothing, and you’ve been broadcasting static like crazy. Even worse when I try to listen to you. It’s about to drive me crazy. Anyways, maybe something in the water woke you up. Maybe something else.

After a few strikes, the rags take the spark, and slowly bloom into a flame. It’s not a proper torch, no pitch or tar, but compared to the deep blackness before the small flame is blinding. Your head throbs, but after a moment your eyes adjust. The first thing you see is the green-haired woman, standing close to you, the lightweight dress she’s been wearing plastered tightly to her curvaceous form by the rain. Warming up are we? says the voice in your head, in a very overtly suggestive fashion.

Once the flames are going, you find you have to twist the torch regularly to keep the rags from unraveling as they burn, and you don’t think it would be safe to hold it above your head. The room you are in is small, roughly the dimensions of the top of the tower, minus the thick walls. You can see the peaked roof above you—a rotting wooden frame overlaid with slate tiles, many of which are missing, allowing the rain free access into the structure. The floor is wooden, thick solid boards, slick with rain and mold, and showing numerous odd gouges—claw marks most likely—from something large, with three widely-spaced, very sharp, claws on each foot. An even, circular hole is set in the center of the room. You can see the remains of a wooden, spiral staircase attached to one edge of the hole, but it appears to have collapsed past the third stair down. Immediately beside you on the floor is the skeleton of a small humanoid, not more than three feet tall, but not build like a child, maybe a goblin. This corner is relatively protected from the rain, and the stick you hold looks like it was once a short spear, and the rags were the creature’s clothes.

Other than the single corpse, which seems to be missing a leg, now that you think about it, there is nothing else on this floor. Waving your torch towards the hole and peering down, you see a glint of metal at the bottom of the shaft, maybe thirty feet below you.

Hrud

Broadcasting static? “Sorry, I didn’t know.”

“Warming up … ?” Embarrassed, doubly so by the fact that – due to their connection – there is no way to pass it off (not that Hrud was ever known for being smooth), he turns his attention to the claw marks on the floor [Tracking] and then to the hole.

GM

The claw-marks are extensive, criss-crossing each other and ranging about the floor, and vary in age, some looking years old, others appear much fresher (judging by the discoloration of the wood where it has been scratched). Despite the obvious age of the place, the accumulation of mold is large limited to the corners near the walls, so it is likely that whatever made the marks either comes here frequently or else uses the tower as a permanent dwelling. Numerous other scuff marks also mark the floor, largely concentrated in a direct path from the entrance to the hole, looking large several fairly large, heavy things have been dragged in and dropped in the hole over time.

As you stare at the floor, squinting to make out details in the wan light of the torch, the throbbing pain behind your temples continues to build. Teldicia circles the room in the opposite direction from you, staring down into the hole. Have you ever fished? The rope’s wet, but it shouldn’t be too hard to climb down. Getting back up might be a problem. If I lower myself down, do you think you could haul me back up?

Hrud

“I … can.” Hrud mumbles, the pressure behind his eyes making him tear up a little. “We may want to hurry, it looks like this is a lair of some sort.”

“My head is killing me. I have to break contact. If you still want to do this, just yell and I’ll pull you up. Take the torch. Magic items most important.”

GM

Teldicia takes the torch, hooks her legs around the rope, and slides down. After only a couple of seconds you hear her yell, “گه مقدس! من نگه دار تا. شما باید برای دیدن این!”

Hrud

Words! That was the signal! Hrud starts hauling away at the rope.

GM

You haul Teldicia up to the lip of the hole and she swings her legs over and carefully raises the makeshift torch. She babbles something you can’t understand, then stops and looks frustrated and begins trying to pantomime. She makes a happy, excited face, points down in the hole emphatically a few times, rubs her thumb and first two fingers together in an odd way, then points at your eyes and back down the hole.

Hrud

To Hrud’s (throbbing) mind, Teldicia’s motions don’t convey that there are any creatures down there, but that there may be an issue with getting what’s down there out. He thinks for a moment – wishing (not for the first time in his life) he were a good deal smarter – then has an idea. He points to his head, then in the direction where the rest of the group is waiting for them on the river bank, and says “Lyra?”

GM

Hrud reaches out and finds Lyra’s mind, only to discover that it is completely closed off. Its feels like the mental equivalent of banging his head against a brick wall. He pushes harder, then throws his mind full-force against the barrier, it feels very much like ramming a door, all of his faculties bearing down to crush the offending barrier. Then…he is through…though not without his headache rising to blinding intensity. You feel that the resulting mindlink is tenuous, like a bad call-call with a lot of static on the line.

Hrud

“Teldicia says … lot of stuff to take, bottom of tower, need help getting it out. And light.” The mental presence starts to fade.

Lyra

“…You?” The words melt away to images as quick as thought before the link fades completely. Rant dropping the rope into the water, exhausted. Frantiska retching up foul black water, her clothes drenched. The ox, pony, and filly placidly grazing next to the wagon and tent a safe distance from the river, the first stars of evening filling the sky. And as the link fades, Hrud sees a door opening into the tower where once there was only crumbled bridge and open doorway.

Lyra’s brow furrows in surprise and confusion. “Hrud? Hey! Donovan! They found something in the bottom of the tower, we’ll need light and maybe a teensy bend in space to get stuff out.” She pulls her cloak around her to keep the rain off, and hops off the edge of the wagon. She grabs the lantern and takes a few strides away from the wagon, just in case. She angles it carefully to minimize the rain getting through, and holds up the light to have a look at what they’d found.

GM

The light from the lantern beaming through the dimensional doorway suddenly illuminates the lower level of the tower, several orders of magnitude brighter than the makeshift torch Teldicia is holding over the hole above. At the same time, a trickle of water begins pouring out the other side of the door, running out onto the already muddy ground. As the waters subside through the gate, the light is reflected and magnified as it bounces off of a large pile of metallic objects—heaps of gold and silver coins, golden goblets and plates, statues and sculptures of bronze and brass, even the remains of a full-sized bronze war-chariot. A mixture of humanoid and animal bones, most of them cracked open as if gnawed upon, and broken weapons litter the floor. Various odds and ends, ranging from a small, smashed boat, to moldy tapestries complete the pile of debris. All of the items are strewn haphazardly, as if they were simply tossed into the hole from above.

The southern wall has a large, rusty-looking iron bar, maybe six-feet in length, protruding perpendicularly from it.

Teldicia lets out a whoop and slides back down the rope, swinging slightly to land on the upturned hull of the boat, rather than in the remaining water. She waves to Lyra, then motions for Hrud to climb down. She looks around at the heaps of stuff, then looks back at Lyra and asks, “Should we just hand stuff through to you guys?”

Lyra

“Huh. Know any art dealers in Melvaunt?”

Lyra waves back and looks around. “Brother Rant, Mr. Donovan, there should be extra sacks in the wagon. Overexerting myself while I’m trying to concentrate on the gates might become problematic, but I can hand things through and hold the light.” She frowns a bit. “Do you think those bones were gnawed on before they were thrown down or after?”

Hrud

Kneeling on the floor in the room above, Hrud slowly removes his hands from either side of his head. He expels a sigh of relief when he realizes that his skull is not, in fact, splitting down the middle. Leaning over, he sees Lyra’s portal and the light coming in through it. Gratitude and relief wash over the barbarian, dulling – but by no means expelling – the lingering ache in his skull.

Seeing that Teldecia is now down and off the rope, Hrud retrieves his spear from the doorway. Untying the rope from the spear, he passes it through the upper stair until its touching the floor – no sense in leaving behind a perfectly good rope. Before he descends, though, the barbarian takes a closer look at the goblin skeleton, just to make sure he hasn’t missed anything it of value it might have been wearing.

Then, his inspection complete, he wraps his legs and free hand around both ropes and shimmies down to the bottom. The rope he leaves in hanging until they’re finished. Just to be safe.

Turning to the others, he asks, “Apa ana apa mabur geni-ambegan naga ing Phlan?”

Donovan

Donovan moves up beside Lyra to get a better look through the gate, his eyes widening. “Gnawed bones, piles of gold, and an entrance forty feet above the ground…” he looks meaningfully at Lyra. “Lets get this done quick.” He steps through the gate, looks around, and starts pointing at things, “Grab those first…”

Lyra

Lyra furrows her brow. “I’ve never tried it before, but I should be able to hold it open, but I’ll be completely tapped out and need to rest after. Fifteen minutes at best, but I’d like to leave enough leeway that I can establish another, so let’s call it ten.”

Donovan

“Right.” Donovan grabs the most valuable thing he can see. “We’ve got ten minutes people, lets get this stuff in the wagon!”

Donovan looks at the heavy statues, water-logged tapestries, and piles of loose coins. “Lyra, we may have to come back, this looks heavy.” He grabs the shield and piles it with the cloak, ring, chalice, scroll-case, and as many gold coins as he can lift and hauls it back to the wagon. “Brother Rant, do you think you can help Hrud haul some of those statues out?”

Lyra

Lyra whispers to Donovan as he carries a load to the wagon. “If we’re going to be camping reasonably nearby, an hour of meditation buys us another five minutes or so.”

“If we move fast, or come back after I’ve rested, I can reposition the gates to load it directly into the wagon. We might want to reposition anyway to keep the paintings out of the rain. Frantiska! There’s a big statue of the Simbul in here! And a chariot!” She pauses, confused. “How did they get a boat in here?”

Lyra ducks through and grabs the iron decanter, all smiles. “Endless water, just what we need more of today.”

GM

Teldicia stacks the paintings and hauls them out. Rant steps cautiously through the gate and looks around, «Hrud, Donovan asked us to haul out the statues.» His eyes fall on the chariot, then he turns back to the gate and measures it with his arms. “Lyra, can you change how large your doorway is?”

Hrud

Having (what he assumes is the same idea as Rant), Hrud starts loading whatever he can on the chariot. When Rant has a moment, he points to the metal bar on the wall and says, «Do you think that opens the tower to the river somehow?»

Lyra

Lyra pauses from gathering up coins, brow furrowing more in concentration the longer they take. “Anywhere from twenty inches by sixty, to eighty by eighty, oriented however I like on both ends.”

GM

Rant smiles and starts loading more things in the chariot, “Make it big as you can, please, Miss Lyra. Does anyone have a guess as to what will happen if Hrud pulls that lever?”

Lyra

When everyone is clear of the gates, they disappear, reappearing at the end of the wagon, and next to the chariot so it just needs a push to move into the wagon.

“We can use the chariot to move the heavier items through, now. We just lost two minutes doing that though.”

Frantiska

Frantiska pulls the wet blanket tighter around herself, grabs her belt from the goo that was once her beautiful dress, and climbs into the wagon. She fishes out her tobacco pouch, looking more annoyed than enraged now, and breathes a sigh of relief to see that the contents are still dry. I guess I wasn’t under that long. She rolls and light one, then watches in fascination as Lyra opens the dimension door and everyone begins looting the tower, at least I didn’t almost drown for nothing. When Donovan hands the first load up into the wagon, she takes the dry cloak and puts it on, cinching it around her waist with the belt, looking quite surprised when it fits perfectly and conveniently has arm-slits. She then puts Amara to work helping her neatly arrange the items in the wagon as the others load them.

Donovan

Donovan helps load the last of the stuff into the chariot, though he is breathing heavily after the first statue, clearly unused to physical labor. With everything loaded he moves around to the back, ready to lend his shoulder to shoving the overloaded two-wheeled contraption through the gate.

Lyra

Lyra also goes over to assist in pushing the chariot through the gates.

Hrud

Hrud puts his back into pushing the chariot.

GM

With four of you shoving on it, you easily nudge the chariot through. You now, for good or ill, have a chariot sitting in the back of your wagon. You also have a very full wagon.

Lyra

Lyra wedges a heavy bag of coins behind each wheel to keep the chariot from rolling, and places the decanter next to the crate of food. “At least two magical, by my reckoning. The shield likely is, and the decanter of endless water definitely is. I suppose checking the rest can wait until morning.” Lyra makes a little nest among the bags of coins and sits down to meditate. She opens one eye. “We might want to turn the chariot sideface to be sure it won’t roll out.”

Hrud

A hiss of effort and an incessant throb are all Hrud is aware of as he
shoves the chariot out of the tower. There is a moment, however, as
they pass through the portal when a familiar scene flashes in his
mind’s eye:

A majestic, chocolate-colored horse; dead at his feet, dead by his hand

Hrud gasps, the reaction going unnoticed among the gasps of the others as they contribute to the push. Frantiska nearly died, and it was his fault – his idea to cross the weir.

The horse reborn, walking out of the fire

A moment later, the chariot was out and the party was regrouping and, as far as Hrud was concerned, rather overwhelmed at the amount of treasure they’d just recovered. Surely someone—or something—somewhere was going to return to this ‘lair’ and see that it had been raided.

Retrieving the rope before Lyra closes her magical door into the tower, Hrud catches sight of Frantiska sitting on the wagon. The elf woman is still beautiful despite her bedraggled (for an elf) state, still proud, but there is now a weight pulling at her delicate features. She was covered, but acted as if still exposed in some way. Hrud, never having had much in the way of material possessions, had a hard time empathizing with what it was like to loose something precious. A brush with death, however, especially in that foul murk … he could understand how that might ruin someone’s day.

Hrud waited until Rant’s activity carried him next to where she was sitting, going over the spoils of their misadventure. He wanted to make sure his question was translated properly, and her reply as well.

“«Frantiska, when you were under … Did you cross over, even for a little bit? Did you see the other side?»”

Frantiska

Frantiska rolls another cigarette, its been a really long day. «No Hrud. There is quite a firm line between almost drowned and actually drowned, thankfully.» She turns to the others, “The plan is to camp just north of the bridge, correct?” She climbs out of the wagon and up onto Thistledown, checking the spare swords strapped to her saddle. “Oh, Lyra, this cloak has informed me that it is also magical…and aware…”

Frantiska guides Thistledown over closer to the wagon while she waits for the others to be ready to depart. «Actually, Lyra,» she speaks in Elvish, her voice low, making it hard to hear her over the rain, «I don’t think this cloak and I will get along well. I’m stuck with it for now for modesty’s sake, but once I obtain proper clothing, one of the rest of you will probably make better use of it than I would.»

Lyra

«I’d at least wish to find what it knows about how it ended up there, and who put it there, but I’m leery of something that would get along poorly with a lady such as yourself. What’s the problem? It … isn’t being disrespectful about its current circumstances, is it?» There’s a slight hint of anger in Lyra’s eyes and voice. Although perhaps to not get along with Frantiska it merely needed to be male, and she didn’t seem to be advocating being rid of the thing entirely. «I’d offer you my cloak, but it’s soaked. But there should be a spare set of clothing here somewhere. Maybe I should just pop into town for a trunk of dry clothes and cloaks in the morning, and unload whatever of this I can take with me. We’re not so far from Jerome’s that it will be more than an hour or two before I can come back.»

Frantiska

«The cloak isn’t the best communicator. From what I gather it encouraged it’s previous wearer to explore the tower, found a dragon there, and was not able to save its wearer from the thing’s claws, then was stuck there.»

Lyra

Lyra carefully climbs around the chariot, digging through a pile of blankets. Eventually, she carefully pulls out a chemise, hose and dark grey linen dress. «Probably ill fitting on either of us, but at least it’s intact and dry.» Her eyes slid over the chariot and its glimmering burden. «Perhaps we can find a tailor in Melvaunt.»

Hrud

Hearing Frantiska’s reply, Hrud mutters something along the lines of “«Not yet, then.»”, for which Rant can only shrug, having no context for either the question or the reply.

The barbarian gazes out over the unsightly river, and is suddenly struck with an idea. “«Do we have any old pots or jars? A container that is easily replaced?»” he asks the cleric.

GM

Frantiska rides closer to the fence surrounding the graveyard, roughly 30 feet away, and allows her eyes to adjust, shifting to the infra-red, hoping that the heat from anything living will stand out more against the rain and mist. At the same time, she reaches out with her mind, feeling for whatever emanations of malevolence may be detectable. Her bow is out, readied, and loaded with one of the new silver arrows.

GM

To Frantiska’s elven sight the graveyard looks just as it is—dead. Everything looks a uniform cold blue, a stark contrast to the grasses of the prairie behind her, which teem with life. If anything stands out, it is that the surfaces within the graveyard look even colder than the rain which is falling on them.

To her other sense, however, the graveyard seems blazing with light. The emanations are overwhelming, nearly knocking Frantiska from her steed. Sharp, stabbing pain returns to her head, accompanying the sense of pervasive evil—as if the graveyard itself were a single entity, living, thinking, and plotting something horrible.

Donovan

Donovan tries to focus on driving, but can’t help but look at the beaten grass and upturned dirt. “You know…sleep spells don’t work against zombies…” he mutters, “…and arrows go right through skeletons.”

Lyra

“Those magic blades and sling bullets will have to suffice.” And gravity, Lyra thought, would work on most things if it came to it. Or creating an aperture bisecting an entity would result in…. Lyra shuddered.

Hrud

As crowded and smelly and claustrophobic as the city was, Hrud found the the fouled waters and corrupted vegetation before him now to be much more upsetting. The disturbed graveyard was merely icing on the cake [or whatever the Eraka equivalent would be]. “«What is the source of this evil?»”

Frantiska

“Kalau saja aku tahu.” Thistledown is already straining to get away from the accursed site, Frantiska lets her have the reins, giving her only the slightest nudge back towards the wagon. “There isn’t the slightest sign of life in that place,” she says as she pulls up alongside Teldicia and Donovan, “not even an insect, and yet the whole place seems to be thinking, plotting foul deeds. Not the passive evil of a curse or a spell, but like the very ground is sentient. Some powerful undead creature must be at work here, a lich, perhaps, or a shade, or a vampire of great age. Something not only able to raise the dead from their graves, but grant them thought and then control them to a single purpose.”

She shudders. “The list of places in this town that need to be razed to the ground just keeps growing…”

Donovan

Donovan looks back at Lyra, “Anything else we want to know about this place? Other than ‘how fast can we get away from it?’”

Lyra

Lyra flinches at another crash of thunder. “When we return to the training hall in Phlan, there is a technique I may be able to master that may be of some use. Many undead exist between this world and another, and it is possible to force them to one or the other.”

Donovan

“Well that doesn’t sound too immediate. Let’s get out of here before whatever kicked up that dirt becomes as curious about us as you are of it.” Donovan flicks the reins, trying to push the oxen to go at least a little faster to get away from the cemetery, no matter that there is no road, and its raining, and its grassy, and that they’re cows. “Come on…” he pauses and looks at the oxen, realizing that the liverer never told them their names, “…Mr…Brisket! Come on, Sirloin! Giddyup!”

GM

One of the oxen stops in its tracks briefly, throwing its head and looking back at Donovan as if offended by his comments, nearly upsetting the cart. Jerked to a halt, the other gives an angry bellow and they both start forward again at a good clip. Only a few minutes later the grass fades back from black to green and the cemetery is fading into the mist behind you.

View

APR/2014

Chapter 2: Handle With Care: Part 4

In which the party FINALLY gets out of town...

GM

Donovan comes in to Half-a-Loaf through the back door of the establishment, at about the same time that Rant leads Frantiska, Hrud, and Amara in through a side door. The main doors of the place, facing on the market, stand open to two very long lines of people, one going in, another out, both standing three abreast. Despite the mix of humans, goblins, orcs, and…other things…the affair is amazingly peaceful and orderly, with only a little bit of shoving near the back of the line, probably because of the four, fully armored Tyrran battle-priests who flank the doors. Inside the line divides, allowing the ‘customers’ to walk down one of three long tables where the white-robed Tyrran and red-robed (if the sheer, revealing things they wear can really be called robes) Sunite priests scoop large ladles of thick soup into hollowed-out pieces of bread.

Despite the hundred or more people in the one room that is Half-a-Loaf, it is surprisingly quiet, the only sounds being the steady shuffling of feet in the lines, the faint schlopp of soup pouring into bread-bowls, and numerous murmured “thank-yous” in dozens of languages. The smell, however, is overpowering. The delicious smell of hot stew mixes in the air with the scent of hundreds of unwashed bodies in a way that makes you almost light-headed as you open the door. At the far end of the barn-like building, where Donovan enters, there are a few benches and stools set up against the walls, mostly occupied by the elderly or injured, who are in turn being tended by another handful of priests from either sect.

Look as you might, there do not appear to be any other rooms in the building, nor do you see any food preparation being done. Given this and how full the pots of stew look despite the hundreds of souls being fed, you imagine some sort of conjuration must be at work.

Frantiska

Seeing Donovan, Frantiska raises a hand in greeting, then steps back outside. “Brother Rant, I’m going to take the horses around to the back. I trust you will keep an eye on Amara.” She pats Thistledown and looks at Hrud’s mount, “Hrud, apakah Anda ingin saya untuk mengambil kuda Anda kembali ke gerobak?”

Donovan

Donovan slips around the room to where Brother Rant is and quickly explains about the situation with Ellen waking up and the discussions in the wagon. The two of them then make their way to the priests who are providing healing services, then, after a brief consultation, head out to the wagon. «Lyra,» Donovan calls up as they step out the back door, «it sounds like Sune’s priestesses are actually trained and equipped to deal with these kind of situations. Can you get Ellen out of the wagon?»

Lyra

Lyra still only looked at the girl with her peripheral vision. “I haven’t been in town long, but all of the Tyrrans I’ve met have been really nice. If you don’t want to eat here, will you at least come speak with one of the priestesses? They can help. I’ll go in with you, if you’d like.”

GM

Ellen takes a tighter grip on Lyra’s arm and looks up at her in a silent, pleading sort of way.

Lyra

Lyra gives her a soft smile. “You can try out those new shoes while we’re at it. I’ll be right there with you.”

Hrud

Hrud finishes looping the reigns of his horse around the back of the wagon, then walks over to where everyone is gathered. “Apa kita siap«Are we ready»?” He says to the group at large. Then, to the girl, “Aja pengin teka karo kita «You coming with us»?”

GM

The girl looks alarmedly at the tall, muscular, and barely-dressed barbarian speaking unknown syllables at her from the back of the wagon, at the handsom, but heavily armed and armored priest translating for him, at the pudgy, bespectacled old man speaking rather harshly at her from the front of the wagon in an equally incomprehensible tongue, then back to Lyra. More crawling than walking, despite the dome of the wagon leaving plenty of room to stand upright, and still keeping a grip on Lyra’s arm, she moves to the front of the wagon, away from Hrud and Rant, and climbs down, on the side opposite Donovan. Her eyes look moist, almost on the brink of tears, but continue to dart between the many people crowding around her. She tugs Lyra’s arm towards the shop and whispers, “I think I’ll take my chances with the priestesses…”

Frantiska

Frantiska points across the street. “Donovan, is that the smith that you said could possibly re-lacquer the swords?” She rubs her forehead again and grimaces. “Rant, do you mind translating for Hrud, since he’s got one of those—I’m not really feeling up to it right now. So, it would be nice if you were not carrying around obvious symbols of Xvim, but lacquering metal is not a fast process…we’d probably have to leave them to be worked on.” The look on her face makes it obvious that she is not pleased by the thought of further delays, or perhaps that she is just generally irritable because of the headache, or, even more likely, both.

Lyra

Lyra climbs down from the wagon as best she can with only one arm free, and tries to keep in step with the girl as they head to the back door of Half-a-Loaf. She thought she felt the start of the bruise where Ellen’s right thumb was. With her free arm, she knocks twice and then pulls the door open enough to check that there is nothing that would further startle Ellen before heading inside, keeping between Ellen and the crowds.

The smell was overwhelming as Lyra looked around for a priestess that would be free to assist them.

Donovan

Once the girls are clear, Donovan climbs up into the wagon. “I’d prefer to have ensorceled steel close at hand, no matter if it’s tainted. We’ve talked much of the swamp, but getting away from the city is no mean feat itself. Worse perhaps. We’ll strike out south and west, towards the bay, through the shanty. It would be much faster to go north and east to reach the Phlan Road, but that would take us past Kuto’s Well, a known bandit hot-spot, and then across the bridge into the old wealthy districts where the Xvim’s temple is, which is entirely controlled by the orcs. Though the swords might give us something of a pass, I’d rather not take any chances of angering Xvimlar temlars. So, south and west.” His face looks unusually grim. “From there we should swing wide around the city, most west than north. The northern sections of the old city are equally troublesome—the old textiles district is home to many hobgoblins and gnolls, the old castle is overrun with bugbears and, judging by the occasional large projectile, they have either giants or siege engines, and the gods know what might come out of the graveyard. So we should cut at least a mile west of the city, out of catapult range, then head north. There is a newer, but less nice, bridge north of the city, almost half-way to Sorcerer’s Island, where the river is blackest—the smell is worse, but we should avoid the humanoid tribes that way. From there we’ll be able to rejoin the road into the swamp, but taking the long route that way, we’ll probably not reach the road until dusk…” Why did I take this job, he thinks to himself.

GM

Forewarned of the situation by Donovan and Rant, Lyra and Ellen are met at the door by a pair of priestesses—a Tyrran with white, strait hair almost indistinguishable from her robe, and a full-figured, almost plump, Sunite with skin as white as the Tyrran’s robe and lips as red as her own. Both have eyes that show considerable experience and wear expressions of deep kindness and sympathy. The Sunite silently takes Ellen’s arm and guides her to a stool in a quiet corner, the Tyrran addresses Lyra, “Thank you, Miss Lyra is it, I recall Sister Theymr mentioning that you’d stayed with us last night, we’ll take it from here. Sad to say, Priestess Alliance has quite a lot of experience with cases like this. Too many of these beggar-girls make easy prey for the orcs—the would-be adventurers don’t fair much better.” She takes Lyra’s hand and gives it a reassuring pat. “We’ll make sure she’s okay. You watch out for yourself out there.”

Lyra

Lyra nods. “Thank you for your kindness, Sister. Please take good care of Ellen.” She looks over at Ellen across the room, and certain that she is in good hands, heads out the door.

Lyra waves at her companions as she walks over to the wagon. “I think she’s in good hands. Are we ready to head out?” Her new sword knocks awkwardly against the wagon as she tries to climb up into the wagon, so she settles for sitting on the edge then swinging her feet up. Not the most ladylike of entrances, but it will have to do until she gets used to the sword belt. The sword. Lyra cringes at the thought. She was just talking to a Tyrran priestess!

“Is there something we can do about these swords? I don’t think anyone’s likely to mistake someone like me for a chosen of Xvim, but still….”

Frantiska

Frantiska quietly slips in as Lyra is leaving and walks over to the priestesses near Ellen. She grabs one by the arm and presses her purse into the woman’s hand, “When you feel the girl has recovered,” she says, “please see that she gets this, to start a new life with.” Once she has assent from the priestess, she smiles, exits, and mounts Thistledown.

Donovan

Lyra places her bow and two quivers of arrows next to her. The sides of the wagon might offer some protection, but not enough. And the graveyard as well. “Wasn’t one of the council proclamations regarding information about any entities in the graveyard? We should keep an eye out as we go by.”

Frantiska

Frantiska, who had been riding side-saddle with her legs tucked up against Thistledown’s flanks to avoid splashing her boots with the dark, foul-smelling mud, drops into the stirrups and pushes Thistle into a trot, kicking up a great deal more mud, to put herself up alongside the exposed side of the wagon. She pulls out her longbow and bends it across her knee to string it and knocks a brightly-fletched sheaf arrow, making a great show of readying the large bow, hoping that it’s obviously superior range will help deter the creatures on the walls. As she does this, she chants the words of an arrowflight spell. “My apologies Mr. Donovan, but I am beginning to hate this town of yours…”

Hrud

Noticing how the members of the group appear to be readying their ranged weapons, Hrud does likewise with his shortbow.

Lyra

Lyra stands up in the back of the wagon, and fails to find any gaps in the canvas that she would be able to shoot from. “Usually I am not one to advocate initiating hostilities, but perhaps we might wish to discourage them from standing up there while we still have a range advantage?”

GM

Brother Rant pushes Amara down behind a crate and grabs a light crossbow, “Stay down.”

“But I can help,” she says.

“No.”

“But I can help!”

“Miss Amara, please stay down.” Rant loads the crossbow and crouches at the back opening of the wagon, steadying the bow on the top of his shield. The girl looks at him huffily, mutters something to to the kitten she is holding, which vanishes.

“Ok, but only until Whiskers gets back…”

Lyra

Lyra takes up position behind Rant, so she would be able to fire over his head. Kneeling to pick up one of the quivers she whispers in the trade tongue: “The girl is a genie-binder, you realize? When Whiskers comes back, it— She? I’m not sure. Either way, it will have something for her, and she will use it. I’m not sure you realize what you’ve signed up for in protecting her.”

Donovan

Donovan looks back at Lyra in astonishment, but keeps driving, “Range superiority or no, I count at least a dozen up there, and only seven of us down here, counting Amara. Do we really want to get in a shooting war with a whole tribe of hobgoblins?”

GM

“Genies?” Rant raises an eyebrow then looks at the place where the blue cat was only a moment ago. “I’ve heard of stranger things…” He looks out the back, then speaks up so that Donovan can hear from the front. “At the rate we’re going, we’re certainly not initiating a battle from this angle.” He moves up to the front of the wagon to look over Donovan’s shoulder. “If they sally forth, this mud will make us very easy targets, with no way to escape.” He smiles and moves back to Lyra, “I’ll be right back”, then hops out of the back of the wagon, sinking well past his ankles in the muck.

He pulls out his holy symbol, takes a fist-full of the mud, and bows his head in silent prayer. As he finishes, there is a faint sucking sound as his boots, the hooves of the horses and oxen, and the wheels of the wagon all come free of the mud slightly. Thistledown whinnies and stamps her hooves, clearly surprised that she is now standing firmly on top of the muddy track.

Rant runs to catch up with the, now much faster-moving, wagon and pulls himself up. “Whatever you do, don’t leave the road until we’re across the bridge…”

The wagon and horses free, Rant leans his head out of the wagon, «Master Hrud, Lyra and Frantiska suggest that we should attack the creatures on the wall before we are in range of their bows. What is your opinion on the matter?»

Hrud

«One doesn’t try to sneak past a bear’s cave by shooting into it – unless the bear is already charging. Would it be possible to put up a smoke screen?»

GM

Teldicia perks up as Rant translates Hrud’s question. “Maybe…” The wagon continues to rattle along having covered half the distance to the bridge by now, smoothly crossing the mud as if it were hard paving stones. Teldicia stand up on the driver’s bench, holding on to the canopy to maintain her balance, and waits. You can just see one of the creatures on the wall begin to draw his bow, probably just to test the range as it still a long shot, when Teldicia raises her hand…and the entire top of the tower is enveloped in darkness, looking like a great, black globe has been set over the top of it.

An arrow comes streaking out of the darkness and lands in the mud twenty paces or so from the wagon.

Hrud

« … Nicely done.» Hrud, expecting actual smoke, takes a moment to shake off his surprise at the sudden globe of darkness, «Can you make wagon noises too? Lest they track us by sound.»

Donovan

“You guys are all awesome,” Donovan breathes. “Tell Hrud that was a great idea. Now lets get across the river before they figure out what happened.” He snaps the reins and urges the two big draft animals to pick up speed as much as they can.

Lyra

Lyra reddened a bit in embarrassment. Her own magical aptitude was still rather lacking. She moved up to the front of the wagon, watching for incoming arrows that may hit the oxen or driver’s seat.

GM

A handful of wild shots come streaking out of the darkness, most nowhere near the wagon. One, however, comes hurtling, probably at random, strait at one of the oxen, only to vanish in midair a foot away from the beast. You hear a pained scream from up on the wall.

With no real resistance forthcoming, the wagon crosses the bridge over the river with no further problems. A tiny blue unicorn appears in Amara’s lap and she mumbles huffily, “We could have helped…”

View

APR/2014

Chapter 2: Handle With Care: Part 3

In which the party separates...again...

Noga Lore

GM

Teldicia still sits in the back of the wagon, holding the sleeping injured girl’s head in her lap. “Oh, the little one ran off, saying something about needing to get a present for her grandmother. Rant when after her.” She takes one of the folded blankets and carefully slides it under the girl’s head, extracting herself. She climbs down next to Lyra, “So, what’s with all the munitions?”

Lyra

Lyra sighs “I had just intended to get a bow and some arrows, food and traveling supplies for everyone, and a few things for the girl. It seems Frantiska and Donovan had other ideas.”

Lyra looks around, scanning the crowd. “Do you know where they were headed, or at least which direction? Rant shouldn’t be heading off alone after publicly executing one of Mace’s gang members.”

GM

“The girl was heading into the Market.” Teldicia points, “Shall we go after them?”

Donovan

Donovan looks slightly concerned, “For all that he was bleeding on the cobbles when we found him, Rant seems capable of taking care of himself…though I’d hate to lose our most important cargo before we have even set out.” He looks around to double-check that everything is packed. “At present though, we have four animals, a wounded girl, and a giant wagon full of weapons to be concerned about. Frantiska, can you and Hrud take your horses and go after them? You’ll have a much better chance to spot them in the crowds if you are mounted, and a better chance of clearing a way as well. Lyra, Teldicia, and I can stay here and watch the wagon, the goods, and the girl.”

He turns to Teldicia, “The bows are to help us get through the swamps. Even if we are not the best shots, the six people armed with ranged weapons can be an effective deterrent to would-be bandits or raiders. Also, if we are attacked, being able to get off a volley before any attackers close to melee, even if only half our shots hit, can substantially improve our odds of survival.”

Teldicia

“Her name is Ellen,” Teldicia says. “She woke up briefly while you folks were filling up the armory here.” She moves up to the driver’s bench, “Rant said he wanted to leave the girl with the priests at Half-a-Loaf on the other side of the market square. This thing doesn’t look to hard to drive. If we’re staying with the wagon, maybe we should go ahead and take it over there so we’re not just sitting here twiddling our thumbs waiting for them to get back…”

Frantiska

Frantiska sighs, untethers Thistledown, and mounts up. “Alright, we’ll meet you at this Half-a-Loaf place.”

“Hrud, ayolah. Kita harus pergi mencari di mana Saudara Rant dan gadis kecil itu pergi..”

Lyra

Lyra climbs up into the back of the wagon awkwardly trying to arrange her sword, bow, and quiver for easy reach. She kneels next to the girl and gently brushes a stray lock of hair off of the girl’s face. “I’ll keep an eye on Ellen.”

Hrud

Hrud

Hrud, the vague look of confusion that he normally wears growing a little less vague, is completely puzzled by Frantiska and her sudden, unexpected reaction. His first thought is, ‘She must hate candles,’ which is then followed by, ‘We are never getting out of this city.’

GM

Amara, from up on the horse, spots the man and yells “It is daddy!” Her countenance suddenly falls as the candle is knocked from her hands, “Oh! That…that was my present for Grandmother!” She begins bawling.

Frantiska

“Brother Rant,” Frantiska says, urging Thistledown closer to the chandler’s stall, “Donovan is bringing the wagon around to the other side of the market and asks that we meet him at a place called Half-a-Loaf.” She tries to ignore the girl screaming in her ear and calls down to the chandler. “Sir, how much for the red candle?”

“Amara, calm down,” she says, “there was something amiss about that candle. We’ll get you a replacement for your grandmother, then we can go speak to your father…”

GM

The chandler looks bemusedly at the elf woman and the screaming child, “Seven gold for the red one,” he says simply.

“I don’t want a red one! Grandma likes the black ones! The red ones are no good!” Amara shouts, turning red in the face. “And I do not need to speak with father, I’m on a mission for Uncle!”

“…I also have another black one for twenty gold if the girl would prefer,” the chandler pipes in.

Frantiska

Insistent isn’t she. Frantiska hands the chandler two platinum coins, “A red one please, Sir. Not to impugn your wares, but the black one seemed to have some malignant magics about it and is probably not an appropriate thing to be entrusted to a child.” A vein begins to stand-out on her forehead, marring her beauty only slightly. “Amara, please cease your tantrum. It would be disrespectful for you to come all this way and not at least say hello to your father before leaving again.”

The transaction complete, she stows the candle in a saddle-bag, rubs her temples, and turns Thistledown into the crowd. “Hrud, Bruder Rant, datang, kami akan berbicara dengan ayah gadis-gadis dan kemudian kita harus berada di jalan kami.”

Hrud

Hrud tried to parse the elf’s words. The best he could figure, she and the girl were going to speak with someone’s father. “Aku bakal ngenteni kene.”

Glancing around the market, the hilt of the barbarian’s new broadsword catches the corner of his eye – the evil eyes starting up at him. Turning back to Rant, he asks, “Panjenengan sapa kene ngedol paint?”

Frantiska

Frantiska calls over her shoulder, “Hrud, kita harus pergi dengan cara yang anyways. Yang terbaik adalah jika kita tidak bisa dipisahkan. Jika kita terus berpisah, kita tidak akan pernah keluar dari kota ini.”

Hrud

Irritated at being bossed around, even if he can’t totally understand her words, Hrud replies, “Sing mekso iki prawan kanggo ngomongake sing wong. Iki bakal njaluk kita metu saka kutha?”

GM

Brother Rant follows Hrud’s eyes to the sword. «Matteo the Smith does enamel-work. His shop is right behind the soup kitchen.» He points in roughly the direction that Frantiska is riding. “Miss seneng mrintah punika tengen, rama ing prawan kang wis rightful ditahan, kita ngirim paling ngandhani wong ing ngendi kita njupuk Amara. Lan yen kita tindakake mau, Mungkin kita bisa njaga perdamaian.” He starts walking after the girls. “Ayo, iku cara tengen paling.”

Hrud

Hrud sighs, then nudges his horse into following Rant.

GM

Like elsewhere in the slums, the crowd around Hasan parts easily, with only the slightest hint of panic, at the sound of hoofbeats behind them. Seeing Amara seated on the front of the saddle, the orator stops mid-rant and hops down from his soap-box to approach the horse.

Frantiska

Frantiska nudges Amara hard and whispers in her ear, “If you have something against your father, that’s fine, I understand that that is common with human children, but it is no excuse for impoliteness.”

GM

The speech abruptly ended, the crowd begins to disperse back to their work and shopping. The speaker, however moves close to Thistledown, looking up a you. “Amara? What are you doing here? And who are these people?” his tone is not as excited to see his daughter as one might expect. The man himself is clean-cut, dark haired, slightly dark of complexion, well dressed—with a nicely folded handkerchief peaking out of his pocket and other little touches to indicate wealth without ostentation—and possessed of a thick accent that mixes both the local and a hint of something more exotic.

“Nothing father,” Amara replies petulantly. “Uncle Aumry asked me to visit grandmother, so I am on my way there. He hired these people to escort me.”

“Grandmother?” he looks confused.

“Yes father, you know, my grandmother in Melvaunt. She is very sick. Uncle Aumry asked me to visit her and help her feel better…”

His face turns slightly ashen, “Oh! For your Uncle? Well you better get about your business then…”

“Mama sends her love too…”

“Are you taking good care of Susalia?”

“Yes father…”

Frantiska

Frantiska’s eyebrows raise slightly as she listens to the strange exchange between the little girl and her father. She is obviously too young to be the orchestrater of anything too sinister, but, between the girl’s insistence on the cursed candle, her father’s obvious confusion about the grandmother situation, and the sense of malevolence she detected from the child, Frantiska determines not to let the girl out of her site until they return from Melvaunt.

She narrows her gaze at Amara and leans down to offer a hand to the man. “I’m sorry, Sir,” she says in a cold, haughty voice, “we have not been properly introduced.” The last words are said with the tone of a scolding school-marm. “I am Frantiska Sykora, my companions behind me are Hrud, of the Eraka, and Brother Rant Harmell of Tyr. Professor Aumry contracted our companions, and us by proxy, to escort your daughter on her little errand. I promise we will keep her safe, and out of trouble…”

GM

The man looks surprised to be addressed, as if he were perfectly willing to take Amara’s word about you, then gives Frantiska a firm handshake. “Very pleased to meet you, Madam Sykora. My name is Hasan Abd-al-Bane. I must say, you seem a good deal more respectable than the usual sort that Aumry and my wife arrange to look after our little Amara…” He looks quizzically at the other horse and there is something resigned in his voice as he speaks. “Your shaggy friend seems much more their usual variety of babysitter. Still, I am glad to hear that she is in good hands.”

An unreadable glance passes between the father and daughter, causing Hasan to take a step back. “Well, I’d best let you all be on your way then…
And please, do keep an eye on her at her grandmother’s, she does tend to get into trouble when the old lady is involved…downright spoiled sometimes”

Frantiska

Frantiska can’t help but be angered at the man’s obvious lack of concern for his child, leaving her in the company of total strangers, traveling under what are most likely false pretenses. Humans! she thinks, this must be what comes of having such a short life and being such prolific breeders. Like rabbits! If you can make two, or four, or a dozen in only a few short decades, I suppose that would let you consider some expendable. Or maybe it’s the fact that he’s a self-professed Banite—or was, given that Bane had been dead for a decade. She nods politely to the man. “Your trust is appreciated…” she says coldly. “As you suggest, we should be on our way then. Good day, Sir.”

“Mari kita pergi dari sini.” She says over her shoulder as she nudges Thistledown further across the square.

Meanwhile, back at the wagon…

Donovan

Donovan climbs up in the wagon and takes the reins. Alright, he thinks, cows aren’t that scary. “Geeyup,” he says, giving the reins what he thinks is a gentle snap. So, strait for two or three blocks, then a hard left onto Traitor’s Gate Road to come up behind the market. “You’re right, Teldicia. Just one turn can’t be too hard…”

GM

The cart is, in fact, pretty easy to handle. The going is fairly slow with trying not to trample people in the crowded streets, but you manage to make it, without incident, to the back door of the soup kitchen in about 25 minutes.

Lyra

The slow lumbering of the wagon was somehow both relaxing and infuriating. Lyra decided “I could have been there by now” was probably a poor measure of travel time, especially given how many theres (and at least two nows) it could be applied to.

She jumped in surprise when the girl next to her began to stir.

Lyra slides up closer to the front of the wagon, so she can take the opportunity to speak with Donovan and Teldicia. She settles in facing the back of the wagon so she can still keep an eye on the girl. “I had the opportunity to read through the books last night. The spellbook has Stars, Smoke, Windwielder, Shapeshifter, and the research notes detailing a rather troubling custom path — Brimstone. I believe one of the new spells therein was used to call forth the Lemures, and the journal also indicated how the portal was created – and ends abruptly after noting it nears completion. One of the priestesses at the Temple of Tyr was interested in acquiring the books.”

GM

Teldicia looks intrigued, “Might I peruse the books, those are not paths I am familiar with? The research notes don’t sound like the sort of thing we should be handing out to just anyone. It’s probably safer to keep things like that with us.” She turns to Donovan, “Don, speaking of finding interesting things, did I hear you say that the blade you took off the kobold had Noga writing on it?”

Lyra

Lyra watches the darts exchange hands. “Maintaining equilibrium in accordance with the tenants?”

“I’d rather not just leave her, but our other options are to delay our trip to find her family, or maybe take her with us so she can resettle in Melvaunt. Mr. Donovan, is Melvaunt large enough that it would have a psychologue?”

Donovan

Donovan looks at the darts, wondering if they would fit his new crossbow. “Thanks.”

“While it’s nothing compared to Waterdeep, Melvaunt is a good-sized city, maybe thirty-thousand souls. There very well may be a psychologue in Melvaunt. If we’re thinking of taking her out of the city, we should probably wake her up and ask her. After her recent encounter, I doubt she would take well to waking up in the back of a wagon full of strangers, in the middle of a monster-infested swamp, on its way to a city with something of a reputation for smuggling and human trafficking…”

Lyra

“Once she wakes up, we ought to just ask her where she wants to go and help her get there.” Smuggling and human trafficking? Not to Melvaunt, psychologue or no.

GM

You hear a faint voice from the back of the wagon, “Ask me what?”

Lyra

Lyra moves over near the girl, with a deliberate slowness to her actions so as not to startle her. “Teldicia said your name is Ellen. Brother Rant of Tyr and Donovan, a former herald of Phlan, are the ones who treated your wounds. I’m Lyrathwen Alethiel Beragaion, but you can call me Lyra. Are you feeling better? Are you hungry? Right now we’re in a wagon near Half-a-Loaf in the market. You’ve been unconscious for…” She thinks for a moment. “Probably more than two hours now.”

GM

The girl stares at Lyra for a bit, then practically leaps up from the floor of the cart and throws her arms around Lyra’s neck. “YOU! You saved me! You’re the one who…who…” she stops suddenly and shoves Lyra away. “You…saw…” she scuttles backwards as much as she can and seems to shrink, curling into a ball in a corner made by the crate of food and the canvas wall of the wagon, pulling awkwardly at the unfamiliar dress, apparently trying to cover or hide every last inch of exposed skin.

Lyra

Luckily, the dress Lyra was wearing previously was already quite modest. Lyra half turns, giving the girl her desired privacy. “The ones who hurt you will never be able to hurt anyone ever again. My other companions, Frantiska, a knight of Selune, and Hrud of the Eraka saw to that.” She reaches into one of the nearby bundles. “We got you some shoes, too.” She extends them towards Ellen, still not looking towards the girl.

GM

The girl snatches the shoes and quickly puts them on, judging by your previous looks at her feet, she may have never worn such before, though you hadn’t really thought about it. A minute or two of silence pass before Lyra feels a hand tentatively grab her arm, “You can’t leave me here…”

Donovan

Donovan keeps his eyes fixed on the street, “Miss, we’re on our way to Melvaunt and have a three-day journey through the swamp ahead of us. You’d be much safer if you stayed with the priests here in town.” He switches to Elvish to address Lyra, «There is no way of knowing how badly traumatized she is at this point. It would be great if we could help, but we’re not trained for this and a sudden outburst at the wrong time could get us all killed. It’s probably safer for everyone involved if we just leave her here.»

Donovan stops the wagon. “We’re here,” he says. «I’ll leave you and Teldicia to sort it out, but the priests are probably much better equipped for this sort of thing than we are.» He sets the brake and climbs down from wagon. “I’m going to go in, see if Rant and the others have made it here yet, and let the priests know what is going on.”

Lyra

«Why do you always assume people can’t speak Espurar?» As Donovan climbs down out of view, Lyra wonders if she could extricate her arm without provoking another outburst. Ultimately, she decides against it. “Where do you want to go, if not here?”

Donovan

«Elementary my dear Lyra,» says Donovan in a tone clearly meant to mock a number of professors he’s had in the past, and possibly Frantiska and Lyra’s mother as well. «Despite anecdotal micro-population evidence to the contrary, sic our party, people of elvish descent are a distinct demographic minority not only in Phlan, but in the Moonsea, and the Realms at large. Despite the popularity of the fair language among mages and the nobility, most common folk, baring those in areas close to the few extant enclaves of the people, have no reason to learn the language. More-so, most humans, it turns out, only know their native language and probably the common tongue. Those that are multi-lingual are much more likely to have learned one of the many, many regional languages than that of another race.» He grins over his shoulder. «Until Frantiska can teach us all something even more exotic, the fair tongue is probably our best bet for talking amongst ourselves without being eavesdropped on. The added benefit being that most of us already know it.»

View

MAR/2014

Chapter 2: Handle With Care: Part 2

In which the party finally gets their shopping done...

Noga Lore

Donovan

As they toss the bundle of weapons and armor into the wagon, Donovan shrugs. “I was thinking we could pawn most of them. Jerome’s is right on the other side of Madam Esmerelda’s, almost. The only problem with that thought is that Jerome supplies the gangs as much as the adventurers, so the weapons would most likely just end up back in the hands of other ruffians…”

As he climbs back up into the wagon, he smiles, “We could just shove them in a corner of the wagon and sell them when we get to Melvaunt. That would keep them out of the local arms-market at least.”

Hrud

Hrud reclaims the green sword he left at the wagon. He then changes out of his hand-me-down leather armor and into the leather curiass. The barbarian proceeds to examine both of the spears, examining the heads and sighting down the hafts for any bows, splinters, or cracks. After a moment’s consideration, he tosses one back on the pile of loot and carries the other with him to the drivers bench.

As he starts to climb up, he suddenly remembers something. Stepping back down, he wonders over to the pool of blood that had spilled from the orc’s crushed skull. Kneeling down, he presses his hand into the crimson puddle, then slaps himself on chest – leaving a shiny red hand-print glistening in the sunlight. After wiping his hand off on the dead orc, he returns to his seat, ready to continue the journey.

Lyra

Lyra carefully steps around the spray of orc gore at the back of the wagon and climbs in to check on the girl. She removes hose, a chemise, and the wine colored dress she was wearing yesterday from her pack, and re-folds them in a neat pile next to the girl so that she’d have them in the order she’d need them getting dressed. Her brow furrows, realizing she doesn’t have extra shoes to give. She adds to her mental list of things to get at the market. “Brother Rant, how is she?”

GM

“Her injuries were pretty severe, but she should recover soon enough, physically at least. You reached her just in time.” Brother Rant climbs up in the wagon with the girls. “There is no telling what sort of emotional scarring she might have from an event like this. I don’t know of any proper Psychologues in the city, but we can at least get her someplace safe and find who she belongs to.”

Teldicia chimes in, “One more distraction then? Finding her family, if she even has any, in this warren sounds like it would take forever.”

Brother Rant nods, "The soup kitchen I volunteer at is on the far side of the market. We should take her t

Lyra

Lyra was practically scowling. “Belongs to?”

GM

Brother Rant looks at Lyra confusedly, “Yes, Miss Lyra, while there are a lot of lost souls in this town, most people still have someone willing to take responsibility for them—a parent, a sibling, a spouse, or even fellow adventurers. She seems a bit young to fall in that last category, but then, so do you I guess.” He smiles, “Even if she has no family, she might belong to a group like your own. We are social creatures. Everyone belongs to someone, that is just the order of things.”

Lyra

Her expression softens. “Shouldn’t it be ‘belongs with’ rather than ‘belongs to’?”

Frantiska

Frantiska makes a clicking sound with her tongue, and Thistledown follows close behind while they haul the loot back to the wagon. “Selling them fifteen leagues away seems like a reasonable solution to the local problem, but what are the chances that forces from Melvaunt would come here?” She climbs up on Thistledown and nudges her into the crowd, making way for the wagon.

«Lyra,» she says, once mounted,«in light of recent events, Thistledown and I are definitely coming along on your shopping expedition to provide security.»

Lyra

«If nothing else, I could use some help carrying things back. I’m a little worried Brother Rant just made himself even more of a target for the Xvimlar than he was already, though. We should make it a fast trip.» Lyra slips out the back of the wagon and heads towards Jerome’s, keeping a wary eye on the crowd. «So what brings you to Phlan, anyway? Aglarond is rather far from here, and you seem to find this place as unwelcoming as I do.»

Frantiska

Frantiska smiles warmly as she follow’s Lyra to the store, clearly pleased by the question. «My purpose here is twofold. First, it is the wish of the Witch Queen that her servants learn as much as they can about the larger world, so as to better serve her. More specifically, I am investigating a mystery. You see, my personal interest is in the area of etymology, that is the history of languages and words. While studying in Aglarond, I noticed an oddity—the language of my homeland appears to be more closely related to the language of this region than of any of our neighbors. There is no mention in the official histories of Aglarond of any kind of diaspora or exodus from this region, nor even of any significant trade or other interaction. So, I began traveling here to see if there might be some sage, or tome, or other clue that could shed light on why this linguistic anomaly might be.» She barely stops for breath as she speaks, «While traveling through the Duchy of Carmathan in Damarra, Thistledown and I met a teller of tales who spoke of Phlan. While he went on for some time about the “glorious reclamation” that the Council is attempting, we were eventually able to get some more interesting details out of him. First that Phlan is among the oldest human settlements in the lands north of the Moonsea. Second that there was a great library in the old city, and that some portion of it may still be standing. And third, and perhaps most important to my research, he spoke of an ancient civilization that existed near here, the Empire of Nog.» Her eyes truly light up at this, «Then, in a small library in the city of Darmshall in Sunderland, I found a few scraps of parchment and palimpsests which the librarian claimed came from this ‘Nog’. While I was not able to fully decipher them, they characters and words I could make out were clearly of Mulani extraction—very similar to the language of Thay, nearest neighbor and greatest enemy. So, it only stands to reason that if this ‘Nog’ existed, is as old as the bard’s tale led me to believe, and is linguistically associated with the lands even farther east than Aglarond, then it may be the link I need to unravel why our language is so close to that of Thar. Perhaps all of the eastern civilizations originated here, in Nog and Tharkul, and there was some event that forced both cultures to migrate east.» She stops Thistledown at the door of the store, surprised to see an actual brick-and-mortar establishment here, and climbs down. She whispers something into the horse’s ear before walking into the building behind Lyra. «So, I am here in Phlan because I hope to gain access to the library in the old city, or whatever is left of it, hopefully find some more clues to the location of the Empire of Nog, and then mount an archaeological expedition to unearth whatever ruins may still stand of Nog. In the meantime, I hope to do whatever good I can, as Selune calls.»

Lyra

Lyra looks confused as Frantiska rushes out. “A bit of dried fruit would be good. Apples, or maybe currants if you have any. Yes, we’ll need cooking supplies. And do you have any blankets that are less … monogrammed?”

Meanwhile, outside…

Donovan

Donovan, surprised to see Frantiska go into Jerome’s and leave her horse untethered and unattended, moves to the front of the wagon and directs Hrud, mostly by pointing emphatically, to pull the wagon up next to the store. “Brother Rant, we can easily walk to Half-a-Loaf from here. Do you think the girl is stable enough to be carried across the market? Or should we wait and take her in the wagon when the girls are done?”

Hrud

A sickly green shimmer danced along the length of the broadsword as Hrud turned it over in his lap. His eyes came to rest on the two painted eyes starting up at him from the guard. There was something about the shape, or the placement, or something about how they were rendered that was weighing on his mind.

Sitting on the wagon, waiting for the others to conduct their business (it looked as though this merchant was far less interested in fish than the one he’d dealt with down by the docks), the barbarian tried to recall his experience after Frantiska had … facilitated a quick albeit unexpected dreamwalk. The sword in his dream didn’t look like this one and, to be honest, didn’t ‘feel’ as sinister.

Suddenly, realization dawned: The figures looking down at him – one of them had eyes like this. It was one of the smaller figures, if he remembered correctly. Those hate-filled eyes had bored into with what he could only discribe as a general sense of contempt and spite. But the figure didn’t do anything, didn’t say anything in his vision … was this just a coincidence?

It seemed to Hrud that it must be in the nature of the gods to make people lots of questions, while answering as few of them as they could get away with. And even then, answer them in the most confusing, frustrating ways imaginable.

He wondered if they would give him a straight answer when he finally got to ask his question.

Donovan

Sitting in the front of the wagon waiting, Donovan has a sudden thought, his face breaking out into a large mischievous smile, and pulls the hurdy-gurdy from his pack. “Rant,” he says with a smirk, “don’t translate this please.” He cranks up the hurdy-gurdy and begins playing a slow, slinky jazz number over the drone. “I call this…Ode to Hrud…” he says, then begins singing in a high tenor.

Nobody understands me,
although I wish they would.
Nobody understands me.
I hate being misunderstood.

Nobody understands me,
no matter how I try.
Nobody understands me,
and I can’t understand why.

When I think of all the glorble snop
I’ve tried so hard to explain!
They all look amused,
or a little confused.
Why can’t they see what I mean?
(It’s very snooffly.)

Nobody understands me,
though memmily blitt each day.
Nobody understands me,
but I guess zooglobble that way.

How can I make you understand?
How can I make you see?
Why does my queckery biffle you so?
Where will this ezzleboo dornut go?
What do explectionary inuews know?
When will you yuddle for me?

Nobody beezifies me.
Nobody febbin ud.
Kibblezy deen voo nizee!
I hate being misunderstood.

GM

As Donovan’s song drones on, the crowd in the street begins to move back noticeably. At first, you expect it to be from some musical criticism, then you notice the parting crowd reveals a kobold, a red hand-print covering its face and a battered, bronze-bladed machete gripped in its paws. It barks in its high-pitched voice, sounding like an enraged minpin, and points a finger at Hrud. Off to one side, an old man wheeling a push-cart of fried dumplings stops and looks up at the wagon. “She says the big guy killed her mate and she wants retribution. Fight to the death and all that…her versus the big man…” The old man looks like he is trying hard not to laugh.

Donovan

Donovan stops playing and looks incredulously at the kobold, waiting for Rant to translate for Hrud and wondering what kind of crazy kobold would challenge the barbarian to a fair fight. “This has got to be a trick of some kind,” he says as he begins looking around at the crowd, side alleys, buildings, and rooftops for more kobolds.

Hrud

Hrud stands up on the wagon, sets aside his short bow and takes up the green broadsword. Stepping down, he slowly starts walking forward, saying “«Your mate? Your mate attacked me outside the city as I slept and kidnapped me. Your mate was going to torture and kill my horse for no reason. Your mate uttered a curse with his dying words.»”

The barbarian stops roughly 10 feet from the kobold and takes up a fighting stance, sword held ready with both hands in front of him. “«Your mate got what he deserved.»”

GM

There is a flurry of words as Rant translates for Hrud and the old dumpling-cart man translates for the kobold, and vice versa.

The kobold narrows its eyes at Hrud, tightens its grip on the machete, lowers its head, and charges at Hrud screaming, “Skreeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaayt!”.

The flurry of translation continues and Rant barks out, «She just called you a ‘flat-head’.»

Hrud

Hrud attempts to side-step the charge, bringing the sword down across the kobold’s torso, then follows up with an upward swing.

GM

Donovan

Seeing the markings under the grip, Donovan kneels down and begins tearing away the twine. He stares fascinated a the glyphs, trying to make them out. “Rant,” Donovan says, as he examines the strange weapon, “can you ask Hrud if he would like the blade? If not, I would like to take it for further study.”

“The glyphs are the ancient Noga language of the northern Moonsea. They roughly translate as: ‘Thirdly, I know that there is someone pursuing me—Death—whom I cannot escape from, so I have prepared myself to meet him.’ Interestingly, the first word is Skreeayt, meaning “Thirdly” (or “and another thing”)—purely by coincidence, Skreeayt is also a kobold word (and given name) meaning “flat-headed”."

Hrud

Hrud listens to the translation of the markings on the blade. “«The words of one resolved to die – but I am not.»” He hands the blade to Donovan, “«It is yours to study, Dawn-of-man.»”

Frantiska

When Frantiska gets outside she closes the door behind her so fast as to almost slam it and puts her back against the wall breathing heavily, fighting off the slight panic attack at the thought of the lecherous dwarf looking at her in that way. When she sees Hrud, Donovan, and Rant standing over the body of another kobold she immediately snaps out of it. “What are you doing?” she asks incredulously. Then, remembering where she is and what’s going on, she stammers out, “Lyra! You’ve got to help her! There’s a dwarf…he’s, he’s… Can any of you cook?” Her cheeks flush again and she buries her head in her hands, praying to the Maiden of the Moon to protect her against the impure thoughts of men.

Donovan

Donovan accepts the machete, pulls the sheath off the kobold, and straps the blade to his pack. Noticing Frantiska rush out of Jerome’s he looks up worried, knowing a bit about the place’s reputation as a fencing operation and a den for thieves. Hearing her say that Lyra is in trouble he rushes for the door. “What was that? Can we cook?” he looks confused. “Rant said he volunteered at a soup kitchen…” he says as he throws open the door to the store and barges in. Only after opening the door does he stop to think that he is probably no match for anything that could scare Frantiska like that.

GM

“Oh?” Jerome looks at the blankets, eyes wide, then throws the bundle at his half-orc assistant. “Što e ova?” he yells, “T rekov da go zbere koncte advor! Oda da kupa eko čsta one!” The assistant scurries off with the bundle of blankets and returns a few minutes later with some less nice, but more socially acceptable ones. “I’m very sorry M’Lady,” the dwarf says. “Ce Pazuv gets a little confused sometimes. Those others were made special for another client. I’m sure you understand.” He takes the new pile of blankets and carefully sets them aside. “I’m very sorry about the mix-up. We’ll add these to your order free of charge…” He looks at the half-orc again, “Ce Pazuv, Jabolka rbzl, suvo!”

“Yes, we have apples and currants, how much would you like?”

“Of course no one would suspect such a refined young lady of violence.” Jerome slides over next to Lyra as she is examines the bow, close enough that his voice, smooth as silk, comes from right around her waist, “Yes, that one is almost as lovely as you, M’lady. A perfect fit I think.” He steps forward to hand the bow up to her. “Such an elegant lady with such a lovely bow needs special ammunition though…” He flips open one of the cases to reveal a dozen, carefully packed arrows, with silver heads shaped like willow leaves and fletchings of the purest white swan feathers. He carefully lifts one of the arrows out and hands it up to Lyra, “I can even cut you a special dea…”, then starts when he hears Hrud’s gruff voice behind him.

His head snaps around, and up, much to far up, with a look of feigned innocence as if saying, ‘Oh, I’m sorry, is this your woman?!’ He takes an awkward step back from Lyra and the barbarian, then looks Hrud up and down assessingly. Regaining his composure, his broad mercantile smile returns, “Ah. Eraka? Apa Urut saka glathi sampeyan kasengsem?”

Lyra

Idle flattery to sweeten the sale, Lyra thought, but her breath caught as he opened the case. Beautiful craftsmanship. “My skill could scarce do them justice.”

Hrud

Hrud holds his hands roughly a foot apart, approximating the length of a dagger, “Ngalangi agul-agul. Tanpa emas utawa sugih watu. Landhep.”

Frantiska

Frantiska finishes her cigarette. Feeling a little calmer, she over and helps Donovan secure the goods in the wagon. “If you’re watching the wagon, I’ll go make sure that creature is not doing anything to Lyra…” She straitens her shoulders and strides into the store like a general marching to the battlefield.

She walks in, glad to see Hrud there keeping an eye on the girl—he at least seemed to know how to keep his eyes to himself. Seeing the weapons laid out her face softens a bit. “The stave on that bow looks a little long for you Lyra…” she walks over and puts a hand on the girl’s elbow, pushing it up a little, “you’re almost dragging the ground with that one. You want the bow to be about your own height when unstrung, and you’ll want to make sure it is flexible enough for you to bend and string yourself.”

She takes a hard look at the weapons, looking for a bow that would be the best fit for Lyra’s frame, preferably one with sights and an arrow rest since she is a beginner.

GM

Jerome bows to the big barbarian, and hurries back into the back room, returning with two cases full of daggers of all kinds of makes. He lays the cases on the floor next to the bows, flips one open and sits pondering a bit before pulling out a very plain-looking, iron-bladed dirk, “Kene kowe. Kebak-dawa tang, kayu atos nyekethem, unornamented, nanging banget fungsi.”

The dwarf flashes a big, affable smile. “Yen milaur bakal mbeta duwit receh, aku bisa mesthi ngganti mau kanggo sampeyan.”

Frantiska

Frantiska fights the urge to bolt again, knowing that Lyra needs her support in the face of this reprehensible creature, and gingerly accepts the arrow. She pulls out her own longbow, still strung from the recent battle with the orcs, and knocks the arrow making sure it is long enough on the draw. Satisfied, she kneels down and places the arrow in the case. “I will take them,” she says curtly. She pulls her own pouch of gems out, and tosses it through the window. “There are seven-hundred gold worth of gems in there. I will take these arrows, the bow,” she gestures to the bow Lyra is holding, “two of the crossbows, five full quivers each of flight and sheaf arrows, four quarrels of bolts for the crossbows, and a set of targets if you have them. I would like the rest liquidated…” she stops and thinks, eyeing the lecherous merchant coldly, “and keep in mind that one of Tyr’s priests is right outside the door, so please keep your fingers off the scales.”

“Hrud, Aku mundhut panah supaya dienggo bareng. Jangan memberikan kerdil ini lebih banyak uang.”

Hrud

“Mungkin mengko.” Hrud shrugs to the dwarf. Taking the dagger , he turns and heads towards the door.

Donovan

When Hrud comes out, Donovan walks back in—just in time to get the gist of what Frantiska is laying out with her order, and to hear Jerome muttering something about ‘ice queens’ under his breath as he assesses the gems. Donovan walks over to look at the crossbows, then counts out fifteen platinum and passes them through the gate. “We’ll take both heavies, and the hand crossbow, and add a quarrel of darts for the mini to the order as well.”

Hrud

Hrud walks back to the wagon, where Rant is attending both the wagon and the young woman on it. Holding the blade, he extends the dagger towards her. She stares at him uncomprehendingly. Rant interprets his actions, “He wants you to take it.” Hesitantly, she reaches out and grabs hold of the weapon – possibly for the first time in her life. “«It’s expensive to rape an Eraka woman»,” says Hrud, “«Few men are willing to part with their jewels.»”

GM

Jerome accepts the jewels and the coins, grumbling a little in the local Thari dialect, and does a quick tally. “Tse feyerychne kholodna yak lid Donovan, ale u neyi ye khorosha stiyka,” he says looking very pointedly at Frantiska, or rather, at her torso, and smiling, “tak shcho ya shche daty vam znyzhku.” He places the gems in the box, but leaves out the platinum, and begins counting out many more. As he counts he yells to his assistant, “Ce Pazuv, optovaruvaje za v. Dve tešk, od eda straa, lak, šeeset sop, šeeset let, četreset kavg, deset pkado, prooc,” who immediately begins packing arrows into quivers.

Finally the dwarf pushes six neat stacks of ten platinum coins each through the window, “I love a woman who knows exactly what she wants…” he says, smiling and tapping his nose again. “There is your change, in full, and I hope that lovely hand of yours puts those arrows to good flight…”

He locks up the lockbox, the drawer, and the cage, then goes back into the labyrinthine piles of goods and returns with a set of archery targets which he hands to Lyra, “Enjoy your lessons, M’Lady. I hope we see you in here again sometime.”

Lyra

“Thank you. I’m sure your wares will be put to good use.” That didn’t quite come out how Lyra had intended, especially given the quantity of coins and quantity of weapons changing hands. She turns to take the archery targets out to the wagon, but pauses to address Frantiska in the ‘mother tongue’. «And thank you, Frantiska. I’ll need you to show me how to care for it properly, but I’m a quick study. Let me know how much I owe you when we get back to the wagon.»

Frantiska

Frantiska picks up the case of silver arrows. «You don’t owe me anything Lyra. Wealth only has value to the extent that it can be used to help others—though, given the nature of this city, it is in all of our best interests that everyone in our group be capable of holding their own in a fight. If you wish to repay me for the bow, just promise that you will be diligent in your practice.» She tucks the case under one arm, grabs Lyra’s elbow with the other, and quickens her pace for the door. «Now let’s get out of here…»

GM

As you finish loading your stockpile of weapons into the wagon, you notice that Amara and Brother Rant have both disappeared.

View

MAR/2014

Chapter 2: Handle With Care: Part 1

In which the party sees more of the Slums' underbelly and we learn about Lyra's powers...

Lyra

Lyra awoke before dawn, in an unfamiliar, yet quite comfortable bed. She rolled over and pulled the covers up to her ears to escape the stares of Amara’s … companion.

At precisely dawn, a sudden breeze caused the fireplace to gutter slightly.

“Lyrathwen Alethiel Beragaion! Just where were you last night, young lady?”

Lyra stiffened and pulled the covers all the way over her head. This was not how she wanted to start her morning. “I went by the clerk’s office to try to find you, but you had already left for the day, then I accepted the hospitality of the temple to Tyr for helping save one of their priests in the slums. I … I tried.”

The silence was deafening.

“Discreetly?”

Lyra sighed. “Of course, Mother.”

“If you could stay out last night, you can get up this morning. And make the bed, I did not raise you in a stable.”

“Yes, Mother.” Lyra begrudgingly rolled out of the soft, warm bed.

“And your things aren’t going to pick themselves up, young lady. Someone might trip over them.”

“Yes, Mother.” Lyra’s whispers are increasingly exasperated as she finishes gathering up her gear.

“Are you going out dressed like that? Put your cloak on, it’s chilly out.”

Lyra shook out her grey cloak. “Of course I’m going out dressed like this! I didn’t even have any other clothes before Professor Aumry’s prepayment for escorting his niece to Melvaunt….”

“WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY”

“My party was contracted to escort Amara to Melvaunt to visit her sick grandmother, and return with a shipment of spell components.” Oh boy. Not exactly the way Lyra would have liked to break the new.

“Who is going, and when will you be back? Lyrathwen Alethiel Beragaion, you have some explaining to do! Meet me in the park in ten minutes.”

The wind dies down abruptly, as Lyra headed upstairs shortly after daybreak.

Her meeting with her mother was brief. Faelana had about as much love for the Eraka as the minotaur, but the sword of Selune seemed to warrant something close to approval as a traveling companion.

Donovan

There is a scream, followed by a loud thud, and a smaller bang, and the tenement shakes.

With a groan, Donovan sits up, rubbing his rump and trying to get his bearings. The world is dark and blurry. He feels around him and finally locates his glasses. Less blurry, but still dark. He sees that he is in his own apartment, rare as that event is, and that he is on the floor beside his bed, still in his clothes from the day before. He groans again, rises from the floor, the realization that he fell out of bed slowly dawning on him, and tries to remember what he was dreaming. Something about a girl, of course, maybe two or three, and a singing lizard, and a leaning tower, and a bull locked in mortal combat with a big snake, and a man hanging upside down, and a floor covered with glowing runes. Tymora! he thought, he hated surrealism.

Frantiska considers that she might have the requisite skills, but imagines that the barbarian is much more suited to dealing with…cows. She pats Thistledown to reassure herself that being a teamster is not for her.

GM

You reach the gates in short order, and find two long lines of merchants, labors, adventurers, and even a few farmers queued up to leave the city—and almost all of them visibly armed in some fashion. The gates stand open and a double contingent of guards are ushering people through at a good pace, giving only cursory attention to everyone’s papers, as they seem much more concerned with keeping the line moving and keeping the beggars and ruffians from the other side of the wall from coming in.

Donovan

Donovan asks Brother Rant to “Tell Hrud thank you for me.” Then queues up at the gates.

Hrud & GM

«I’m driving a wagon?» Hrud asks Rant.

Donovan looks at the eighteen-foot monstrosity with its extra-wide wheels, How big IS this components shipment? he thinks to himself. “Aye, Ernst, we picked up a couple of outriders to help with the transport.” He walks around the wagon, looking at the wheels, the hitch, peeking underneath, and otherwise trying to look like he knows anything about what he’s looking at—and likely failing. “Is fodder for the oxen included in what the Professor gave you? Or will we have to acquire that on our own?”

GM

Ernst leads Donovan around to the back of the covered wagon. “I want the animals back healthy, so the feeds included in the price. Thereare two bales of alfalfa hay and a bale of hops in there for them. You’ll want to stake them out to graze in the evenings as well. If you want some oats for the horses, I could sell you a couple bushels…”

Hrud & GM

[assuming Rant is still translating, Hrud wants to know how much he charges for the oats for his own horse]

Ernst looks back and forth between the priest and the barbarian, listening to the exchange. “Tell yer friend that I’ll charge ‘im twenty gold for a thirty-two pound bushel of whole oats, bruised fer easier digestion of course, with some linseed added fer extra proteen. That’s about a tenth off the going market rate, and should last ‘im about three days if he’s working the horse, six if the horse is an easy keeper. He’ll probably want a block of salt too, which I can chip off for a silver a pound. One pound will probably cover him for the round trip to Melvaunt and back.” As he talks, he walks around looking at the horses, seems not too impressed by the shaggy steppes pony, but stops and spends a long time staring at Thistledown then looks up at Frantiska. “This one’s almost too young to be ridden, but I guess you elves are light, eh? She’ll make an excellent brood mare in a year or so, if’n you don’t break ’er. How much would you sell ’er fer?”

Hrud barely manages to stifle a gasp. 20 gold pieces – No wonder there are so many beggars here! One would have to go out of their way to starve a horse on the Ride, with its verdant rolling plains. Herds of wild horses thrive there, even through the snowy months … Deciding not to dwell on the matter, Hrud simply nods and turns his attention to the driver’s seat on the wagon.

Frantiska

Frantiska’s face probably mirrors Hrud’s on hearing the price, though less from surprise than the realization that she just gave away her last gold piece to a beggar. Hearing the follow-up comments, her face changes from one of mild depression to cold anger. “She is not for sale, Sir.”

She turns to Lyra and addresses her in the mother tongue, «Lyrathwen, do you know anything about the possibility of forage between here and Melvaunt? Mr. Lietch mentioned some swamps. Is it such the entire way, or only partly?» She stops and thinks for a moment. «Actually, I remember passing along the swamp road to get here. It was not pleasant and took a few days to cross. Do you think this merchant would accept gems as payment? I’m afraid I gave out the last of my coins to those unfortunate’s back there…»

Lyra

Lyra thinks for a moment. «Merchants are usually happy to accept gems, especially if they are getting the better deal for it, or can transact them easily. I could give you change for your gems if you would prefer that option. And Frantiska … that man you gave the gold piece to may very well be murdered in his sleep tonight for it. Stability, not money, is what is needed to save the people of Phlan. Someone or something tried to kill us five times yesterday, just going to that tower and back to the gates, yesterday. It was a very eye-opening first day in town.»

Frantiska

Frantiska turns back to the liverer, pulling a large white amethyst from her pouch. “Here,” she says handing it to him, “I would like two bushels of oats for the horses, and a large salt-block to share between the animals.”

Without another word, she turns back to Lyra. «I saw some of that—kobold horse-thieves, animate skeletons, a gate to the nether-world, an oni, and a forest linnorm—all not more than two blocks from this very location. If it is this bad this close to the city, with such a strong Tyrran presence, I hate to imagine what it is like elsewhere in the ruins. Were it not for the pour souls unable to find shelter within the city walls, I would suggest that the Council just burn this shanty-town to the ground.» She looks around at the squatters huts and the rubble. «From the generosity that I saw at the temple, if we were to make a concerted effort to root out the more dangerous monsters and criminal elements, I’m sure the priests could do much to improve the lives of these people. Sadly though, even if bearing coin puts them at risk, I am sure these people need to eat, and in a town controlled by merchants, that means that they need money.»

GM

Ernst looks at the gem. “Aye…M’lady. I’ll get that for you right away,” he says, turning and heading towards a storage building inside the paddock.

“Are we about ready to leave then?” asks Brother Rant, lifting Amara up into the front wagon.

“Yeah, who’s riding where?” Teldicia interjects, walking back to where Donovan is peaking under the keel. “If the barbarian is driving, will someone need to be riding his horse? Or should we tie it up and let it just follow behind?”

Hrud

Hrud, wearing pretty much all of his gear at this point, walks his horse to the rear of the wagon, where he loosely ties the reigns. «Since we raise them from birth, Eraka horses will follow their owners of their own accord. But I will keep him tied until we are out of the city»

Donovan

Donovan waits until Ernst has loaded the fodder for the horses in the back, then climbs up onto the driver’s bench, making sure to leave plenty of room for the barbarian. He looks at Amara behind him, and around the rest of the wagon. “Looks like there is plenty of room for all of us up here. Hrud’s driving. I’ll navigate since I know the area best. Frantiska, you’re riding, correct? Lyra, Amara, and Teldicia can ride in the covered section. Brother Rant, would you mind riding in the back and keeping a rear watch?”

As everyone gets in, he points to the left. “We should head towards the market first, to make sure we have food for ourselves, camping gear, and probably a tarp to string up to keep the animals dry when we camp. Then swing out to the west and circle north. There is a bridge north of the old textiles district—it’s a little close to the older ruins for comfort, but the alternatives are either going strait through the ruins to the east, or trying to ford the Stojanow. Lyra, do you mind handling the shopping, or would you like me to? We should make sure two or three of us stay with the wagon to make sure the whole thing doesn’t get stolen.”

Lyra

Lyra nods. “I can handle that. What all do we need?”

Donovan

Donovan stops to consider, “Well, we’ll need food for the seven of us for three days, four or five to be safe. Sleeping gear—though, if people don’t mind being too cozy we can sleep in the wagon, in which case just blankets, otherwise sleeping bags for those that don’t have them and at least one tent since it looks like rain. A large tarpaulin to cover the animals, especially their food, if it rains at night. I have a lantern, but we should probably have a second, plus three to four nights worth of oil. Flint, tinder, and firewood so we can have a hot meal and don’t have to camp in the dark…” He stops and looks at the others. “Feel free to chime in if you think of something else we’d need for a three day trip through a swamp, or if you already have any of the such, so we can mark it off the list…”

“Oh, and you should probably take Amara along and see if you can help her find those candle or whatever she wanted to take for her grandmother.”

Lyra

Lyra nods and commits the list to memory. “Mother knows a few of the shelter spells, so I’m not really used to ‘camping’ in the traditional sense.”

Frantiska

Frantiska turns Thistledown in the direction Donovan indicated, keeping the longsword Teldicia had given her layed across the pommel of her saddle as a warning to would-be thieves. “Lyra, do you know what sort of market this is? I can’t imagine it being particularly legitimate, being in this ghetto. If it is an open-air market I should be able to follow on Thistledown to provide you and Amara with some security.”

Hrud

«Can one fish in a swamp?» Hrud asks. «or hunt?»

GM

«Sure,» Brother Rant replies, «the knights of Iniarv’s tower largely feed themselves on the swamp’s bounty. Of course, it depends on what you prefer to eat. There are a lot of frogs, muskrats, beaver, raccoons, pope dear, furbears, though I think the tower-folk mostly hunt the big reptiles.» Once Amara is secure under the canopy, he climbs up in the back and calls up to Donovan, “If you’re planning provisions, we should be able to press upon the hospitality of the Helmites at Iniarv’s Hold for at least one meal.”

Donovan

“Hunting and stopping at the tower both sound like good ideas, but we’ll still need some amount of provisions.” Donovan looks around to make sure everyone is aboard. “Alright, this ain’t no hayride. Let’s move ’em out of here!”

GM

The road south from the livery to the market is much wider, and, more importantly cleaner than the road running from the gates. While the road is largely clear of debris, corpses, and human waste, it is packed with people, making travel along the route very slow indeed. The crowd, for the most part, appears to be people just going about fairly normal lives—peasant women carrying baskets with babies or groceries, merchants hawking their wares, urchins running about, a farmer driving a herd of pigs to market, beggars and panhandlers asking for handouts—though the term people is used very broadly, as you see goblins, orcs, and even gnolls freely mixing with the human residents. More sinister undertones are obvious, however—you see small armed groups (mostly goblins and orcs) walking about, occasionally stopping at various merchants stalls where bribes are hastily handed over, you hear the sounds of weapons clashing and the occasional scream from side alleys, you pass collapsed buildings, both ancient and recent, and even have to stop at one point while a couple of dead adventurer-types are dragged out of the road in front of you.

Judging by the accumulation of flies and the lack of valuables, it looks as if the bodies had been lying there for several hours. The creatures that pulled them out of the road are best described as ‘whats’—vaguely humanoid, they wear billowing, thread-bare robes which do little to hide their misshapeness. One has a severe hunchback, which helps to keep his face hidden in the folds of the robes, but his exposed feet are grotesque, the left is tiny and turned inward, like a child with a club-foot, the right looks like a bird’s talon affected by a severe pox, his hands are wrapped in strips of rag. The second’s head is uncovered, revealing a horrible, bloated mismatch of parts—one ear pointed elf-like, the other large and fan-shaped, a large porcine nose, differently sized eyes of a color that resembles urine, the vestiges of a third eye slightly off-center in the forehead, a mouth filled with bleeding gums and smattering of oddly-angled teeth, and a few loose strands of straw-coloured hair over a lumpy cranium.

Once the bodies are cleared, the two creatures both bow deeply, the better to hide their faces, and hold out chipped wooden bowls to you, as if expecting some recompense for the service.

Frantiska

Frantiska rides along slowly, torn between fascination at the ancient ruins around her and a kind of enraged horror at the violence of the city. For a time she scans the crowds, detecting evil, then gives up when she realizes how truly despicable the population of this ghetto really are. She guides Thistledown closer to the wagon and leans down to be heard by those within, “I hear screaming. Should we help?”

Donovan

Donovan

“Crowds…right,” Donovan fumbles in his bag for a pinch of sand and flings it into the building, casting a sleep spell at the orcs.

Seeing the bloody and battered girl materialize beside him, he then reaches into his backpack for the rod of health.

Hrud

Hrud rushes in, making a bee line for the nearest Orc.

GM

Frantiska’s first, clumsy, instinctive shot buries itself into the orc’s exposed ass-cheek, causing the creature to jerk and then fall forward as the girl vanishes out from under him. All the orcs begin to yawn as Hrud rushes in, swinging wildly. Hrud strikes mightily, but finds the orcs falling before his blows get close enough to connect, as the three closest to the floor collapse, asleep. As the remaining orcs spin around, the room is lit up by Frantiska’s second arrow, crackling with electricity, striking the still dazed and confused orc rapist in the back. There is a small explosion, a spray of sparks and viscera, and the orc is left lying where it fell, a smoking hole the size of its head where its chest cavity was a moment before.

The four orcs still standing look confusedly at their prey standing outside and surrounded by armed, spellcasting ruffians, rather than lying on the ground where they expect her to be, then at their friends lying suddenly unconscious, apparently struck down just by the wind coming off the mighty barbarian’s blade, then at the smoking hole that is their leader’s torso, then at the face, and the bow of the enraged elf-woman standing in the doorway. Looks of unbridled terror cross their faces. They ignore the weapons lying about and make mad, scrambling dives to take cover behind the various barrels and crates filling the warehouse.

Donovan

Pulling out the rod, Donovan rushes to help Lyra catch the girl as she falls out of space. “Nice trick that…” he says, pressing the hand end of the rod lightly to the girls skin and willing it to bring forth its curative powers.

Lyra

Once the girl has her footing after being unexpectedly upright again, Lyra digs in her backpack and wraps a blanket around the girl. What could she possibly say to her? That she’s safe? Was anywhere in the slums safe? That it would be ok? Would it be ever again for her?

Lyra shakily puts her hand on the wall again, this time bracing herself against the oncoming headache.

Frantiska

Frantiska knocks another arrow to her bow, “Donovan,” she says, “when we get back we are definitely cleaning this place out. I’ll go door to door if I have to…” and fires again, and again, at the panicking orcs.

Hrud

Hrud stalks the nearest conscious Orc, determined to feel his blade bite deep this time.

GM

The girl collapses into Lyra and Donovan’s arms and promptly passes out from blood-loss. Even with the swiftly applied healing, it looks as if she may never find her footing again, judging from the awkward angle that her left knee has taken—though you might be able to set that…you think. While she seems stable, she appears to have several broken bones and…other injuries which may never heal.

As you all concentrate on the girl’s health, the orcs dash for cover. Unable to find another exit from the building, one orc actually runs shoulder-first into one of the crumbling brick walls with enough force to shake the building slightly. While he seems dazed, the hole he creates is large enough for one of his friends to start climbing through…only to be nailed in the back by Frantiska’s first shot, causing him to go limp, effectively blocking that mode of egress.

Hrud’s swing narrowly misses the third orc, maybe even grazes it’s heel, as it dives headfirst over a pile of crates, screaming “Pooš!”

The last orc, seeing no other recourse, scrambles for the pile of weapons, coming back to his feet with a strange, green-bladed, basket-hilted, broadsword in his hand. He glares at Hrud and strikes an en garde, then staggers backwards a step as Frantiska’s second arrow takes him in the left shoulder, right through the iron-studded jerkin he is wearing. Growling he snaps off the arrow and looks ready to charge the door.

Lyra

Lyra picks up the girl as best she can. “We should get her back to Brother Rant. Maybe he can … augh, my head.” Lyra shakes her head, eyes squeezed tightly shut. Which really only makes things worse. “If we get her back to the wagon, I have spare clothes, and Brother Rant might be able to assist with some of these injuries.”

Donovan

Donovan looks at Lyra, “You’ve done that a few times now…How far can you go? Can you get yourself and the girl to the wagon so Brother Rant can administer to her?”

GM

Brother Rant looks up from where he has just finished popping the girl’s hip-joint back into place. Hearing Hrud’s account and seeing the sword, he glares daggers at the orc, asks Teldicia to watch the girl, and climbs out of the wagon. «The sword is the mark of Xvim and the Church of Darkness. I did not think Mace and his crew would act so openly.» He pulls the mace off of his back. “Što e vašeto e ork?”

The orc, between piteous wails and attempts to dislodge his hand replies “Ebam TvoJot čerep!”

Rant then speaks loudly, drawing the attention of the passers-by.

“Ebam TvoJot čerep. Ste ble obvet za krvčo delo sluvaje, kako sle zakosk, baterJa protv ovaa devoJka, služ a teata volJa a Xvim, Sot a surovosta. Od svedočejeto a ove svedoc dokaz što se gleda tuka, ve ste se aJde va vo očte a Sovetot, a Tyr, a Zakoot. Kako sudJa Tyr, Jas ḱe rečeca da eposreda srt. Kako Tyr Zakoot se edo, eka bde taka.”

He then translates into the Common tongue.

“Orc. You have been accused of the crime of rape, both forceful and statutory, and battery against this girl, and serving the dark will of Xvim, the Son of Cruelty. By the testimony of these witnesses and the evidence seen here, you are found guilt in the eyes of the Council, of Tyr, and of the Law. As Tyr’s judge, I sentence you to immediate death. As Tyr and the Law are one, let it be so.”

And the local language.

“Cherep Ublyudok. Vy buly zvynuvacheni u zlochyni z·hvaltuvannya, yak sylʹnyy i zakonom, i batareya proty tsiyeyi divchyny, i sluzhachy temnu volyu Zvima, Syna zhorstokosti. Za svidchennyam tsykh svidkiv i dokaziv bachyly tut, vy znayshly provynu v ochakh Rady, Tir, ta Zakonu. Yak suddi Tir, ya zasudyty vas do nehaynoyi smerti. Yak Tir i Zakon odyn, nekhay bude tak.”

And again for Hrud’s benefit.

“Kéwan. Sampeyan wis dipuntudhuh saka angkara saka rudo pekso, loro kuwat lan kukumipun, lan baterei iki marang prawan, lan porsi bakal peteng Xvim, Putraning kekejeman. Miturut paseksiné iki saksi, lan bukti katon kene, sampeyan ditemokaké kaluputan ing mripate Dhéwan, saka Tyr lan Hukum. Minangka Tyr kang ngadili, aku ukara sampeyan langsung mati. Minangka Tyr lan Hukum iku siji, supaya iku dadi.”

He grips his mace in both hands and brings it down full-force right onto the orc’s head with a sickening crunch.

“Let all who bear witness know that Tyr’s law has been done.” He breaks the arrow off, allowing the orc’s body to fall to the street.

Hrud

Having stopped to witness the execution before rounding the corner, Hrud gives Rant a nod before setting off. The elf woman would have liked to have seen that, he thinks.

Hrud then makes his way back to the others.

Donovan

Donovan seems dazed and sits rubbing at his head for a while before finally getting up off his ass. “At least we’re getting better at this whole killing things thing,” he says to no-one in particular, as he watches Frantiska and Hrud dispose of the orcs. He hauls himself up and starts systematically removing valuables from the orcs. Given the interesting swords, he casts detect magic just for good measure.

Lyra

At the sight of the pile of trinkets being gathered up, Lyra turns and retches, the full force of what just happened hitting her. She leans with her forearm against the wall, the other hand holding her skirt and cloak out of the way, her shoulders shaking until there is nothing left but dry heaves and sobs.

Lyra coughs and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and stands back up. She half smooths her skirt and carefully rearranges her cloak to re-conceal the soft glow around her. “The swords mark them as favored of the temple of Xvim. As for the green…. Huh.” Lyra looks both confused and deeply concerned. “The alloy is from the plane of Baator, and particularly effective against extraplanar creatures, especially the Tanar’ri.”

Donovan

Donovan looks at the green swords carefully, “Carrying these would probably give us a good amount of clout with the tribes in the old city, but might get us arrested, or at least questioned, in New Phlan—Xvim not being particularly popular with the Tyrran-led government. Still, these are good weapons and might be pretty useful if we ever have to deal with the Xvimlar or the orc tribes…or if we run into demons. Matteo the Smith does some lacquer work and his shop is just on the other side of the market here. Maybe he could give the guards a coat of paint to make them less obvious religious icons. Even if he can’t I think we should hang on to these.”

“There are plenty of undead beasts and similar monsters that they say can only be harmed by enchanted weapons, so it’s probably worthwhile for us all to have one.” He picks one up and makes a clumsy swing with it. "I never really learned to fence, but ‘stick them with the pointy end’ seems easy enough. Frantiska has Sir Guy’s Spoon [love the Price of Thieves reference], so you should probably grab the other one, Lyra.

“Lyra,” he says, “you have a remarkable gift. I can understand why you would want to keep it secret—especially given how useful it would be for escaping capture or imprisonment. I promise not to speak of it openly…and I’m very glad to have you on our side.” He stops and thinks for a moment, trying to ignore the growing pain behind his eyes. “You’re the one who got your mother and yourself onto the boat, aren’t you?” He smiles, “I thought your mother’s explanation for how you got there sounded a little off. She can’t teleport on her own, can she?”

Lyra

“Gift?” Lyra scoffs. “My mother wanted me to grow up to be a powerful mage like her. My ‘gift’ ruined that.” Lyra sighs. “This is the only time the matter will be up for discussion. A natural telepath, untrained in defending oneself, is a very dangerous thing to be, so she grudgingly allowed me to hone my skills. The headaches. I don’t think they were caused by Frantiska. Mother may have done something to … discourage … any further public display of my abilities. It is my understanding that my way is both easier and more precise than the more traditional magical teleportation. And with a moving target, precision is everything. Look through Mother’s eyes as she scries the vessel, calculate the necessary adjustments for speed, acceleration and direction, and just … go. We made it to Phlan from Waterdeep in less than a week. Partly Mother, partly me. I haven’t pressed her for why we left in such a hurry, but she burned most of her research before doing so. She’s trying to protect me from something, and I don’t know what. But if she thinks here of all places is safer for us than back in Waterdeep….”

Donovan

“Lyra,” Donovan looks at her with narrowed eyes, “no offense, but if these headaches are your mother’s doing, I may have to turn her over my knee at some point.” He gathers up the rest of the weapons, armor, and other loot, using one of the orc’s cloaks as a makeshift bindle. “Frantiska, can you and Hrud grab a corner here.”

“Also, did you say you can see through your mother’s eyes? What else can you do?”

Frantiska

Hearing Brother Rant’s voice carrying [it sounded like we’re only a block away or so, right?] Frantiska steps out of the building to listen to his pronouncement, pleased both that justice is being done and at his impressive linguistic skills, Maybe I can pick his brain as we journey, she thinks. Teh deed done, she walks back in and looks distastefully at the swords—only a Xvimlar would mass produce magic weapons and then give them to orcs. “Mr. Leitch, much as I hate the look of these things, your reasoning is sound. Better that you should take them than for them to end up in the hands of other creatures such as these.” She leans down and grabs the other side of the tarp. “What do you intend to do with the rest of this? There are enough weapons and armor here to start a small army.”

Hrud

As the group carries the load back to the wagon, he slides the leather curiass and spears over to his side and makes a mental note to retrieve the sword he left at the wagon.

Lyra

Lyra distastefully picks up the last green sword, and gives it an awkward swing. “Wasn’t there something about a broadsword course at the training hall? We might want to look into that when we get back.”

She speaks softly, as if not wishing to be overheard. “As for what I can do, some you’ve seen firsthand. Telepathic two-way conversation, which is how I arranged for us to speak with Professor Aumry. Traveling hundreds of miles while sleeping to awaken somewhere else. Displacing myself in time, which really isn’t as interesting as I thought it would be. With animals and a wagon there’s really nothing I could do to expedite our journey, although without those, and with the liberty to operate openly, dream travel would have had us all there in Melvaunt in time for breakfast.”

View

MAR/2014

Chapter 1: Arriving in New Phlan: Part 12

In which the day finally wraps up, curses are removed, and everyone gets some rest.

Donovan

Donovan walks down to the docks. He wanders the street a bit before coming to a tall, wooden tenement, perched on what was a pier only three months ago, but now a good hundred feet from the water. He walks around to the back of the building, fumbling in his pockets for a key, and ascends a rickety staircase. The building was not the most sturdy-looking, little better than some of the buildings in the Slums, but at least it was inside the walls, and it was home.

He stops at a door at the top of the third flight of steps when he hears a shout from below him. “Oi! Don!” He looks down to see a short, scrawny, rat-faced man with a bad comb-over glaring up at him. “When did you get back Don? I haven’t seen you in a month and your rent’s due. Another day and I was ready to rent your room out to another letter.”

Donovan groans, rubs his temples, and fishes two platinum coins out of the pouch Aumry gave him. “Here Stan,” he drops the coins down into the man’s outstretched hand. “That should pay me up in full and for next month two. I’m leaving again in the morning and probably won’t be back for another couple of weeks…” He leaves the man to the coins and turns and opens the door. He stumbles into the small, one-room apartment and locks the door behind him. Still groaning and rubbing at his head, he drops his bags right inside the door and goes to relieve himself into a pot in the far corner. After a long pee, he walks over and props the small window open with a stick to let in the air and dumps the pot out the window…hoping that his landlord is still down there. He goes and collapses onto his bed and is soon snoring away.

Lyra

Lyra’s shoulders slump as she thinks for a moment. “An air drake, a magma silt horror, and a cistern fiend should all be big enough that someone would notice. An eater of knowledge still big, but less big than the other three. Killing any of those would be highly problematic, especially with just us. There’s a good chance any one of those could destroy most of the town before anyone could do much about it. Of course, a telepath strong enough to keep the field going this long is also likely to be problematic. If it’s a device … that would probably be easiest to triangulate the location of, but otherwise I’m not sure I’d know what to look for.”

Frantiska

Frantiska puffs on her cigarette and looks incredulous, “So we don’t actually know anything.” She begins unhitching Thistledown, “In which case, there is nothing we can do for the moment. Let’s hope that your instincts about this a wrong. Maybe it’s just the strain of the day, or the smell of the water here getting to us all. I suggest we take Donovan’s advice and get a good meal and some sleep…” She looks bemusedly around at the unfamiliar city, “Any guesses where we could find such?”

Lyra

“Calling it ‘water’ seems charitable….” Lyra looks around to orient herself. “We ate at the Cracked Crown earlier today, but some of the sisters from the temple of Tyr are planning to be at The Bitter Blade tonight. Playing cards with the grocer, apparently. As for lodging, I’m not entirely sure. Mother is staying … somewhere. I could stay at the temple; they offered hospitality for saving Brother Rant earlier today.”

Frantiska

Frantiska looks at Hrud, “We’ll need to keep and eye on him. You said you knew a priest that has had dealings with his tribe. Let’s start there.”

“Hrud, kita akan menemukan sebuah penginapan di mana kita bisa makan dan tinggal untuk malam.”

Lyra

“I don’t know the word for Orcs in any equivalent language…” she admits quietly to Lyra.

Hrud

Realizing that no one seems to care much about the attacks, or interested in doing anything about it, Hrud grudgingly puts his sword away.

“Wong ing kutha iku edan” he mutters.

Winona

Winona closes her eyes tightly and shakes her head a little, “Ugh.” She suddenly notices that Lyra and her companions are also acting strange. “Did you bring some sort of headache monster with you dearie?”

Lyra

“Half the monsters I know of that can do this are forty feet long, and none under nine. I think we would have noticed by now…. " Lyra trails off and rubs her eyes again.

Winona

Winona groans, turns, and opens the door back into the temple. “Sorry dears, I’m suddenly not feeling well so I’m out tonight.” She motions for Lyra and the others to follow her as she heads inside. “We should get one of the senior priests to look at you, there are a number of contagious maladies which could cause pains like this…”

Lyra

Lyra follows Sister Winona inside the temple. “I was fine until I met up with Mr. Donovan. And you were fine before meeting up with us, correct?” Lyra frowns and looks over at Frantiska. “Did anything … unusual … happen while you were outside of town, and when did your headaches start?”

Frantiska

Beyond the double-doors, is the chapel or sanctuary, which is arrayed like a court-room, with several rows of uncomfortable looking hardwood seats flanking a single aisle. At the back, where the chancel would be in a normal church, is a large, curved bench, with high-backed seats for five judges (priests) behind it. The middle seat, belonging to the Bishop, appears to be carved from gold. In front of the judges’ bench, is an elevated, cage-like witness-box, flanked by two tables. Over the witness-box, floating in mid-air, is an over-sized, silver-inlaid hammer, which glows with a brilliant blue-white radiance providing the only light in the room. In the apse, behind the judges’ seats, is a large white statue of an old soldier in full armor, his eyes bound to indicate blindness, his left hand holding a set of scales aloft, and his right hand stuck into the mouth of a slavering wolf. The south transept has a table with scribe’s implements laid out on it. This being an affluent temple, the north transept is filled with a massive pipe-organ. No other statuary, art, or ornamentation can be seen anywhere in the place.

Currently, through the opened narthex doors, you see some forty or fifty people, a mix of white-robed novices, heavily armored priests, and well-dressed city folk, seated in the pews chanting the evening prayers—the judges’ seats are currently empty. Occasionally, one of the petitioners will rise and go to stand in the witness box, the hammer flashing brightly as he or she confesses his transgressions in front of the assembled congregation. The reek of incense hangs in the air, but you see no censers or braziers currently being used, and the organ stands silent.

“Thank you Miss Lyra, I am feeling much better.” Brother Rant looks Frantiska up and down, then looks at the pile of hats. “That is quite the affliction you have there. I’m afraid I don’t know much about magically replicating headwear.”

He then turns to Hrud and gives an odd gesture, swinging both arms wide and bumping his two fists together, “Rahayu sore, Hrud saka Eraka. Aku Bengak-Bengok Harmel, imam saka Tyr ing Cukup, diadopsi saka Angin-Jaran kulawarga,” he says in perfectly accented Erakic, “Sami-sami kita kutha. Apa Panjenengan klan?”

Hrud

Fascinated by the architecture and stonework, Hrud pulls his gaze away from the temple and returns the gesture.

“Rahayu sore. Aku ing ‘dawa kulo’ klan, lan pangarep-arep kanggo bakal bali sedina. Aku nggoleki jawaban saka dewa lan ora bisa bali aku duwe nganti mau.”

Frantiska

Frantiska pulls another hat off her head and rubs her forehead aggressively with her other hand. “The hats seem to be a manifestation of a curse that was placed on me by a kobold in the ruins,” she says, answering Brother Rant’s comment, but clearly talking to Lyra and Winona. “Is there anyone in the temple who might be skilled at curse removal?”

Winona

Winona stops to think, finding it much harder to do as the throbbing in her head increases, “Sister Theymr is able to remove curses. Let’s take you down to the dormitories and see if she can help…”

Hrud

This was the elf woman’s. It must have gotten kicked out of the way. Moments pass as he contemplates what to do with it. Give it back to Frantiska? She seemed to have quiet a few of them, and didn’t really seem happy about it. Would she mind if Hrud took it? On The Ride, when things were left on the plain, it was assumed their owner didn’t want them anymore, else they would have taken better care of it.

The Eraka didn’t have much use for headgear, outside of ceremonial headdresses or the odd helmet – often incorporating bits taken from a notable kill. This hat didn’t look like it had any religious significance, and it certainly wouldn’t do anything to keep his skull from being split. Hrud wondered if it would be worth anything.

Looking at the food in his left hand and the sack of plundered weapons at his feet. Hrud needed a free hand. He raised the hat to his head … Nah, he just couldn’t see himself wearing it. His fellow Eraka would mock him mercilessly (well, /more/ mercilessly than normal) if they saw him wearing such a thing. Into the bag it went.

Making way out of the temple, Hrud tried to stay close to any walls or buildings facing the river as he made his way (again, following his nose) to the docks. The barbarian had encountered several small village ports along the rivers that fed The Ride. The docks of Phlan smelled like all of them put together. The occasional click of an arrow hitting stone or thunking into wood told him the orcs were still across the river, but in the deepening twilight, it was obvious they were firing blindly.

Rounding a corner, Hrud found a number of storefronts. Many of them were dark, one sounded like a tavern, and there, on the end, what he hoped was the trader that Brother Rant had spoken of. Entering the store, he found a sour-faced man sitting behind a counter counting money – or he had been, until an unexpected visitor had him hastily shoving the coins into a box and down behind the counter.

The man asked Hrud a question – probably wanted to know what he wanted, despite not understanding the words. The barbarian walked to the counter and upended his bedroll.

GM

The man behind the counter, looking more than a little terrified, eyes the pile of weapons that has been dumped in front of him. Though the large man’s intent seems obvious the man looks bewildered as he waves a hand towards the case of, now slightly less than fresh, fish still remaining of his day’s wares. He babbles out something, then, seeing the lack of recognition on the big man’s face, sighs. He pulls a dozen silver coins from a pouch at his waist, not touching the box behind the counter, and lays them on the counter, pushing them gingerly towards the barbarian.

Hrud

Careful not to betray his excitement at making the most money on a sale that he’s ever made, Hrud scoops the coins into his pouch, rolls up his bedroll and makes his way back to the temple. Hrud wonders, as yet another arrow clatters above him in the night, maybe it’s possible to make a living at killing evil creatures and selling their belongings …

Lyra will give Susalia a slight nod of greeting, and collect the books before setting her backpack and the box down next to the rest of her things.

GM

Theymr and another novice begin tossing the remaining hats in the fireplace. About 10 minutes later, Sister Sarah and Sister Flax return carrying two large trays, one piled with meats, cheeses, bread, and fruits, the other bearing four large pitchers of wine. They set them on the table and begin spreading tablecloths and laying out some dozen or so place-settings from a cupboard at the end of the room. Perhaps more important than the food, by the time they return your collective headaches are starting to feel much better.

Winona

Winona’s head is starting to feel better, but she figures a stiff drink or two won’t hurt. When Sarah and Flax are finished, she sits down at the table and immediately pours herself a glass of wine, downing it in one gulp. She adjusts her glasses and watches the other sisters begin making their way in for dinner. “Lyra, Franny, come have a seat. No sense going to sleep on an empty stomach.”

Frantiska

Frantiska breathes a sigh of relief when the hat is removed. She sits a few minutes longer until the headache has subsided, then walks over to where Lyra is sitting. “Miss Beragaion, may I leave my things here? I want to go check on Thistledown before turning in for the night.” She sets her bow, quiver, pick-axe, and bag on the bed next to Lyra’s. Before heading upstairs, she checks the edge on the sword belted to her shin, but prays she won’t need it until after she has had a nice long sleep.

Lyra

Lyra looks up at Frantiska. “That’s fine. Watch out for stray arrows while you’re outside.”

Sitting on the bed, she rubs her temples and looks over at the sleeping Amara and closes her eyes. For a moment, she almost seems to have fallen asleep herself.

Frantiska

Frantiska heads outside, pausing briefly to ask one of the akolytes for directions to the stables. She passes Hrud and Rant on their way back to the temple, giving them a polite nod, but does not pause in her mission. When she reaches the stables, she makes a bee-line for Thistledown, smiles appreciatively at the care that has been taken with the horse’s grooming, feeding, and security, then throws her arms around the filly’s neck. “Did we do the right thing in coming here?” she whispers.

Lyra

After a few minutes, Lyra snaps back to her senses with a small jerk, looking around the room. She rubs here eyes, stretches, and takes a place at the table, heaping a plate with meat, cheese, and fruit with a small portion of bread. As an afterthought, she pours a glass of wine. It’s been a long day.

View

FEB/2014

Campaign Theory: Hygiene

Reposted from the "The World of Tel-Avi" campaign

With special thanks to Bill Bryson

Bathing

Europeans, historically, were always curiously ill at ease with cleanliness and early on developed an odd tradition of equating holiness with dirtiness. When St Thomas à Becket died in 1170, those who laid him out noted approvingly that his undergarments were ‘seething with lice’. Throughout the medieval period, an almost sure-fire way to earn lasting honour was to take a vow not to wash. Many people walked from England to the Holy Land, but when a monk named Godric did it without getting wet even once he became, all but inevitably, St Godric.

Then in the Middle Ages the spread of plague made people consider more closely their attitude to hygiene and what they might do to modify their own susceptibility to outbreaks. Unfortunately, people everywhere came to exactly the wrong conclusion. All the best minds agreed that bathing opened the epidermal pores and encouraged deathly vapours to invade the body. The best policy was to plug the pores with dirt. For the next six hundred years (until the mid 19th century) most people didn’t wash, or even get wet, if they could help it – and in consequence they paid an uncomfortable price. Infections became part of everyday life. Boils grew commonplace. Rashes and blotches were routine. Nearly everyone itched nearly all the time. Discomfort was constant, serious illness accepted with resignation.

Devastating diseases arose, killed millions and then, often, mysteriously vanished. The most notorious was plague, but there were many others. The English sweating sickness, a disease about which we still know almost nothing, had epidemics in 1485, 1508, 1517 and 1528, killing thousands as it went, before disappearing, never to return (or at least not yet). It was followed in the 1550s by another strange fever, “the new sickness”, which “raged horribly throughout the realm and killed an exceeding great number of all sorts of men, but especially gentlemen and men of great wealth”, as one contemporary noted. In between and sometimes alongside were outbreaks of ergotism, which came from a fungal infection of rye grain. People who ingested poisoned grain suffered delirium, seizures, fever, loss of consciousness and eventually, in many cases, death. A curious aspect of ergotism is that it came with a cough very like a dog’s bark, which is thought to be the source of the expression ‘barking mad’.

Clearly not all of these dreadful maladies were directly related to washing, but people didn’t necessarily know that or even care. Although everyone knew that syphilis was spread through sexual contact, which could of course take place anywhere, it became indelibly associated with bathhouses. Prostitutes generally were banned from coming within a hundred paces of a bathhouse and eventually Europe’s bathhouses were closed altogether. With the bathhouses gone, most people got out of the habit of washing – not that many of them were entirely in it to begin with. Washing wasn’t unknown, just a little selective. “Wash your hands often, your feet seldom, and your head never” was a common English proverb. Queen Elizabeth, in a much-cited quote, faithfully bathed once a month “whether she needs it or no”. In 1653, John Evelyn, the diarist, noted a tentative decision to wash his hair annually. Robert Hooke, the scientist, washed his feet often (because he found it soothing), but appears not to have spent much time damp above the ankles. Samuel Pepys mentions his wife’s bathing only once in the diary he kept for nine and a half years. In France, King Louis XIII went unbathed until almost his seventh birthday, in 1608.

By the time Europeans began to visit the New World in large numbers they had grown so habitually malodorous that the Indians nearly always remarked at how bad they smelled. Nothing, however, bemused the Indians more than the European habit of blowing their noses into a fine handkerchief, folding it carefully and placing it back in their pockets as if it were a treasured memento.

There is no doubt that some standards of cleanliness were expected. When an observer of the court of King James I noted that the king never went near water except to daub his fingertips with a moist napkin, he was writing in a tone of disgust. And it is notable that people who were really grubby were generally famous for it, among whom we might include the eleventh Duke of Norfolk, who was so violently opposed to soap and water that his servants had to wait till he was dead drunk to scrub him clean; Thomas Paine, the pamphleteer, whose surface was an uninterrupted accretion of dirt; and even the refined James Boswell, whose body odour was a wonder to many in an age when that was assuredly saying something. But even Boswell was left in awe by his contemporary the Marquis d’Argens, who wore the same undershirt for so many years that when at last he was persuaded to take it off, it had so fixed itself upon him ‘that pieces of his skin came away with it’. For some, however, filthiness became a kind of boast. The aristocratic Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, who was one of the first great female travellers, was so grubby that after shaking her hand a new acquaintance blurted out in amazement how dirty. ‘What would you say if you saw my feet?’ Lady Mary responded brightly. Many people grew so unused to being exposed to water in quantity that the very prospect of it left them genuinely fearful. When Henry Drinker, a prominent Philadelphian, installed a shower in his garden as late as 1798, his wife Elizabeth put off trying it out for over a year, “not having been wett all over at once, for 28 years past”, she explained.

By the eighteenth century the most reliable way to get a bath was to be insane. Then they could hardly soak you enough. In 1701 Sir John Floyer began to make a case for cold bathing as a cure for any number of maladies. His theory was that plunging a body into chilly water produced a sensation of ‘Terror and Surprize’ which invigorated dulled and jaded senses.

Benjamin Franklin tried another tack. During his years in London, he developed the custom of taking “air baths”, basking naked in front of an open upstairs window. This can’t have got him any cleaner, but it seems to have done him no harm and it must at least have given the neighbours something to talk about. Also strangely popular was “dry washing” – rubbing oneself with a brush to open the pores and possibly dislodge lice. Many people believed that linen had special qualities that absorbed dirt from the skin. As Katherine Ashenburg has put it, “they ‘washed’ by changing their shirts”. Most, however, fought dirt and odour by either covering it with cosmetics and perfumes or just ignoring it. Where everyone stinks no one stinks.

What really got the Victorians to turn to bathing, however, was the realization that it could be gloriously punishing. The Victorians had a kind of instinct for self-torment, and water became a perfect way to make that manifest. Many diaries record how people had to break the ice in their washbasins in order to ablute in the morning, and the Reverend Francis Kilvert noted with pleasure how jagged ice clung to the side of his bath and pricked his skin as he merrily bathed on Christmas morning in 1870. Showers, too, offered great scope for punishment, and were often designed to be as powerful as possible. One early type of shower was so ferocious that users had to don protective headgear before stepping in lest they be beaten senseless by their own plumbing.

Assuming that most fantasy games are set in the equivalent of the Pre-Victorian era (since Victorian is usually associated with “Steam Punk”), it should be assumed that standards of cleanliness similar to those above were followed. Asking for a “Hot Bath” to be drawn when staying at an inn should be a completely alien concept to most characters (indeed very few homes, let alone an inn should have anything resembling bathing facilities). PCs that insist on dousing or submerging themselves in water on a regular basis are likely viewed as insane by their neighbors and should be treated as such.

Toilets

The English for a long time were particularly noted for their unconcern about lavatorial privacy. Giacomo Casanova, the Italian adventurer, remarked on a visit to London how frequently he saw someone “ease his sluices” in full public view along roadsides or against buildings. Pepys notes in his diary how his wife squatted in the road “to do her business”.

‘Water closet’ dates from 1755 and originally signified the place where royal enemas were administered. At Monticello, Thomas Jefferson installed three indoor privies, probably the first in America. which incorporated air vents to take the odour away. By Jeffersonian standards (or actually any standards) they weren’t technologically advanced: the waste simply fell into a collecting pot, which was emptied by slaves. However, at the White House Jefferson in 1801 in stalled three of the first flushing toilets in the world. They were powered by rain-water cisterns installed in the attic.

Most people continued to use chamber pots which they kept in a cupboard in their bedrooms or closet, and which were known (for entirely obscure reasons) as “jordans”. Foreign visitors were frequently appalled by the English habit of keeping chamber pots in cupboards or sideboards in the dining room, which the men would pull out and use as soon as the women had withdrawn. Some rooms came supplied with a “necessary chair” in the corner as well. A French visitor to Philadelphia, Moreau de Saint-Méry, noted with astonishment how one man removed the flowers from a vase and peed in it. Another French visitor at about the same time reported asking for a chamber pot for his bedroom and being told “just to go out the window like everyone else”. When he insisted upon being provided with something in which to do his business, his bemused host brought him a kettle, but firmly reminded him that she would need it back in the morning in time for breakfast.

The most notable feature about anecdotes involving toilet practices is that they always involve people from one country being appalled by the habits of those from another. There were as many complaints about the lavatorial customs of the French as the French made of others. One that had been around for centuries was that in France there was “much pissing in chimnies” there. The French were also commonly accused of relieving themselves on staircases, ‘a practice which was still to be found at Versailles in the eighteenth century’, writes Mark Girouard in Life in the French Country House. It was the boast of Versailles that it had one hundred bathrooms and three hundred commodes, but they were oddly underused, and in 1715 an edict reassured residents and visitors that henceforth the corridors would be cleared of faeces weekly.

Most sewage went into cesspits, but these were commonly neglected and the contents often seeped into neighbouring water supplies. In the worst cases they overflowed. Samuel Pepys recorded one such occasion in his diary: “Going down into my cellar…I put my foot into a great heap of turds…by which I found that Mr Turner’s house of office is full and comes into my cellar, which doth trouble me.”

The people who cleaned cesspits were known as nightsoil men, and if there has ever been a less enviable way to make a living I believe it has yet to be described. They worked in teams of three or four. One man, the most junior, was lowered into the pit itself to scoop waste into buckets. A second stood by the pit to raise and lower the buckets, and the third and fourth carried the buckets to a waiting cart. Nightsoil work was dangerous as well as disagreeable. Workers ran the risk of asphyxiation and even of explosions since they worked by the light of a lantern in powerfully gaseous environments. The Gentleman’s Magazine in 1753 related the case of one nightsoil man who went into a privy vault in a London tavern and was overcome almost at once by the foul air. “He call’d out for help, and immediately fell down on his face,” one witness reported. A colleague who rushed to the man’s aid was similarly overcome. Two more men went to the vault, but could not get in because of the foul air, though they did manage to open the door a little, releasing the worst of the gases. By the time rescuers were able to haul the two men out, one was dead and the other was beyond help.

Because nightsoil men charged hefty fees, cesspits in poorer districts were seldom emptied and frequently overflowed, not surprisingly given the pressures put on the average inner-city cesspit. Crowding in many London districts was almost unimaginable. In 1851 in St Giles, the worst of London’s rookeries, 54,000 people were crowded into just a few streets. By one count, eleven hundred people lived in twenty-seven houses along one alley; that is more than forty people per dwelling. In Spitalfields, further east, inspectors found sixty-three people living in a single house. The house had nine beds, one for every seven occupants.

Such masses of humanity naturally produced enormous volumes of waste, far more than any system of cesspits could cope with. In one fairly typical report an inspector recorded visiting two houses in St Giles where the cellars were filled with human waste to a depth of three feet. Outside, the inspector continued, the yard was six inches deep in excrement. Bricks had been stacked like stepping stones to let the occupants cross the yard.

At Leeds in the 1830s, a survey of the poorer districts found that many streets were “floating with sewage”; one street, housing 176 families, had not been cleaned for fifteen years. In Liverpool, as many as one-sixth of the populace lived in dark cellars, where wastes could all too easily seep in. And of course human waste was only a small part of the enormous heaps of filth that were generated in the crowded and rapidly industrializing cities. In London, the Thames absorbed anything that wasn’t wanted: condemned meat, offal, dead cats and dogs, food waste, industrial waste, human faeces and much more. Animals were marched daily to Smithfield Market to be turned into beefsteaks and mutton chops; they deposited 40,000 tons of dung en route in a typical year. That was, of course, on top of all the waste of dogs, horses, geese, ducks, chickens and rutting pigs that were kept domestically. Gluemakers, tanners, dyers, tallow chandlers, chemical enterprises of all sorts, all added their by-products to the sea of daily sludge. Much of this rotting detritus ultimately found its way into the Thames, where the hope was that the tide would carry it out to sea. But of course tides run in both directions, and the tide that carried waste out towards the sea brought a good deal of it back when it turned. The river was a perpetual “flood of liquid manure”, as one observer put it. Smollett said that “human excrement is the least offensive part”, for the river also contained “all the drugs, minerals and poisons, used in mechanics and manufacture, enriched with the putrefying carcases of beasts and men; and mixed with the scourings of all the wash-tubs, kennels, and common sewers”. The Thames grew so noxious that when a tunnel being dug at Rotherhithe sprang a leak the first matter through the breach was not river water but concentrated gases, which were ignited by the miners’ lamps, putting them in the absurdly desperate position of trying to outrun incoming waters and clouds of burning air.

Into this morass came something that proved, unexpectedly, to be a disaster: the flush toilet. Flush toilets of a type had been around for some time. Early toilets often didn’t work well. Sometimes they backfired, filling the room with even more of what the horrified owner had very much hoped to be rid of. Until the development of the U-bend (in 1880) and water trap every toilet bowl acted as a conduit to the smells of cesspit and sewer. The backwaft of odours, particularly in hot weather, could be unbearable.

The bigger problem was that London’s sewers were designed only to drain off rainwater and couldn’t cope with a steady deluge of solid waste. The sewers filled up with a dense, gloopy sludge that wouldn’t wash away. People known as “flushermen” were employed to find blockages and clear them. Other sewery professions included “toshers” and “mudlarks” who delved through muck, in sewers and along fetid riverbanks, for lost jewellery or the odd silver spoon. Toshers made a good living, all things considered, but it was dangerous. The air in the sewers could be lethal. Since the sewer network was vast and unrecorded, there were many reports of toshers getting lost and failing to find their way out. Many were at least rumoured to have been attacked and devoured by rats.

Keep in mind that most of the documented cases below (including ones of people shitting on the floor of their own homes) are from the 18th century or later…it took a long time for people to start caring about disposing of waste. Even in a “Steampunk” game (perhaps especially in such settings), a general sense of horrifically poor hygiene should be conveyed (see above statements about “floods of liquid manure” in 19th century London).

View

As you near the Council Hall, Donovan spots Lyra, laden with weapons and travel gear, at about the same time she notices him, followed by a beautiful elven woman mounted on a chestnut filly and a shaggy barbarian mounted on a steppe-pony.

Lyra

Shock, surprise, and relief wash over Lyra’s face. Donovan, alive and well, with two more adventurers, and no sign of the ogress, necromancer, or weird overly-friendly elf woman.

“Mr. Donovan!” Lyra waves, and rushes over. She curtsies, careful not to lose balance with the new backpack. “Mr. Shaddup didn’t know where you were, and when I couldn’t find you I thought something terrible might have happened on the way back to town. I — I’m glad you made it back safely.” She looked like she was about to start crying again.

Frantiska

Seeing the large, officious looking building, Frantiska dismounts and leads Thistledown over to a hitching post. “Ini tampak seperti tempat,” she says to Hrud, still stumbling over the strange language. She ties up her horse, more to dissuade curious passersby from attempted horse-thievery than to keep the filly from running, and pulls a small pouch from the saddlebags. Not wanting to interrupt the heartfelt reunion here, she pulls a pinch of herbs and a small piece of paper from the pouch and begins rolling a cigarette. “Mau satu?” she says, offering one to the barbarian.

Hrud

Hrud wasn’t exactly sure what the elf woman was trying to say about the building – it must be significant for some reason or other. He was, however, more than a little surprised to see her smoking. Was she a shaman? Perhaps she was going to take a spirit journey?

At any rate, he decided by shaking his head. Depending on exactly what it was she was rolling up, he knew people tended to react…oddly when they smoked.

Frantiska

Recognizing the look of refusal on the barbarian’s face, Fran shrugs, lights the rolled paper, and leans back against the hitching post. She smokes slowly, taking long, deep pulls on the cigarette and breathing out in puffs, shaping her mouth in an ‘O’ to produce small rings, trying to clear her mind and calm her nerves before having to face even more unfamiliar faces.

Donovan

Donovan smiles, “Well met Lyra. You’ve seen Shaddup? I was a little worried that he might not have gotten far enough away from the building before it collapsed, what with those short legs of his.” He waves a hand at his new companions. “These are Frantiska Sykora,” he indicates the woman, “and Hrud of the Eraka. We ran into a gang of kobold horse thieves and they both proved very helpful. Teldicia and I helped Frantiska recover her horse, so she owes us one. It seems that Hrud doesn’t speak the common trade tongue, but Frantiska here has been able to piece together a bit of what he says, perhaps more, since it seems that they’ve started chatting a bit, but from what I’ve gathered he is looking for a priest of some kind. Thus, I was going to see if your mother could adjust our charter to add them, and Teldicia, who has been deprived of the rest of her group…”

Lyra

“Mr. Shaddup didn’t seem to hear me. He looked injured, and I think his proximity to the explosion may have affected his hearing. He said something about it not being the sort of party he was expecting and having enough money to fund his research, and then he headed off towards the river.” Lyra starts crying again.

Lyra regains her composure and looks over at Frantiska, and introduces herself in elven, “My name is Lyrathwen Alethiel Beragaion, although most people just call me Lyra. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” She curtsies again, and looks back to Donovan. “Apparently Brother Rant has had some dealings with the bar….” She stops and quickly corrects herself. “…northern tribesmen in his work for those who harp. He may know if any of their shaman are in town. Amara is safe and resting in the women’s dormitory of the temple of Tyr. Miss Teldicia is going to be joining us? What happened to the rest of her group?”

Frantiska

Frantiska takes another drag on her cigarette before responding to Lyra. “Beragaion?” She says quietly, taking a hard look at Lyra’s ears. “A’tel’quess?” She transfers the cigarette to her off-hand and offers the other to Lyra. “We have a lot of your kind back in Aglarond. Your surname is of the Teu’tel’quessir of Evereska, is it not?” She laughs self-consciously, “I’m sorry, where are my manners.” She snaps a very precise military bow, hands held wide to her sides. “Fair be our meeting, for our hearts are light and our swords sheathed, we hold peace in our hands and its light guides us. I am Frantiska Sykora, daughter of the Simbul, Sword of Selune, and Moon Knight of Aglarond.”

Hrud

Looking at Frantiska quizzically, Hrud interjects, “Selune? Ngerti dheweke?”

Frantiska

Frantiska takes a short puff, and, slowly, tries to answer Hrud’s question. “Ya, aku tahu gadis bulan. … Terang Nydra di lidah masyarakat rawa. … Ela kepada suku-suku padang pasir. … Lucha kepada orang-orang dari selatan. … Selune di lidah utara. Di mana saja bulan bersinar adalah tempat untuk Selune. Sebagai bulan perak lilin dan berkurang, sehingga untuk melakukan semua kehidupan. Wanita Putih Malam adalah ibu dan guru bagi saya dan saya pedangnya.”

Hrud

Hrud was having trouble understanding the woman, some of her words made sense, but not all of them … were those names used by people in different regions?

At any rate, it did not matter, because Hrud was certain he understood her to say that she knew Selune.

“Apa kowe isa karo dheweke?”

Donovan looks at the tail-end of the oversized scroll and is suddenly very glad that he decided to become an adventurer this morning. “Sorry, Deb, ee don’t mean to take up too much of your time. Our little outing to the Slums this afternoon was more exciting than expected. We’ve just got two small orders of business to take care of…well, maybe three or four.” He takes his glasses off and rubs his temples. “First, I wanted to see if there was a reward posted for dismantling the Red Hands gang. Second I need to file a death certificate for Mr. Gendry who was in here with us earlier. Third, I need to have our charter amended—to remove Mr. FitzTeldar, who is deceased, and Mr. McPillflup, who has decided to retire to his research, and add Ms. Teldicia, who I believe was in here earlier as well with a different party, and these two fine folk behind me…and I suppose also to have Ms. Teldicia’s other charter annulled, due to the death of three of her companions and the dissolution of her group.” He sighs, “And I guess I need to fill out death certificates for her companions…”

Donovan begins fishing in his bag for a quill and, without a word, pulls the second chair around to his side of the desk, anticipating the mountain of paperwork he’s going to have to deal with…

Lyra

Lyra winces and rubs her temples. Clearly the cause of the headaches is still ongoing. “Mr. Donovan, do you need help with the paperwork?”

GM

The Clerk rolls the scroll up and sets it aside. She squints at you and messes with her ear, somehow looking even more tired and haggard by the second. “Four death certificates, two new immigrants, and two charter changes? I do not approve of your definition of a few small orders of business, Donovan.” She opens the cabinet behind her and pulls out several stacks of paper, laying them on her desk, then a large ledger which she flips through. “There is a small reward posted for dealing with the Red Hands.” She pushes the stack of papers across to Donovan. “I’ll need to go get it from the vault. You can start filling out the rest while you wait.” She stands and exits the room by the door behind the desk.

Lyra

Four death certificates? Wouldn’t sudden extra-planar travel technically be missing-and-presumed-dead, not dead dead? Lyra peeks over Donovan’s shoulder as he fills out the death certificates, to confirm the casualties beyond Vince and Gendry. “I can help with the immigration forms if you’d like, Ms. Frantiska.”

Frantiska

Frantiska walks in and looks at the forms, “I should be able to handle it, thank you. Besides, legal documents always use such interesting language…”

Hrud

Standing awkwardly in the doorway, Hrud glanced around at the various racks of scrolls, stacks of paper and occasional book filling the office. There were a few in his tribe who could read, but he was not one of them. Old Skadi had tried to teach him when he was young, but got fed up and quit after only a day. Skadi said all his questions made his head hurt. As far as Hrud was concerned, if he had someone to answer his questions, then he didn’t need to read the answer which may or may not be true, anyway. One could never be to trusting of the written word, especially when you had no way of know who wrote them or why.

Paper was good for one thing, though: wiping. While the clerk was gone, Hrud attemped to discretely slide a small stack of papers up under his breastplate. There weren’t many broad-leaved trees or shrubs on The Ride.

Frantiska

Frantiska walks quickly over to Hrud, her boots ringing against the floor, and, for the first time, looks him strait in the eye, her gaze fixed like a reproving mother. “Tidak ada Hrud. Mencuri itu salah.” She sticks her hand out as if demanding the papers he has taken.

Hrud

Hrud was completely shocked. He never been approached or spoken to in this manner by a /woman/. His first instinct was rage, but Hrud reminded himself that he was not on the Ride, he was in a city. Things were different here … very different, apparently. Had the woman really intended to challenge him, she probably would have had a weapon drawn – that, or she was very confident in her abilities.

“Sing swara bakal njaluk sampeyan matèni antarane Eraka, wadon. Rahayu kita ora ngolah.”

Holding her gaze, Hrud reached down and pulled his breastplate out to let the papers fall to the floor*.

Donovan

Donovan looks up from the stack of papers and offers them to Lyra, “Which would you like?”

Hearing Hrud’s voice rise, he looks over and notices the papers laying on the ground, and peaking out from under Hrud’s breastplate. He curses under his breath. "Fran, you might want to inform our friend that spying is the only crime guaranteed to get you executed in this town. He can beat up all the merchants he wants for their pocket change and it’ll only get him thrown over the wall at night, where a man of his assets will probably have a fighting chance. Stealing documents from the Council will get his head removed from his shoulders faster than Tyr can say “Justice”, which is pretty damn fast I imagine."

He perks up suddenly and swears again. “I think I hear her coming back. Lyra, can you help them get that cleaned up before the Clerk notices things missing from her desk…”

Lyra

Lyra scoops up the papers and quickly begins organizing them.

Frantiska

Frantiska continues to glare at Hrud for the moments it takes her to realize that he is disparaging her gender. Without another word she punches him hard in his unprotected throat. “Beruntung bagi Anda, Anda maksud,” she says as he slumps to the floor.

Donovan

Donovan looks rather terrified as the big man crumples to the ground. “Umm…that’s one way to tell him, I guess…” He begins frantically filling out forms in a hurry.

Hrud

Lightning rips across a sky the color of blood; deafening thunder shakes and cracks the mountains, bringing them low. A ring of fire rages, dancing tongues of flames reaching in vain to the heavens. In the center stands Hrud, screaming incoherently and hacking away at the remains of a chocolate-colored filly, his broad sword so covered in gore that the naked blade can no longer be seen.

“Enough.”

The voice is barely a whisper, but clearly heard. With the chaos around him, there is no way he could have heard it. Besides, there is no one here, no one but Hrud, who raises his sword for another strike …

“Enough”

The barbarian stops mid-stroke. The ring of fire persists but makes no noise. The sky is now a deep velvet black, filled with stars from one horizon to the next. There is no trace of the storm. Towering over the flames are row upon row of spectral figures, numbering far more than Hrud could count. There are no distinguishing features, but somehow, he can tell their eyes are all fixed upon him.

“Let go of the rage”

He can’t tell how he knows, but he /knows/ that the voice is not coming from any of the figures. Where is it coming from? There is a soft whiny behind him; Hrud whirls to see the elf woman’s horse standing behind him, alive and very much alive and unharmed. He raises his sword, somewhat uncertain – he knows what he wants to do (or, rather, what his people would have expected of him) but is not sure what he should do …

“You have been set apart”

The voice comes from somewhere above or behind or /beyond/ the silent sentinels. As the point of his sword dips toward the ground, Hrud notices the blood and bits of meat slide off of it as cleanly as if here were drawing it from a sheath. The blade is no longer metal, but something different – Hrud finds it impossible to articulate how – it’s still a sword, but a different kind of sword. The fire continues to rage around him, but the color of the flames slowly change from an bright red to a shimmering golden yellow.

“Seek me.”

The horse trots to the edge of the ring and passes through, disappearing into the night. Where it passed through the flames, they are extinguished, leaving a wide opening. Hrud slowly makes his way to the edge of the ring.

“Be free.”

Hrud can just barely make out the hoof prints shimmering faintly in the night, despite being unable to see the ground itself. He takes a breath and steps into the unknown. Immediately the fire dies out leaving him in darkness. Two final words follow him.

Gradually, he becomes aware of the hard wooden planks beneath him. More than that, the sharp burning sensation at his throat. He makes a few difficult swallows, and opens his eyes. The elf woman is standing over him, looking none-too-pleased.

This woman felled him with a single blow. The shame of that realization burns as much as his throat, but his initial desire for revenge is replaced by something else.

The barbarian resists the urge to unsheathe his sword so he can look at the blade, thinking the gesture would be taken as an attack. Instead, he reaches up under his breastplate and pulls out the remaining few sheets of paper he tried to hide. Holding them up for Frantiska to take, he croaks out the last two words whispered to him in the darkness …

“No … wipe.”

GM

The door at the back opens and the Clerk walks in. She seems to pay no attention to the man lying on the floor, or the scattered papers, save for the slightest eye-roll as if to say “adventurers are weird” or “why is it always the crazy ones” or “why me”. She resumes her seat and hands a pouch containing two small flasks to Donovan. “Here you go. The standard reward for disposing of one of the Slums gangs is two potions from the Council’s stock. Those are potions of vitality, they should help keep you from having to come back so often…”

Frantiska

Hearing Hrud’s comment, Frantiska smiles down at him, stifling a laugh and once again avoiding looking the man in the eyes. She takes the proffered papers, hands them to Lyra, then offers Hrud a hand to help him up. “Kula nyuwun pangapunten babagan. Sampeyan gulu oke?”

Hrud

“Aku ora mati dina iki,” Hrud rasps.

Lyra

Lyra flips through the papers and adds them to the most reasonably appropriate positions in the stack. “Is the assistant clerk still on duty, or has she left for the day?”

GM

The Clerk grunts softly and pushes against her eyes with the heel of her hands before answering Lyra. “The assistant clerk went to find herself lodgings. She’ll be back in the morning. If you have specific business with her, I’d suggest looking at Mother’s Boarding House, as, given her desperation for work, it’s probably the only place inside the city walls within her means.” She yawns and shakes her head. “Are you quite finished yet, Mr. Leitch?”

Donovan

Donovan takes the pouch with the potion flasks and hurriedly scribbles out the last few pages of death certificates—he didn’t even know the guys anyways. “Here you go Deb, sorry to bother you this late in the day. Thanks for the potions, these should definitely come in handy.” He stands and turns to go. “Is he okay?” he asks Lyra and Frantiska, gesturing at Hrud with his chin.

Lyra

“That was quite a punch, but he seems to be recovering.” Lyra tilts her head a bit, as if trying to hear something in the distance. “And the headaches should be going away. It stopped…”

“Ugh. Looks like I spoke too soon.”

Lyra considers that statement. “I suppose there is not much difference from a spell that requires concentration to continue the effect.” She actually perks up a little at that. “But this particular effect covers a fairly large area. Dozens of yards, at least. They could be almost anywhere. Where were you when it started? I didn’t feel it in the weapon shop until I came over here. If we walk up that way and it stops, it’s probably on the opposite end of the city.”

Frantiska

Frantiska lights the cigarette and takes a long pull. “If the area is as large as you say, this could cause a substantial public health problem. Donovan might be right—we may want to find the source of this and dispose of it. How much do you really know about psionics? Are there particular creatures that cause effects like this? If so, what other abilities might they possess?”

Hrud

Thinking the punch must have confused him (more than normal), Hrud was only able to understand Frantiska’s mention of leaving. He started to follow them out, making sure to stay just outside the unexpectedly strong elf woman’s reach.

View

FEB/2014

It's like 2nd Edition with ascending ACs and Attack bonuses. What's not to love?

Chapter 2: Handle With Care: Part 7

In which the Paladin's composure is shattered...by a skeleton...

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Chapter 2: Handle With Care: Part 6

In which the party finds a tower in the river...

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