Red Hand of Doom

I've just started up a short campaign game that will probably run through the middle of the Summer (late July). Using WotC's Red Hand of Doom (RHoD) as a basis, I'll pare back most of those sections that go beyond the Core Rules, strip away any vestiges of Monks, and maybe add a few surprises of my own design just for fun. Aside from myself as DM, our group consists of several players I have known from three to six years and, so far, a couple of new players recruited just at the beginning of this campaign. We might even add one or two more if it appears that it would be a good fit for the group. There will be more to come on the players and their characters in the second post.

For this Storyhour, there will be some fictionalized accounts of gameplay from our twice-monthly meetings (each lasting from four to seven hours). I'll try not to take too many liberties but a mere blow by blow of combat and descriptions of dice rolling for skill checks might get a bit boring, so don't be surprised if I embellish based on my understanding of the players, their characters, or simply when the mood takes me. Perjuring myself will likely become a regular habit within this text. Enjoy it as you can and don't hold my words against any of the players should you happen to meet them. They're all good folk and deserve better than the fate they have in store every two weeks.

Spoiler tags will be in use throughout this thread by me, and I urge anyone who posts to consider using them when appropriate, as well. Within spoiler-space, I'll try to give an insider's look from the DM's seat about the adventure as written, my modifications to it, and anything that come up during gameplay that I think might be of interest. It might go without saying but let me flat out state that if any of my players read beyond this point before the close of the campaign they will find out that a DM need not wait for the dice to do his dirty work. The warning has been given.

I'll also be adding some attachments that I hope other DMs will find useful. If you plan to play in this adventure with another DM, please don't download or look through the attachments. Your own DM might have a different style than myself and might not want the same information to fall into the hands of the players as I do. Alternately, your DM might have a different pace with which he doles out information. Also, some of the attachments will be for DMs-only and might spoil portions of the adventure for players.

We played a bit at our first meeting after finishing some character creation that had begun online. I'll get to that in my next post but let me share a look at some player maps I intend to share with the table at the next meeting. DMs who already have RHoD in hand will note I've adjusted them slightly to remove a certain location.

More soon . . .

We're still working our way through the first section of RHoD and I am making many notes for the Story Hour. Here, though, are some more attachments that are for DMs who plan to run this.

I opted to use the downloadable encounter with the ogre from WotC to extend the beginning of the adventure and give the players more time to acclimate to one another and the difficulty level.

http://www.wizards.com/default.asp?x=dnd/ub/20060224a

More coming . . .

The tale begins . . .

Frederick von Jungingen stretched in the saddle. The Dawn Way was a useful, well-kept road. His rear end had used the last one hundred and fifty miles and the two weeks that took to break in a new steed as his companions and he spanned eastward across the Elsir Vale. He was pleased the journey was nearly over. They’d rest for a bit in Drellin’s Ferry, buy passage over the Elsir River the next day, and then head North a short distance to Vraath Keep in some area called the Witchwood. As the tale goes, there is supposed to be an unclaimed treasure hidden somewhere in the abandoned keep. Naturally the keep is haunted. Frederick had been told that wouldn’t be a problem. He decided to go there anyway.

Garret Tosscable glanced up at Fred on his horse. He wished he hadn’t had to walk all the way across the Vale. But he didn’t care much for big clumsy animals and the one riding the horse didn’t like passengers behind his saddle. Being only half the size of Fred didn’t leave Garret the option of bullying his way into getting a ride. Garret had heard there’d be a clan of his own people running an inn at Drellin’s Ferry. He’d wondered if all of it would have been built to accommodate the big folk, business being business and little folk being in the minority. Garret didn’t really mind. That just meant there’d be plenty of extra room in his bed. And when it came to his bed, Garret Tosscable didn’t mind passengers one little bit.

Berndeick could tell by Garret’s leer he was having thoughts of licentiousness. Amazing how he could read the little one’s face when they were just walking down the road. When they shared stories of their past near the campfire he could rarely believe the ones from Garret and at those times the face was an unreadable mask. They were good stories, just the same, even if the tactical details were always hazy. Berndeick liked to keep on top of the tactical situation in all things. He always picked the best spot, with the broadest local leaves, before dropping his breaches in the woods. Extra planning made everything better.

Arthvael Cadarn glanced at the emblem of Moradin when it peeked out from under the nest that adorned Berndeick’s chin. The group needed a healer and they were lucky to have him. Too long Arthvael had been about the task of gathering a group of adventurers. The vague map to the Keep in the Witchwood might not be the only one of its kind and the sooner they got there the better. Some research had revealed the ruins had been crumbling for a couple of hundred years since the tribal giants of the forest wiped out the erstwhile nobles who had called it home. The stories of a “spirit” now haunting the place apparently kept most folks away. Arthvael would deal with that when he had a better idea what it truly was. Perhaps they were just stories.

Ludious Banderback knew that Arthvael and the others would be counting on him soon. Although the North Road that allowed caravans to continue beyond the Vale split the woods, there was no telling how far off of the main route the ruins of Vraath Keep decayed. He planned on digging up a little of the local flavor on the place before assaulting it directly and reaping the harvest of treasure it surely held. Ludious had found smaller needles in bigger, older haystacks. If the group had all been mounted like von Jungingen, they might have been munching that hay last week.

Atgur raised one thick finger to the side of his nose, held his right nostril closed and cleared the other on the side of the path. He chuckled as he imagined an enemy, perhaps a goblin, stepping on it and becoming stuck. It’d be even funnier if Ludious missed noticing the snot trap and slid his heel through it. Still, Ludious’s tracking ability came in handy when they hunted together and they rarely missed bagging, and bragging about, some sort of quarry. Atgur enjoyed being out of the towns and off of the roads. He was looking forward to the next couple of days with some dread. His stomach rumbled. He belched. When Atgur belched he usually farted as well. He didn’t plan it that way but this time was no exception.

Himo cringed as he took in the cacophony of sounds and plethora of smells that was Atgur. Having Atgur and Berndeick in the party was like having the moon in the sky while the sun was still up. They’d play their part, he had no doubt. They weren’t the kind to avoid being well within the fray when trouble started. Himo would be sure to document every bit of the action, and help out where he could if it wasn’t too dangerous. He didn’t believe it was coincidence that the last one standing at all the great moments in history just happened to be the good storytellers. He believed the good storytellers had an obligation to live to tell the tale, and by extraction his companions had a responsibility to keep him alive at all costs. He planned to butter them up over dinner and make sure they understood that part.

The road rose and fell even as it slipped through the odd patch of woods sprinkled across the Elsir Vale. Most, like this last one before Drellin’s Ferry, had signs of previous or current habitation. Shouldn’t be but just a couple more miles on the other side of this tree stand and-

“Ambush!” shouted Ludious only a moment before the first arrow whistled by his head. He had absently been fidgeting with his own bow since they first approached this copse. He had also mechanically notched an arrow in unwary anticipation of the worst. Now, he let that arrow fly. It struck home in the shoulder of one of the enemy attackers. A curse in a goblinoid tongue betrayed their origin. They must have come from across the Elsir River out of the Wyrmsmoke Mountains. Many evil tribes festered there but it was surprising to encounter them this side of the waterway. He notched another arrow.

Frederick leaned forward in the saddle and swung his shield around just in time to catch one of the missiles with an ominous thud. He looked from side to side and figured about a half a dozen hobgoblins had them at a disadvantage with three to the left and the same to the right. They’d come to regret splitting their numbers even if that seemed the best way to set this trap. He lowered his visor, his lance, and his sights as he spurred Gar up the embankment and toward one of the assailants.

Garret dodged to the side of the road. His small frame had to scramble to get up the side and into cover. The road took a dip here and it was no wonder they chose this place to lie in wait. “Two can play at that game,” thought Garret as he panned the trees for the best place to slip through the enemy lines.

“Who’s up for hobgob-kebobs?!” shouted Atgur as he leapt up out of the road-trough they found themselves in. Head down, digging in with his lower body, he topped the roadside and dashed toward one of the opponents. Along the way he pulled his great axe out of the straps across his back.

Himo edged a little closer behind Ludious. He didn’t have a ranged weapon of his own. Although it might seem cowardly, he figured he could crouch and make himself into a smaller target, taking advantage of the embankments on either side to lessen the chance of an arrow striking him. He opted against it. This was their first real fight as a group and he didn’t want to appear a coward. An arrow grazed his head and as a trickle of blood reached his left eye, he crouched.

Hobgoblin missiles pinging off of his finely made armor, Berndeick moved forward and placed his hand on Himo’s forehead. Gauging that the depth of the cut was negligible, he declared, “You’ll live,” and then placed his body between the source of the missiles and the main body of their group. Barking, “Moradin, protect me,” he looked forward and off to the side of the road. A dilapidated farmhouse was being choked by weeds and vines. “If these grunts are led by a better, he’d probably shack up in there,” thought Berndeick. In answer to his conjecture two black hounds with smoke spewing from their snouts sprang over a breach in the old farmhouse wall and toward the fray. They’d be on them soon.

“YOU ARE WEARY!” exclaimed Arthvael Cadarn at the nearest hobgoblin who promptly collapsed to snoring. He grimaced as an arrow struck him in the thigh. He got a bead on which one of the remaining archers had fired that particular shot and made a mental note of which tree trunk was its refuge. Annoyed, the half of him tinged with the blood of the fey folk coaxed him to bide his time and make revenge worth taking.

Arrows continued to fly toward the adventurers on the road but in less abundance. Berndeick’s taunts attracted the majority of those and they simply weren’t suited to piercing his armor or fell short as if they were purposefully shot into the ground by half-hearted hobgoblins. Gar reared up briefly and took one arrow through his barding into his left pectoral but deflected a second with an iron shod hoof. Arthvael’s immediate foe plunked him with a second arrow, this time a bit higher up the thigh. The half of Arthvael that was human-blooded was not amused.

Garret crawled between two hobgoblins that were unaware of his presence. Now, beyond the scope of the battle, he turned to assess his next move.

Himo recalled a bit of verse he hoped would uplift his comrades. He launched into a recitation, translating it from elven and into the common tongue on the fly. Realizing after he had begun that a story about two elves in love might not be appropriate, he changed one of the elves to a dwarf, mentally edited the other into some non-descript beast, and replaced the part about the kissing with bloodshed. It would have to do.

Two more arrows, this time from Ludious, twisted through the trees to tap both shoulders of a victim who then acknowledged his marksmanship by slumping over to the ground dead. The praise was short but sweet; actions speaking louder and such.

Berndeick continued to move forward, noting another half dozen hobgoblins double-timing their way along a path from the other side of the copse beyond the farmhouse remnants. With them was a fiercer looking opponent. “There’s the head of this snake,” muttered the dwarf to himself.

Will the adventurers manage to survive the hobgoblin ambush? We’ll find out next time in this RHoD Story Hour . . .

The tale continues . . .

The lance of Frederick von Jungingen grazed off the bark of an oak as a hobgoblin ducked. But the creature did not duck low enough. The tip pierced his eye, shattering the side of his skull, scattering bits of his brain and splashing arcs of blood around the base of the tree.

The bits of brain, however, and all in the vicinity were soon ablaze as the two charging hounds from the nether realms spewed forth streams of flame. These fiery cones, though brief, engulfed an area that included the corpse of the hobgoblin, the surrounding brambles and trees, Frederick, and his horse, Gar. The odor was nearly unnerving but both man and mount stood true despite the pain of their searing flesh.

Garret, seeing his chance, scrambled over behind one of the hobgoblins. He drew his rapier and got into a crouching position. He moved with the silence of a tomb, as soundless as a light breeze. It would never know who had taken its life. It wouldn’t be long now and it would take but a moment.

Atgur brought his axe down through the scalp of a hobgoblin who had stepped from behind a tree to challenge him. The axe continued until it buried itself deep in the creature’s chest. Atgur smiled. It was easier to remove his axe from a ribcage than from a skull and if he had to swing it extra hard to make that a possibility, he didn’t really mind.

Himo slipped around the ranger and up behind the healer even as he continued to improvise a tale of glory. His pretend protagonist was thoroughly trouncing its fictitious foe. There was a lot of pulling of hair, and spilling blood, and the crunching of bones. It had potential. If only he’d the time to jot it down.

The hobgoblin reinforcements were now even with the dilapidated farmhouse. They left the trail they had used to bring them to the fray and sought quick cover in the edge of the woods ahead of the adventurers. Their commander, from the rear of their numbers, barked out goblinoid orders that anyone could translate. A volley of arrows from the nearest of them whistled harmlessly past Berndeick who had taken the front and center of those adventurers left on the road.

In answer to the rain of missiles, Berndeick sized up the newcomers and mumbled a suggestion over his shoulder to the bard and ranger. Then he stepped forward just a jot, raised his arms to ensure the line of newcomers would attend to him, and demanded, “Be Calm!”

Arthvael glanced around. Two of the three original ambushers had been dropped on either side of the road. To the right, and ahead of the adventurers, one remained between the party and the new line of attackers. To the immediate left was one more, and it was close. “Let’s be friends,” Arthvael magically put forth. The hobgoblin blinked, lowered his bow, and began to smile in a grotesque but ingratiating way.

Moradin’s adherent seemed to have taken the fight out of most of the remaining hobgoblins but he had warned Himo and Ludious that not all would bow to the dwarf’s demand. Scanning those remaining, Ludious saw the closest still had fire in its eye so he sent two of his arrows in its direction. Only one found the mark but the shaft drove in deeply.

Frederick von Jungingen knew the hellhounds were too close to charge but he swung his lance to bear on one of the foul canines. He had considered switching to his sword but the lance was handy and sometimes a poke in the eye with a sharp stick really is better than nothing. He missed the eye, however, and jammed it into the ribs. The creature hardly had time to yelp, for now it was Gar’s turn for revenge. The steed briefly reared and then Gar’s two hooves came crashing down on the skull of the creature crushing the life out of it. Frederick smiled to himself, proud that the training of this warhorse paid off so well.

Garret held back his killer rapier stoke and blinked his eyes at the sight of the now-amiable hobgoblin, with his weapon lowered, smiling and ambling toward Arthvael. “It’s a good thing he’s on my side,” thought Garret, meaning the sorcerer, of course. “Between turning foes into friends and putting others to sleep-“ Remembering the snoozing creature a couple of trees over from his current position, Garret decided the least he could do was go over and quietly dispatch it to whatever afterlife such a creature dreamt of.

Atgur, now at the back of the action, saw that Frederick might need a bit of assistance and dashed over to the fray. However, even his best effort only got him there in time to find himself on the receiving end of a fiery snap from the nether creature’s jaws. He shrugged it off as best he could and positioned himself to make use of his axe.

Also heeding the cleric’s warning, Himo spotted two more at the back of the newcomer hobgoblin pack that didn’t seem soothed by Berndeick’s spell. Pulling out a little magic of his own, Himo sent a shower of glitterdust over the pair of them. Dropping their weapons, the two hobgoblins began to stagger about where they were, clutching at their faces and pleading for help from their comrades.

The last of the original hobgoblin archers, well, the one who wasn’t making nice with Arthvael, glanced back at the reinforcements. Two were blinded by magic, four were calmly considering just enjoying the day, and the commander’s armor looked even shinier from the back as he was running full tilt away from the action back down the trail from whence the so-called reinforcements had only just arrived. This was not going to be a good day but he was determined to send a message to Moradin before it was done. Turning back toward what his commander had earlier ensured him was prey; the hobgoblin pulled an arrow from his quiver in a smooth fluid motion. He notched that sinister black missile to the bowstring and drew it back with all his strength. He fixed his gaze down the shaft at the dwarf that must be their leader and froze. He never would know why in the short time he had left but he just couldn’t bring himself to let the arrow fly. In the next instant, two more arrows from the bow of the ranger slew him.

There wasn’t much left to the action in this ambush-gone-wrong. Frederick von Jungingen slid from his saddle and between himself and Atgur, they dispatched the second hellhound. Once done with that, it was short work to stride over and mop up the other six hobgoblins. The four becalmed hobgoblins protested slightly at being killed in so offhanded a manner, but not for long and there was no one nearby who was sympathetic to their complaints save for their two, visually hopeless companions. That pair could smell death in the air and didn’t so much complain as plead and curse briefly before their own demise.

The adventurers regrouped. Garret came up from the rear and announced that he had, indeed, managed to finish off the sleeping loose end. Ludious replenished his quiver with the best of the arrows he could find. Atgur was asked to carry on his strong back a number of the bundled weaponry they felt was worth collecting for later sale in town.

Investigating what remained of the farmhouse structure, the group discovered five human bodies. One appeared to be a merchant, if the guild mark on her clothing wasn’t a ruse, and three other were likely her bodyguards, for they two had insignias that denoted such. The last was probably an unwitting farmer who may have used this road safely all his life only to be cut down on his way to town by these evil beings. About then Arthvael, who had been lingering back by the road with his new hobgoblin acquaintance, stepped forward to share some information he had gleaned.

“It seems that this is just one of a number of patrols from a rising band called the Red Hand,” began Arthvael.

Berndeick nodded knowingly. “They did seem far too organized to be mere hobgoblin brigands. What else have you learned?”

Arthvael continued, “Well, this one told me that the one who ran away was this patrol’s leader and he might be making for another of the patrols to alert them to our presence. He also said that these patrols were based out of the Witchwood, using the ruins of Vraath Keep as a headquarters. Apparently these hobgoblins are just the tip of a far more deadly blade.”

“We can’t stay here,” noted Garret, shifting his weight from foot to foot nervously.

“True,” agreed Arthvael, “But I'd be loathe to abandon the bodies of these victims to the carrion birds. If we cannot take the time to bury them, the least we could do is cover them with stones from this tumbled-down farmhouse. Perhaps we, or some others from town, could come back in short order and do the job properly?”

“Yes,” said Berndeick, exchanging a look with Arthvael and tapping his toe against a stone near his foot. Addressing the charmed hobgoblin, now, he continued, “Start with this stone here, would you?”

Arthvael nodded to Berndeick and, in answer to a questioning look from the creature, patted the hobgoblin on the shoulder in encouragement. The hobgoblin smiled, walked across, and bent over to lift the stone. Berndeick moved so swift and matter-of-factly that it caught most of the group by surprise. The hobgoblin crumbled to the ground and the cleric wiped the residual blood from his axe blade on the creature’s back.

Not missing a beat, Berndeick quickly took control of the situation. “Frederick, call your horse and make after that one that ran away. Take the ranger with you and finish their leader off before he can rouse his kin. The rest of you will cover these dead humans while I say a few words over them. We’ll leave the hobgoblins to the scavengers and continue on the road when we’re done. You and Ludious can look for us between here and Drellin’s Ferry when you’ve accomplished your task. Be swift!”

Will Frederick and Ludious overtake the hobgoblin before it is too late? More to come . . .

The tale continues . . .

Uth-lar ran. It wasn’t the bravest thing he had ever done. He wasn’t happy about it but he knew he had to do it. Those travelers were not what his hobgoblin detachment typically found along the road at this end of the Vale over the last couple of weeks. Given the amount of magic being tossed around and the equipment the travelers were carrying, there was no way his patrol would survive. His only chance was to hook up with the squad two hills over. If he could just make it there alive, he could convince his counterpart from the other patrol to assist him, and perhaps they had already even brought the lumbering one on board. He ran some more.

“And what the hell happened to that Doom Hand Priest that was assigned to help my patrol?” thought Uth-lar. Contemptuously, while in stride, he spat, both to clear his throat as he ran and to express his disgust at being abandoned by the priest when the blood started to fly. “That little hob-throttler will get his due if I get out of this jam!”

Uth-lar risked a glance over his shoulder as he crested the first of two hills he would need to surmount before he could reach relative safety. No one following him yet but they’d be coming soon enough, he knew. Their type never let up until there was no more blood left to spill. Their type was ruthless, relentless, and they tended to be a bit stringy uncooked. He ran.

“Damn that Koth!” cursed Uth-lar aloud as he reached the valley between the hills. He’d already slaughtered the Doom Hand Priest in his mind a dozen ways and figured he’d spread his murderous thoughts further up the hierarchy. The Wyrmlord Koth was resting easy back at the ruins of the Keep while all of the hobgoblins did his grunt work. “They send along the Doom Hand Priests with some of the patrols to spy on us to weed out the slackers.” Uth-lar’s thoughts continued, “Being part of the vanguard might have some early rewards but it would probably have been safer to stay behind and come into the Vale with the-“

“Thork!” cried Uth-lar as he looked back while making his way up the near side of the second and higher of the two hills. There was that blasted warrior with his steed giving chase. It did appear, though, that he also had another of the humans riding behind him, sharing his horse. Maybe that would slow the mount enough to give Uth-lar the chance he needed. With a renewed incentive, he loped on just a little bit faster.

The copse of woods he meant to reach was at the top and halfway along this second hill. As he gained the summit, he knew it would be a close race. He risked one more look. He saw that his pursuers had come down the other hill and were nearly across the valley. Uth-lar’s breathing was more labored than ever before in his life. He tasted iron and realized his nose had begun to bleed from his exertions. It wouldn’t be enough just to get to the woods, he knew. He would have to make his way through them to the mound with the cave.

Now he could hear the hooves of that accursed warhorse loudly behind him. They must have made it to the top of this hill. Uth-lar crashed into the trees but kept his pace. Branches bit into his tough skin and slashed him across his face and forearms as he ran. He’d borne much worse growing up in the tribe under the lash of his elders. His mind was crazed. His endurance and his will were nearly at their limit. He managed to fight his way through one more thicket and he was there. As the astonished hobgoblin patrol looked on, Uth-lar fell among them, gesturing wildly in the direction he had come and gasping for air.

“Give him something to drink, you idiots, or I’ll slit your throats and let him quench his thirst with your blood!” spat a voice from somewhere nearby but, at the same time, from nowhere. It, too, seemed somewhat out of breath.

Several of the hobgoblin regulars milling about, here in front of a low mound and cave mouth, quickly produced wine and water skins for Uth-lar. He grabbed one and downed part of its contents. Another of the skins disappeared from the hands of its owner then disembodied, gulping sounds could be heard. Uth-lar slowly regained his composure. Still unable to speak, he looked back, fully expecting his pursuers to come bounding in among the unaware patrol but it was not to be. Uth-lar struggled to his feet. Staggering back in forth to try and gain an advantageous view through the trees, he could see that the horse and its riders had pulled up at the edge of the woods. Uth-lar gestured and tried again to explain the situation to the others but he doubled over with a cramp.

“Can’t you understand?” demanded the disembodied voice. “He’s been followed, you fools! Go and get your commander and tell him to come out from the cave! We may be attacked at any moment!”

The hobgoblin that first caught on to the danger dropped the water skin he was holding. Turning away from the others, he dashed toward the cave mouth. As he reached the entrance, he slowed and then stopped. This was that creature’s lair, after all. The one they were sent to convince to join the Red Hand. The one they said would be as powerful as a whole patrol, or even more. His own commander was inside and had given orders not to be disturbed. His commander was in the midst of some delicate negotiations. Was he to tell his commander that a hobgoblin that couldn’t speak and a voice from thin air had countermanded his orders? He turned back around and took another look at the one who had just arrived. Then he did something ill-advised for anyone of his station. He tried to think.

“Zarr? Is that you, you accursed priest?” asked Uth-lar of the emptiness when he once again could speak.

“Of course, it is I, you worthless cur!” returned the Doom Hand Cleric. “And don’t curse me, you moron! I did no less than you, in coming here to retrieve more help, and by doing so invisibly, at least I managed not to lead those others to us!”

Uth-lar, still not fully recovered, gasped for a bit more air. What the priest said was true enough and Uth-lar knew it. “If I had known you were doing so,” began Uth-lar defensively, “I might have done otherwise!”

“No time for that now,” Zarr countered quickly, knowing it was an argument they could both lose if something wasn’t done about the situation. He noticed the hobgoblin he had sent for the other commander hadn’t entered the cave yet. “Curse you, you brainless fool!”

Uth-lar had also realized the hesitation of the hobgoblin at the cave mouth and now Uth-lar jogged toward mound himself. To his own mind, when all the bugs were shaken out of the bearskin, it would fall better for Uth-lar if he was the one taking the initiative. The disadvantage Zarr had in being invisible was that no one could swear he had arrived first.

As Uth-lar reached the cave mouth, though, he stood face-to-face with the other patrol commander. Apparently the shouting and commotion had drawn him forth of his own accord. He was slightly taller than Uth-lar, much more muscular, and broader in the shoulders. Uth-lar hadn’t met him before but knew of him through messengers. Uth-lar had sent over some horses captured earlier that day to help sweeten the offer being made. He was called Urgnol. However impressed Uth-lar might have initially been by the size of this hobgoblin, though, it was nothing compared to what followed from out of the cave.

Ignoring the creature behind him, Urgnol stepped out among his command and barked, “Report!”

Will Urgnol taking charge, and the creature from the cave, spell Doom for the adventurers? More to come . . .

Good to see the story hour back up.

I'm thoroughly enjoying the tale. My group also ran the ogre encounter, and tonight comes the ambush...

Mark, any luck converting the rest of the maps to 1-inch?

dmumper said:

Good to see the story hour back up.

I'm thoroughly enjoying the tale. My group also ran the ogre encounter, and tonight comes the ambush...

Mark, any luck converting the rest of the maps to 1-inch?

Click to expand...

Thanks for posting!

My group is just completing the first section and opting to retool somewhat for the second. At least one of the characters will carry over but it will be a very different group than that which tackled the first section. There have been a number of spectacular and unfortunate deaths. I'll hopefully have the chance to write up more about it all soon.

I haven't had the chance to work on any of the second section maps, as of yet, but plan to deal with them in the same way. We'll just have to wait and see how long it takes.

More RHoD doom battle maps

There is an excellent set of RHoD Rhest Ruins maps posted on the Dundjinni website:

http://dundjinni.com/forums/forum_posts.asp?TID=6656&PN=2

I've converted these to easily-printed PDF's if you would like me to send them to you.

Mark, have you made any new maps yet?

Hey Mark I loved your maps and so did my group. We just finished the part 1 and I was wondering what method you used to convert the maps to 1-inch scale. If you could let me know what program/sizes you used it would be a big help.

- Zaro -

Maps for RHoD Section Two