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.VIII The Heart in the Dwarf's Chest
Posted 4th October 2009 at 04:14 AM by H.M.Gimlord
Updated 6th October 2009 at 03:50 AM by H.M.Gimlord (Added chapter number to the title)
Updated 6th October 2009 at 03:50 AM by H.M.Gimlord (Added chapter number to the title)
The darkness of night gave way to the darkness of the sewers where not even the flashes of lightning could penetrate. Rain dripping from pipes replaced rain dripping from clouds, and an eerie, echoing silence settled in between Smoc and Lars as they made their way to the secret door. Despite the darkness, Smoc new the way, and quickly found the catch. Once inside he set to work even while Lars was shaking the rain from his cloak.
“OK, boy. Let’s see if this treasure was worth the price.” Smoc placed the chest gently on the table in the middle of the common room so he could feel around for flint and tinder. His face took on a demonic appearance behind a glowing taper as he walked over to the table and lit a lamp. “What secrets do you hold, little box?” He noticed, right away, that the box was too light to contain anything like gold or jewels. Even as he lifted it from its hiding place back in old Bard’s house, he felt his heart sink. His eyes scanned the outside of the box.
Light filled the common room one burst at time as Lars lit the wall sconces, after which he, full of impatience and excitement, joined Smoc at the table, “Why don’t you just open it?”
“Fool boy!” Smoc turned one eye toward Lars, not taking the other off the box, “A dwarf made this box. That much is plain to see. I can’t read Dwarf, but I know enough not to go opening strange boxes hidden away in some crafty dwarf’s house.”
Smoc was an experienced thief. He was aware that strange boxes, even small ones, could contain dangerous traps or mechanisms that render their contents useless. He recalled several years ago a time when he was careless with an old seaman’s trunk. A vial of caustic poison was attached to the lock. When he opened the chest, it broke and loosed its contents all over the gold inside. By the time Smoc noticed, it was too late. It took him months to recover from the burns. He still thought the gold was worth it, but he vowed that, next time, this time, he would be more careful.
“You’re the linguist, boy. Here. Have a look at this.” Smoc beckoned Lars closer with a serious, warning experession that said Look, but don’t touch.
It didn’t take much time for Lars to see that the chest was covered in Dwarven runes. The name GIMLORD was featured prominently on the lid, while various messages were inscribed around the side. “It says here that the box is, ‘For Hankel Mast Gimlord.’ It’s like you would address a birthday present or something.” Lars rotated the box, to expose more block-like runes, “Over here are more names, ‘Bard Mast Gimlord, Arkus Mast Gimlord, Mardor Gatehammer Gimlord, …’ They wrap around the box in a list. It reads like some kind of family lineage. Guess old Bard had another last name after all.” Lars’ eyes darted back and forth over the container’s exterior, “It says ‘Herein lies my heart. It is your history, as is your right to one day sit in Rioc Parvel.’”
“Rioc Parvel? What’s that?” Smoc seemed confused and uninterested.
“Dunno. I just read it phonetically. The word doesn’t make any sense.” Lars shrugged apologetically, and continued looking at the chest. “There’s nothing else. The rest is just a jumble of geometric patterns.”
Smoc didn’t seem satisfied, “Any warnings or signs of danger?”
“Nope.” Lars had looked all over the top and sides of the box, “Mind if I look underneath?”
Smoc lifted the box and Lars craned his head to look up from beneath it. “This is strange.” Lars rubbed his fingers over some scratches in the bottom of the box with a frown of confusion, “These markings are different than the others. They’re not Dwarven.”
“What are they?” Now Smoc was getting impatient.
“Dunno.” Lars squinted in concentration, but to no avail. He had never seen anything like this in the library, “They seem to be gouges that somebody made with a knife, as if some monster had clawed the bottom of the box. It’s too systematic to be random scratches, but if it’s supposed to mean something, I’m stumped.”
“OK, boy. My turn.” Smoc handed Lars the box and took a look underneath. “This is dragon language. Not usual for a dwarf to have dragon scrawl on the bottom of his box.”
“Dragons?” Lars stifled a patronizing laugh, “Are you pulling my chain? You can’t be serious! I never took you for being superstitious.”
Smoc glared at Lars across the table, “Some things your mother tells you to scare you into behaving aren’t entirely fantasy, boy. I can’t read it, but I know it when I see it. It’s too small to be written by a dragon, and too neat to be written by dragonspawn, but It’s dragon speech to be sure.” Smoc eyed the chest more suspiciously now, and placed it carefully on the table.
“Oh, Smoc. Just open it!” Lars reached for the chest, but Smoc slapped his hand away.
“We’ll open it when I say it’s safe.”
The minutes passed, and Smoc studied the chest in vain for some sign of warning. It seemed nothing more than a simple chest. There wasn’t even a lock on the lid. Finally, he gave in. There seemed nothing else he could do. He produced a knife from his belt and slipped it under the lid at the front, “Stand back boy.”
The box flipped open with a turn of Smoc’s knife, but the moment was anticlimactic. No broken vials of poison, no blades, no alchemical explosions, and certainly no magic. Lars was spitting in a poor attempt to contain his laughter. “You should have seen yourself.” Lars contorted his body and squinted his eyes in mock anxiety as he mimicked Smoc’s movements in opening the box.
“Laugh all you want boy.” The halfling peered carefully into the opened chest and found, “Nothing!”
“What!?” Lars stood up from his dramatic pose and rushed to Smoc’s side staring down into the chest. It wasn’t exactly empty, but it may as well have been. It only contained sheets of rag paper on which course notes had been scraped using some kind of berry ink, and likely a burned stick for a quill. Thirty-some pages in all, all written in Dwarven, and Each with a date at the top, but not dates that Lars understood. “It’ll take a while to translate this.”
“Translate all you want bookfool!” Smoc was livid. “You sacrificed the old man for this!” Smoc held his knife up and slashed the air in front of Lars’ face. “Get out! And don’t you ever come back! I’ll not be staying here either. The Nightwatch’ll be looking all over for us and for what? Papers!? A stinking birthday present!?”
The look on Lars’ face was one of stunned shock, “You can’t be serious. This stuff might tell us where other blue stones are.”
“Oh yeah. Right. Like the ones that we didn’t find in old Bard’s house? Forget it boy. You and I are through! The old man’s dead along with that Dwarf, and we’re as good as jailbirds now for this!” Smoc reached into the chest and grabbed a handful of the notes shaking them in his hand. With clenched teeth, he threw them on the floor and stomped out the back door into the sewer, leaving Lars dumbfounded in the middle of the empty common room, his prize scattered all about him.
“OK, boy. Let’s see if this treasure was worth the price.” Smoc placed the chest gently on the table in the middle of the common room so he could feel around for flint and tinder. His face took on a demonic appearance behind a glowing taper as he walked over to the table and lit a lamp. “What secrets do you hold, little box?” He noticed, right away, that the box was too light to contain anything like gold or jewels. Even as he lifted it from its hiding place back in old Bard’s house, he felt his heart sink. His eyes scanned the outside of the box.
Light filled the common room one burst at time as Lars lit the wall sconces, after which he, full of impatience and excitement, joined Smoc at the table, “Why don’t you just open it?”
“Fool boy!” Smoc turned one eye toward Lars, not taking the other off the box, “A dwarf made this box. That much is plain to see. I can’t read Dwarf, but I know enough not to go opening strange boxes hidden away in some crafty dwarf’s house.”
Smoc was an experienced thief. He was aware that strange boxes, even small ones, could contain dangerous traps or mechanisms that render their contents useless. He recalled several years ago a time when he was careless with an old seaman’s trunk. A vial of caustic poison was attached to the lock. When he opened the chest, it broke and loosed its contents all over the gold inside. By the time Smoc noticed, it was too late. It took him months to recover from the burns. He still thought the gold was worth it, but he vowed that, next time, this time, he would be more careful.
“You’re the linguist, boy. Here. Have a look at this.” Smoc beckoned Lars closer with a serious, warning experession that said Look, but don’t touch.
It didn’t take much time for Lars to see that the chest was covered in Dwarven runes. The name GIMLORD was featured prominently on the lid, while various messages were inscribed around the side. “It says here that the box is, ‘For Hankel Mast Gimlord.’ It’s like you would address a birthday present or something.” Lars rotated the box, to expose more block-like runes, “Over here are more names, ‘Bard Mast Gimlord, Arkus Mast Gimlord, Mardor Gatehammer Gimlord, …’ They wrap around the box in a list. It reads like some kind of family lineage. Guess old Bard had another last name after all.” Lars’ eyes darted back and forth over the container’s exterior, “It says ‘Herein lies my heart. It is your history, as is your right to one day sit in Rioc Parvel.’”
“Rioc Parvel? What’s that?” Smoc seemed confused and uninterested.
“Dunno. I just read it phonetically. The word doesn’t make any sense.” Lars shrugged apologetically, and continued looking at the chest. “There’s nothing else. The rest is just a jumble of geometric patterns.”
Smoc didn’t seem satisfied, “Any warnings or signs of danger?”
“Nope.” Lars had looked all over the top and sides of the box, “Mind if I look underneath?”
Smoc lifted the box and Lars craned his head to look up from beneath it. “This is strange.” Lars rubbed his fingers over some scratches in the bottom of the box with a frown of confusion, “These markings are different than the others. They’re not Dwarven.”
“What are they?” Now Smoc was getting impatient.
“Dunno.” Lars squinted in concentration, but to no avail. He had never seen anything like this in the library, “They seem to be gouges that somebody made with a knife, as if some monster had clawed the bottom of the box. It’s too systematic to be random scratches, but if it’s supposed to mean something, I’m stumped.”
“OK, boy. My turn.” Smoc handed Lars the box and took a look underneath. “This is dragon language. Not usual for a dwarf to have dragon scrawl on the bottom of his box.”
“Dragons?” Lars stifled a patronizing laugh, “Are you pulling my chain? You can’t be serious! I never took you for being superstitious.”
Smoc glared at Lars across the table, “Some things your mother tells you to scare you into behaving aren’t entirely fantasy, boy. I can’t read it, but I know it when I see it. It’s too small to be written by a dragon, and too neat to be written by dragonspawn, but It’s dragon speech to be sure.” Smoc eyed the chest more suspiciously now, and placed it carefully on the table.
“Oh, Smoc. Just open it!” Lars reached for the chest, but Smoc slapped his hand away.
“We’ll open it when I say it’s safe.”
The minutes passed, and Smoc studied the chest in vain for some sign of warning. It seemed nothing more than a simple chest. There wasn’t even a lock on the lid. Finally, he gave in. There seemed nothing else he could do. He produced a knife from his belt and slipped it under the lid at the front, “Stand back boy.”
The box flipped open with a turn of Smoc’s knife, but the moment was anticlimactic. No broken vials of poison, no blades, no alchemical explosions, and certainly no magic. Lars was spitting in a poor attempt to contain his laughter. “You should have seen yourself.” Lars contorted his body and squinted his eyes in mock anxiety as he mimicked Smoc’s movements in opening the box.
“Laugh all you want boy.” The halfling peered carefully into the opened chest and found, “Nothing!”
“What!?” Lars stood up from his dramatic pose and rushed to Smoc’s side staring down into the chest. It wasn’t exactly empty, but it may as well have been. It only contained sheets of rag paper on which course notes had been scraped using some kind of berry ink, and likely a burned stick for a quill. Thirty-some pages in all, all written in Dwarven, and Each with a date at the top, but not dates that Lars understood. “It’ll take a while to translate this.”
“Translate all you want bookfool!” Smoc was livid. “You sacrificed the old man for this!” Smoc held his knife up and slashed the air in front of Lars’ face. “Get out! And don’t you ever come back! I’ll not be staying here either. The Nightwatch’ll be looking all over for us and for what? Papers!? A stinking birthday present!?”
The look on Lars’ face was one of stunned shock, “You can’t be serious. This stuff might tell us where other blue stones are.”
“Oh yeah. Right. Like the ones that we didn’t find in old Bard’s house? Forget it boy. You and I are through! The old man’s dead along with that Dwarf, and we’re as good as jailbirds now for this!” Smoc reached into the chest and grabbed a handful of the notes shaking them in his hand. With clenched teeth, he threw them on the floor and stomped out the back door into the sewer, leaving Lars dumbfounded in the middle of the empty common room, his prize scattered all about him.
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