This blog is a narrative outline (a literary embelishemnt if you will) of a campaign and setting that I created for 2E when I was in college. I adapted to 4E and am currently playing out with my son, who has followed in his father's love of the game.
II.II Ten Dice and One Dies
Posted 8th February 2009 at 07:11 AM by H.M.Gimlord
Updated 15th February 2009 at 06:42 PM by H.M.Gimlord
Updated 15th February 2009 at 06:42 PM by H.M.Gimlord
Havar Barblacken stood up after having been bent down on one knee installing the last of twenty-three brand new locks that Hankel delivered from the forge this morning. Havar rubbed his back and kneaded the skin on his knee which was worn raw under his hose from having born his massive weight for hours. The new locks, bolts, and hinges gave the hallway a handsome look as the light from the candle sconces glittered off of the well-oiled iron. What’s more, the silent locks and hinges were good for “business.” Ol’ Bard didn’ even charge m’ mar‘an normal price. Th’ fool. Well, now. Time ta check on m’ favrit tenan’.
The bag of 46 iron keys clinked like gold coins as Havar hefted the bag over his shoulder and descended the stairs into the common room where his son Blagarm was pounding pegs into a board with a mallet. Before squeezing behind the bar and disappearing through door to the cellar, Havar slung the bag of keys onto the floor next to his son. “Hang ‘em up when yar done.”
Havar continued down into the cellar letting the damp cool air tell his nostrils a story of aging wine, moldy ale, and strong whiskey, the sound of Blagarm’s pounding mallet growing softer as he went. Havar paced back and forth several times in front of the five large, six-foot diameter casks that lined the back wall of the cellar. When he passed the third cask from the right for the fourth time, he stopped and reached for the tap as if to sample the contents, but as he turned the handle nothing issued from the tap. Instead there was a quiet click, and the sound of creaking wood as the entire front of the cask swung forward to reveal an empty wine barrel. Havar looked back up the stairs as if he feared he was being watched, climbed inside the wine barrel, and closed the front of the cask behind him. Once inside, he walked to the back of the wine barrel, and knocked gently three times. After waiting for a moment, he followed with two more knocks in rapid succession.
The back of the cask swung open, and Bradon Handmill stood in the opening silhouetted against the bright lamplight of a spacious room, holding a half-full mug of ale in his hand. The handsome gentleman of thirty-seven years greeted Havar with a broad grin.
“Havar, old man. So glad that you’ve come to call. Sit down and have a mug.” Behind Bradon, a child-sized man and man-sized child were playing dice at a table. “Allow me to introduce to you the expansion of my business.” Bradon nodded toward the two at the table, “The halfling’s name is Smoc Lem. I found him stowed away on a ship about a week ago, and offered him a job.” Bradon, next indicated the adolescent youth at the table, whose long blonde hair hung over his eyes as he peeked at the dice that lay under his tumbler. “The boy, you may recognize. He’s old man Hallmaster’s son.”
Staying close to Bradon as he made his way to the table, he spoke in a low voice. “Mar people, mar trouble. Mar trouble, mar risk. Mar risk, mar ren’.” Havar sat down at the table. “So ya’ve fell in wiv common thieves ‘ave ya Mr. ‘allmaster? The rich life gettin’ ‘little borin’ fer ya’ eh?” Havar’s cynicism, however, was an attempt to veil his deep concern. “Yar ol’ man wouldn’ ‘prove o’ ya stoopin’ ta this now, would ’e?”
Lars stared at his dice, “Father couldn’t care less, as long as I keep up with studies, and stay away when he entertains clients. – So Smoc, what’ll it be. You in?”
The halfling threw a silver coin on the table, “There’s my ante. Let’s see the power of your roll.”
Lars pulled four gold coins out of a pocket in his tunic and placed them on the table. “I don’t play for pennies. Have you any confidence in your luck?”
“Luck follows a halfling like his shadow boy.” Smoc pulled a purse out and emptied 12 gold pieces onto the table.
Havar turned to Bradon, “I thin’ I’ll be havin’ tha’ ale now.” Bradon nodded and strode off to a nearby table that held a pitcher and several mugs.
Lars smiled, “You think you’re something don’t you.” From the same pocket as before, Lars produced two platinum coins stamped with the Cotton and Wheat.
Havar’s eyes popped, “Where’d ya get tha’ piece o’ prize I migh’ like ta know.” He nearly missed the mug as it was handed to him.
Lars’ grin deepened, “Let’s just say that Father only keeps his money safe from the guests. Besides,” Lars continued shrugging, “He’s not going to miss it for long.” He smiled at Smoc, “It’ll be safe in his coffer before tomorrow morning, and he won’t be the wiser.”
“Well,” continued Havar with a laugh, taking a long draught from the mug, “I’d ‘ate ta see th’ cola o’ yer hide when yer ol’ man comes up wantin’ fer cash.” He winked at Smoc.
Smoc gave a low whistle as he peeked once more under his tumbler. “OK, boy. You’ve run me out of my stash, but I still think my dice are a better set, so here’s my offer to stay in the game.” Smoc reached at his belt, and pulled a hunting knife from a sheath that was obviously not made to fit. In the halfling’s hands, the knife looked like a small sword. Lars, however, seemed unimpressed. “Don’t look so calm, boy, “ spat Smoc, “You know what this is? It’s a dwarven antique. More than one hundred years old this is. “
“Hardly! You probably just lifted it from old Bard’s shop.” Lars nearly lost his temper. This guy’s probably been cheating me blind the whole time. I’ve got a knife just like that on my own belt.
“You doubt my word boy?” Smoc grabbed another dagger from his belt. Lars pushed his chair back. “Sit down boy! No one’s trying to hurt you.” Smoc lay the dagger down on the table, holding the hilt. With his free hand, he brought the hunting knife down and sliced through the blade of the dagger as if it were whittling off the end of a piece of wood. The shard of steel flipped across the room and tumbled end over end into the corner.”
Lars’ brain was bursting with questions, but he decided to keep them to himself. “OK. It’s a call. What’s your roll.”
Smoc lifted his tumbler. “Three Fives, two fours”
Lars said nothing. He just grinned from ear to ear, and lifted his own tumbler. There on the table were five dice. Four sixes, one five. “Looks like I’ve got myself an antique hunting knife, and a father who won’t be missing his treasure.”
Smoc was crestfallen. “I thought sure I had you beat boy. Take the lot.”
“No,” The story was worth it. You can have the gold back, but I’ll keep the knife.
“Pah! That’s like saying offering a dock hand’s job to a king after you’ve taken his castle. That knife’s worth more than you think.”
“We’ll see, but my offer still stands.”
Smoc had his pride, but he wasn’t stupid. He scooped the twelve gold coins and the silver back into his purse and sat down.
“Well done young man.” Bradon walked over to the table and patted Lars on the back, “It seems that luck follows you around like a shadow. Why I knew from the moment I laid eyes on – Why Havar. You don’t look so good.”
“I don’ feel sa’ goo’ nietha.” Havar’s face had lost color, and his hands were shaking so much that he could barely hold onto his mug, “If ya don’ min’ I’ll b’ takin’ m’leave o’ ya now.”
“Of course. Please. Take care of yourself, and we’ll see you in the morning.” Bradon put his arm around Havar and led him back to the cask-door. When it closed behind the innkeeper, Bradon turned around and shook his head. “I don’t think we’ll need to worry about the rent anymore.”
The bag of 46 iron keys clinked like gold coins as Havar hefted the bag over his shoulder and descended the stairs into the common room where his son Blagarm was pounding pegs into a board with a mallet. Before squeezing behind the bar and disappearing through door to the cellar, Havar slung the bag of keys onto the floor next to his son. “Hang ‘em up when yar done.”
Havar continued down into the cellar letting the damp cool air tell his nostrils a story of aging wine, moldy ale, and strong whiskey, the sound of Blagarm’s pounding mallet growing softer as he went. Havar paced back and forth several times in front of the five large, six-foot diameter casks that lined the back wall of the cellar. When he passed the third cask from the right for the fourth time, he stopped and reached for the tap as if to sample the contents, but as he turned the handle nothing issued from the tap. Instead there was a quiet click, and the sound of creaking wood as the entire front of the cask swung forward to reveal an empty wine barrel. Havar looked back up the stairs as if he feared he was being watched, climbed inside the wine barrel, and closed the front of the cask behind him. Once inside, he walked to the back of the wine barrel, and knocked gently three times. After waiting for a moment, he followed with two more knocks in rapid succession.
The back of the cask swung open, and Bradon Handmill stood in the opening silhouetted against the bright lamplight of a spacious room, holding a half-full mug of ale in his hand. The handsome gentleman of thirty-seven years greeted Havar with a broad grin.
“Havar, old man. So glad that you’ve come to call. Sit down and have a mug.” Behind Bradon, a child-sized man and man-sized child were playing dice at a table. “Allow me to introduce to you the expansion of my business.” Bradon nodded toward the two at the table, “The halfling’s name is Smoc Lem. I found him stowed away on a ship about a week ago, and offered him a job.” Bradon, next indicated the adolescent youth at the table, whose long blonde hair hung over his eyes as he peeked at the dice that lay under his tumbler. “The boy, you may recognize. He’s old man Hallmaster’s son.”
Staying close to Bradon as he made his way to the table, he spoke in a low voice. “Mar people, mar trouble. Mar trouble, mar risk. Mar risk, mar ren’.” Havar sat down at the table. “So ya’ve fell in wiv common thieves ‘ave ya Mr. ‘allmaster? The rich life gettin’ ‘little borin’ fer ya’ eh?” Havar’s cynicism, however, was an attempt to veil his deep concern. “Yar ol’ man wouldn’ ‘prove o’ ya stoopin’ ta this now, would ’e?”
Lars stared at his dice, “Father couldn’t care less, as long as I keep up with studies, and stay away when he entertains clients. – So Smoc, what’ll it be. You in?”
The halfling threw a silver coin on the table, “There’s my ante. Let’s see the power of your roll.”
Lars pulled four gold coins out of a pocket in his tunic and placed them on the table. “I don’t play for pennies. Have you any confidence in your luck?”
“Luck follows a halfling like his shadow boy.” Smoc pulled a purse out and emptied 12 gold pieces onto the table.
Havar turned to Bradon, “I thin’ I’ll be havin’ tha’ ale now.” Bradon nodded and strode off to a nearby table that held a pitcher and several mugs.
Lars smiled, “You think you’re something don’t you.” From the same pocket as before, Lars produced two platinum coins stamped with the Cotton and Wheat.
Havar’s eyes popped, “Where’d ya get tha’ piece o’ prize I migh’ like ta know.” He nearly missed the mug as it was handed to him.
Lars’ grin deepened, “Let’s just say that Father only keeps his money safe from the guests. Besides,” Lars continued shrugging, “He’s not going to miss it for long.” He smiled at Smoc, “It’ll be safe in his coffer before tomorrow morning, and he won’t be the wiser.”
“Well,” continued Havar with a laugh, taking a long draught from the mug, “I’d ‘ate ta see th’ cola o’ yer hide when yer ol’ man comes up wantin’ fer cash.” He winked at Smoc.
Smoc gave a low whistle as he peeked once more under his tumbler. “OK, boy. You’ve run me out of my stash, but I still think my dice are a better set, so here’s my offer to stay in the game.” Smoc reached at his belt, and pulled a hunting knife from a sheath that was obviously not made to fit. In the halfling’s hands, the knife looked like a small sword. Lars, however, seemed unimpressed. “Don’t look so calm, boy, “ spat Smoc, “You know what this is? It’s a dwarven antique. More than one hundred years old this is. “
“Hardly! You probably just lifted it from old Bard’s shop.” Lars nearly lost his temper. This guy’s probably been cheating me blind the whole time. I’ve got a knife just like that on my own belt.
“You doubt my word boy?” Smoc grabbed another dagger from his belt. Lars pushed his chair back. “Sit down boy! No one’s trying to hurt you.” Smoc lay the dagger down on the table, holding the hilt. With his free hand, he brought the hunting knife down and sliced through the blade of the dagger as if it were whittling off the end of a piece of wood. The shard of steel flipped across the room and tumbled end over end into the corner.”
Lars’ brain was bursting with questions, but he decided to keep them to himself. “OK. It’s a call. What’s your roll.”
Smoc lifted his tumbler. “Three Fives, two fours”
Lars said nothing. He just grinned from ear to ear, and lifted his own tumbler. There on the table were five dice. Four sixes, one five. “Looks like I’ve got myself an antique hunting knife, and a father who won’t be missing his treasure.”
Smoc was crestfallen. “I thought sure I had you beat boy. Take the lot.”
“No,” The story was worth it. You can have the gold back, but I’ll keep the knife.
“Pah! That’s like saying offering a dock hand’s job to a king after you’ve taken his castle. That knife’s worth more than you think.”
“We’ll see, but my offer still stands.”
Smoc had his pride, but he wasn’t stupid. He scooped the twelve gold coins and the silver back into his purse and sat down.
“Well done young man.” Bradon walked over to the table and patted Lars on the back, “It seems that luck follows you around like a shadow. Why I knew from the moment I laid eyes on – Why Havar. You don’t look so good.”
“I don’ feel sa’ goo’ nietha.” Havar’s face had lost color, and his hands were shaking so much that he could barely hold onto his mug, “If ya don’ min’ I’ll b’ takin’ m’leave o’ ya now.”
“Of course. Please. Take care of yourself, and we’ll see you in the morning.” Bradon put his arm around Havar and led him back to the cask-door. When it closed behind the innkeeper, Bradon turned around and shook his head. “I don’t think we’ll need to worry about the rent anymore.”
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