The Fall of Civilization
- Thread starter the Jester
- Start date
the Jester
Legend
Sooo... regarding more info on my campaign world, I don't have a specific thread on the state of affairs as of game present. My other story hour threads and my Plots & Places threads are the best places to go for bits and pieces. But I'm happy to answer (non-spoilerific) campaign questions here, as well.
If you go to Yahoo and navigate to the Cydra group, you can see a bunch of 3.x material that is now approximately 1700 years out of date. Also, I have a campaign wiki here, but it hasn't been updated at all since 4e came out.
The 4e era is an era of greater ignorance than in the past, so the pcs have yet to see a modern map of any of the campaign world. Despite the thriving empire (now crushed?) that existed at the start of the campaign, the average citizen had become more insular, less traveled and significantly less educated than in the glory days of the 3e, and especially the early 2e, empire.
If you go to Yahoo and navigate to the Cydra group, you can see a bunch of 3.x material that is now approximately 1700 years out of date. Also, I have a campaign wiki here, but it hasn't been updated at all since 4e came out.
The 4e era is an era of greater ignorance than in the past, so the pcs have yet to see a modern map of any of the campaign world. Despite the thriving empire (now crushed?) that existed at the start of the campaign, the average citizen had become more insular, less traveled and significantly less educated than in the glory days of the 3e, and especially the early 2e, empire.
the Jester
Legend
The kobold spins around, ducking under the shuriken that Cook threw.
Too slow.
It tears a furrow along the kobold’s chin and cheek. The little dog-lizard-man gives a high-pitched yelp, and if they didn’t already know it, the enemy force would have been alerted.
But by then, Vann-La is already striding into the tent, her right hand gripped into a fist, her shield strapped to her other arm.
The time for stealth has passed.
The gnoll, who is called the Mouth of Yeenoghu, lifts its skull-topped rod and pronounces a blasphemous word of power around its half-gnawed jerky. The skull’s eyes blaze, and a demonic blast of fire shoots out at the Kree elf. She throws up her shield, and it catches the flames, deflecting them from her. Spatters of hot liquid fire that stinks of brimstone patter down around her feet, but she just keeps advancing.
Heshwat the Eviscerator, hobgoblin general, whips out his deadly glaive and leaps to meet her. He stabs forward, roaring a bloodthirsty challenge, and sneaks past Vann-La’s guard! She spins away from the blow, but before she can react, Heshwat strikes again, this time hitting her in the throat, and Vann-La is stunned by the force of the blow!
“GET THEM!” bellows the Eviscerator.
By now the party has poured into the tent, but before any of them advance beyond Vann-La, LIgir hurls a fireball into the far side of the pavilion tent. It bursts with a lurid orange flame, and several of the hobgoblin guards fall, shrieking and burning to death.
Hot on the fireball’s heels, Kratos and Heimall push forward into the fray, engaging the orcish warlord Tursh. He roars in berserk fury as the double warlord assault pounds into him, replying with a warrior’s surge that heals him partway. Meanwhile, Cook and the kobold director Vypp are exchanging ranged attacks, with Cook hurling shuriken and kitchen knives while the kobold spits lightning and is able to help his allies move and attack more often, almost like a warlord would.
But with Vann-La stunned, the kobold is unable to resist the opportunity to keep her that way, and he spits a bolt of crackling lightning at her, stunning her again.
The goblin king Morl, meanwhile, keeps throwing daggers with underhanded throws that keep him moving and distract their targets, making the goblin king hard to track. After a moment, he decides that the stunned elf is too tasty of a target to ignore, and dances close to slash her with his scimitar. The Mouth of Yeenoghu, meanwhile, turns to aid Tursh (the orcish warlord). With a glare, the filthy beast sends a wave of sheer malice at Kratos, who reels back, dazed from the psychic blow.
Hkatha, meanwhile, has maneuvered into a good position from which to catch the enemy in another burst. This time he casts a sleep spell, but in the confined quarters of the pavilion, it is fairly ineffective, slowing the enemy for a moment or two but not actually putting anyone to sleep. The tiefling snorts, and unleashes a scorching burst in the middle of a bunch of enemies. The screams of pain that rise from the foe is certainly more satisfying than the sleep had been!
Loridell moves in, axe to axe against Tursh. The two exchange a series of blows, parries and blocks, with Loridell rapidly getting the better of the exchange. “Guards!” roars Tursh in Goblin, “Guards!” Torinn flails about with his spiked chain, smashing the kobold director with bone-crunching force even as he maneuvers his allies into better position. Next he lays a blow into the Mouth of Yeenoghu, then strikes at Heshwat to no avail.
Heshwat the Eviscerator, after a quick look to ensure that his allies are doing all right, laughs at Torinn and then stabs the stunned Vann-La again, bloodying her. “Throat-Ripper will kill you, elf-woman!” he sneers, grinning.
“Hai!”
Heshwat jerks around just in time, parrying an incoming shuriken from Cook off the haft of his glaive with a ping.
“You leave her alone!” the dwarf shouts.
Vann-La groans, starting to come around- and Heshwat stabs her in the head again, knocking her back. Once more, Vann-La is insensate. The hobgoblin general laughs.
Then there is an explosion of fire all around Hkatha, as he unleashes a fire burst close enough to catch himself. The kobold and orc are both caught in the blast, as are two more of the guards.
“Yeah, that’s right!” shouts Ligir. “We’re wizards- and you’ve been ignoring us, hitting on Vann-La while she’s down. Let me tell you something, you don’t ignore the wizards. No, this is why you hit the wizards!”
With that, Iggy dimension doors next to Morl the goblin king, unleashes a fire shroud that staggers Morl and then* fey steps right out of the midst of things to safety again!
Vann-La tries to get her head together. It feels like the world is spinning. She is highly disoriented. She shakes her head, trying to clear the spots before her eyes.
Movement.
She throws herself left and down, and this time Heshwat’s glaive only hits her arm.
Her head is clearing. Slowly... slowly...
Her shield jerks up as Throat-Ripper flashes in again, and the weapon crashes off of the shield. Then there is a boom as she activates the power of the storm shield that the party took from the mercenary Borgan Tyre.
The hobgoblin general only laughs.
Suddenly a beacon of hope blazes from Torinn, weakening both the Mouth of Yeenoghu and King Morl with its divine power.
“Stand tough!” shouts Kratos at the party. “We’ve got them now!”
Vann-La seems to agree, shifting away from Heshwat- or is it closer to the other foes? “COME AND GET IT!” she shouts.
As one, Tursh, Heshwat and the Mouth of Yeenoghu rush forward at the Kree warrior. She slashes out at all of them, her hammer crunching into the Mouth of Yeenoghu’s shoulder before smashing the orcish warlord hard in the face! Tursh crumples, pulverized white matter pouring out of the ruin of his forehead.
Heshwat the Eviscerator gnashes his teeth. “You’ll pay for that, elf,” he growls.
Vann-La grins as she assumes the stance of her rain of steel, her hammer swooping through the air all around her like a lethal hawk. It crashes into the Mouth of Yeenoghu, who gasps in pain but retains his feet. Raising his hyena-skull topped rod again, the Mouth unleashes a demonic blast that hits Vann-La, and liquid fire splashes out and burns Loridell, Kratos and Heimall.
Meanwhile, King Morl carefully works his way towards the edge of the tent, hurling daggers with underhanded throws over and over again at Kratos.
”I have had about enough of you!” snaps the warlord, turning to face Morl. He hefts his maul.
BOOM!!
Another fireball, this time caused by Iggy’s new necklace of fireballs, catches more of the largely ineffective guards unawares. They are blown from their feet and the back wall of the pavilion bursts into flames. The Mouth of Yeenoghu is caught in the blast, and he howls in agony as his body chars and his flesh melts. He falls, twitching, dead to the ground.
“Excellent!” cries Loridell, and she charges at the kobold as the others dog pile Heshwat the Eviscerator. A rain of blows falls towards the hobgoblin general, but most turn from his armor or are parried by his consummate skill with Throat-Ripper. Even so, the heroes of Fandelose manage to cut and stab him several times, and blood starts to run out the seams in his armor and pool on the ground around him.
Meanwhile, Loridell collides with the kobold, who is frantically backpedaling, pointing at Heshwat and trying to trick her into turning back to attack him. But the paladin will have none of that. Her charge leaves Vypp reeling, and then she slams her axe into his neck with a holy strike!
The head of Vypp the Director bounces across the battlefield.
Morl the goblin king grimaces. He is near the side of the tent, and as Vypp falls, he slashes his scimitar across the tent’s wall and leaps through the rent thereby opened. Screaming for guards, he runs away.
“You bitch!” shouts Iggy. “That’s right, you better run!!”
Now Heshwat the Eviscerator stands alone. He snarls, slashing with his glaive, trying to push Vann-La back, pummeled again and again by hammer, maul, sword, shuriken... Slowly, Heshwat weakens, his blows growing feebler and feebler. His eyes dart around, fear reaching them for the first time as the spiked chain of Torinn whips around one last time- slashing across his face and tearing open his skull, leaving Heshwat the Eviscerator enough time left alive only to stagger once in a wandering circle before collapsing dead to the floor of the pavilion.
Panting breath. The crying of the slaves. Cook is already at work, trying to free them. Vann-La and Kratos set to work with their hammers. In the growing illumination of the tent fire, the party hustles the slaves outside.
Heimall lingers long enough to grab Throat-Ripper.
Outside. The predawn hours are lit by fires, and the sounds of battle from the front are already in full swing.
“Look!” cries Cook.
A company of Six-Fingered Hand elite troops are marching for the command tent at double time.
“Not enough time to rest,” grunts Torinn. “We’re screwed.”
“Maybe not,” replies Heimall. “We have the bodies of their leadership.”
“You’re suggesting that we can intimidate our way out of this?”
“Maybe. At the least, we will have proof that we kicked Heshwat’s ass.”
“True enough.”
A few arrows sing over the party.
“It’s time to go,” states Hkatha.
***
Within two days, the army that has surrounded Fandelose for over five years has broken camp and departed. More accurately, without the iron hand of Heshwat the Eviscerator to keep them in line, the Hand army disintegrates. Already hungry, no longer having any organized distribution of rations, they begin falling on one another, orcs and gnolls eating goblins and kobolds.
The violence is appalling- but it all amongst the enemy. It costs Fandelose not a single life more than it has already given.
From the walls, the war-weary people of the great city watch. Fires, fields that are no more than weeds now burning again; the screams of the warring humanoids as they tear themselves apart; the clash of steel as the larger, stronger Hand troops make their smaller, weaker brethren into the new rations.
On the morning of the fourth day after the breaking of the Hand army, General Argos strides atop the wall and looks gravely at the field of corpses below, already calculating the effort required to clear them, and the likelihood of disease if the city doesn’t move swiftly.
But they’re gone for now, he thinks. We have a reprieve. A year or two, no more- but we’ll need that year or two.
The Empire isn’t finished yet, General Argos vows silently.
Next Time: Victory celebration!
*Using an action point.
Too slow.
It tears a furrow along the kobold’s chin and cheek. The little dog-lizard-man gives a high-pitched yelp, and if they didn’t already know it, the enemy force would have been alerted.
But by then, Vann-La is already striding into the tent, her right hand gripped into a fist, her shield strapped to her other arm.
The time for stealth has passed.
The gnoll, who is called the Mouth of Yeenoghu, lifts its skull-topped rod and pronounces a blasphemous word of power around its half-gnawed jerky. The skull’s eyes blaze, and a demonic blast of fire shoots out at the Kree elf. She throws up her shield, and it catches the flames, deflecting them from her. Spatters of hot liquid fire that stinks of brimstone patter down around her feet, but she just keeps advancing.
Heshwat the Eviscerator, hobgoblin general, whips out his deadly glaive and leaps to meet her. He stabs forward, roaring a bloodthirsty challenge, and sneaks past Vann-La’s guard! She spins away from the blow, but before she can react, Heshwat strikes again, this time hitting her in the throat, and Vann-La is stunned by the force of the blow!
“GET THEM!” bellows the Eviscerator.
By now the party has poured into the tent, but before any of them advance beyond Vann-La, LIgir hurls a fireball into the far side of the pavilion tent. It bursts with a lurid orange flame, and several of the hobgoblin guards fall, shrieking and burning to death.
Hot on the fireball’s heels, Kratos and Heimall push forward into the fray, engaging the orcish warlord Tursh. He roars in berserk fury as the double warlord assault pounds into him, replying with a warrior’s surge that heals him partway. Meanwhile, Cook and the kobold director Vypp are exchanging ranged attacks, with Cook hurling shuriken and kitchen knives while the kobold spits lightning and is able to help his allies move and attack more often, almost like a warlord would.
But with Vann-La stunned, the kobold is unable to resist the opportunity to keep her that way, and he spits a bolt of crackling lightning at her, stunning her again.
The goblin king Morl, meanwhile, keeps throwing daggers with underhanded throws that keep him moving and distract their targets, making the goblin king hard to track. After a moment, he decides that the stunned elf is too tasty of a target to ignore, and dances close to slash her with his scimitar. The Mouth of Yeenoghu, meanwhile, turns to aid Tursh (the orcish warlord). With a glare, the filthy beast sends a wave of sheer malice at Kratos, who reels back, dazed from the psychic blow.
Hkatha, meanwhile, has maneuvered into a good position from which to catch the enemy in another burst. This time he casts a sleep spell, but in the confined quarters of the pavilion, it is fairly ineffective, slowing the enemy for a moment or two but not actually putting anyone to sleep. The tiefling snorts, and unleashes a scorching burst in the middle of a bunch of enemies. The screams of pain that rise from the foe is certainly more satisfying than the sleep had been!
Loridell moves in, axe to axe against Tursh. The two exchange a series of blows, parries and blocks, with Loridell rapidly getting the better of the exchange. “Guards!” roars Tursh in Goblin, “Guards!” Torinn flails about with his spiked chain, smashing the kobold director with bone-crunching force even as he maneuvers his allies into better position. Next he lays a blow into the Mouth of Yeenoghu, then strikes at Heshwat to no avail.
Heshwat the Eviscerator, after a quick look to ensure that his allies are doing all right, laughs at Torinn and then stabs the stunned Vann-La again, bloodying her. “Throat-Ripper will kill you, elf-woman!” he sneers, grinning.
“Hai!”
Heshwat jerks around just in time, parrying an incoming shuriken from Cook off the haft of his glaive with a ping.
“You leave her alone!” the dwarf shouts.
Vann-La groans, starting to come around- and Heshwat stabs her in the head again, knocking her back. Once more, Vann-La is insensate. The hobgoblin general laughs.
Then there is an explosion of fire all around Hkatha, as he unleashes a fire burst close enough to catch himself. The kobold and orc are both caught in the blast, as are two more of the guards.
“Yeah, that’s right!” shouts Ligir. “We’re wizards- and you’ve been ignoring us, hitting on Vann-La while she’s down. Let me tell you something, you don’t ignore the wizards. No, this is why you hit the wizards!”
With that, Iggy dimension doors next to Morl the goblin king, unleashes a fire shroud that staggers Morl and then* fey steps right out of the midst of things to safety again!
Vann-La tries to get her head together. It feels like the world is spinning. She is highly disoriented. She shakes her head, trying to clear the spots before her eyes.
Movement.
She throws herself left and down, and this time Heshwat’s glaive only hits her arm.
Her head is clearing. Slowly... slowly...
Her shield jerks up as Throat-Ripper flashes in again, and the weapon crashes off of the shield. Then there is a boom as she activates the power of the storm shield that the party took from the mercenary Borgan Tyre.
The hobgoblin general only laughs.
Suddenly a beacon of hope blazes from Torinn, weakening both the Mouth of Yeenoghu and King Morl with its divine power.
“Stand tough!” shouts Kratos at the party. “We’ve got them now!”
Vann-La seems to agree, shifting away from Heshwat- or is it closer to the other foes? “COME AND GET IT!” she shouts.
As one, Tursh, Heshwat and the Mouth of Yeenoghu rush forward at the Kree warrior. She slashes out at all of them, her hammer crunching into the Mouth of Yeenoghu’s shoulder before smashing the orcish warlord hard in the face! Tursh crumples, pulverized white matter pouring out of the ruin of his forehead.
Heshwat the Eviscerator gnashes his teeth. “You’ll pay for that, elf,” he growls.
Vann-La grins as she assumes the stance of her rain of steel, her hammer swooping through the air all around her like a lethal hawk. It crashes into the Mouth of Yeenoghu, who gasps in pain but retains his feet. Raising his hyena-skull topped rod again, the Mouth unleashes a demonic blast that hits Vann-La, and liquid fire splashes out and burns Loridell, Kratos and Heimall.
Meanwhile, King Morl carefully works his way towards the edge of the tent, hurling daggers with underhanded throws over and over again at Kratos.
”I have had about enough of you!” snaps the warlord, turning to face Morl. He hefts his maul.
BOOM!!
Another fireball, this time caused by Iggy’s new necklace of fireballs, catches more of the largely ineffective guards unawares. They are blown from their feet and the back wall of the pavilion bursts into flames. The Mouth of Yeenoghu is caught in the blast, and he howls in agony as his body chars and his flesh melts. He falls, twitching, dead to the ground.
“Excellent!” cries Loridell, and she charges at the kobold as the others dog pile Heshwat the Eviscerator. A rain of blows falls towards the hobgoblin general, but most turn from his armor or are parried by his consummate skill with Throat-Ripper. Even so, the heroes of Fandelose manage to cut and stab him several times, and blood starts to run out the seams in his armor and pool on the ground around him.
Meanwhile, Loridell collides with the kobold, who is frantically backpedaling, pointing at Heshwat and trying to trick her into turning back to attack him. But the paladin will have none of that. Her charge leaves Vypp reeling, and then she slams her axe into his neck with a holy strike!
The head of Vypp the Director bounces across the battlefield.
Morl the goblin king grimaces. He is near the side of the tent, and as Vypp falls, he slashes his scimitar across the tent’s wall and leaps through the rent thereby opened. Screaming for guards, he runs away.
“You bitch!” shouts Iggy. “That’s right, you better run!!”
Now Heshwat the Eviscerator stands alone. He snarls, slashing with his glaive, trying to push Vann-La back, pummeled again and again by hammer, maul, sword, shuriken... Slowly, Heshwat weakens, his blows growing feebler and feebler. His eyes dart around, fear reaching them for the first time as the spiked chain of Torinn whips around one last time- slashing across his face and tearing open his skull, leaving Heshwat the Eviscerator enough time left alive only to stagger once in a wandering circle before collapsing dead to the floor of the pavilion.
Panting breath. The crying of the slaves. Cook is already at work, trying to free them. Vann-La and Kratos set to work with their hammers. In the growing illumination of the tent fire, the party hustles the slaves outside.
Heimall lingers long enough to grab Throat-Ripper.
Outside. The predawn hours are lit by fires, and the sounds of battle from the front are already in full swing.
“Look!” cries Cook.
A company of Six-Fingered Hand elite troops are marching for the command tent at double time.
“Not enough time to rest,” grunts Torinn. “We’re screwed.”
“Maybe not,” replies Heimall. “We have the bodies of their leadership.”
“You’re suggesting that we can intimidate our way out of this?”
“Maybe. At the least, we will have proof that we kicked Heshwat’s ass.”
“True enough.”
A few arrows sing over the party.
“It’s time to go,” states Hkatha.
***
Within two days, the army that has surrounded Fandelose for over five years has broken camp and departed. More accurately, without the iron hand of Heshwat the Eviscerator to keep them in line, the Hand army disintegrates. Already hungry, no longer having any organized distribution of rations, they begin falling on one another, orcs and gnolls eating goblins and kobolds.
The violence is appalling- but it all amongst the enemy. It costs Fandelose not a single life more than it has already given.
From the walls, the war-weary people of the great city watch. Fires, fields that are no more than weeds now burning again; the screams of the warring humanoids as they tear themselves apart; the clash of steel as the larger, stronger Hand troops make their smaller, weaker brethren into the new rations.
On the morning of the fourth day after the breaking of the Hand army, General Argos strides atop the wall and looks gravely at the field of corpses below, already calculating the effort required to clear them, and the likelihood of disease if the city doesn’t move swiftly.
But they’re gone for now, he thinks. We have a reprieve. A year or two, no more- but we’ll need that year or two.
The Empire isn’t finished yet, General Argos vows silently.
Next Time: Victory celebration!
*Using an action point.
Mathew_Freeman
First Post
Awesome stuff! Sounds like a hell of a good fight!
the Jester
Legend
The celebration is truly epic.
The people of Fandelose have triumphed over a seemingly numberless horde. They have held out against all odds, and although it took almost six years, they have driven off the foe at last. Heshwat the Eviscerator, who had made a daily practice of torturing captives before the walls, now stares sightlessly from the top of a pike, mounted atop those self same walls. The Six-Fingered Hand has been driven back- at least for now.
General Argos announces a great festival, open to everyone in the city. There will be food and entertainment aplenty, and everyone is invited. A small force will remain on watch, and there are scouts in the outlying areas, so even if a tattered remnant Hand force manages to make an attack, the city should have plenty of warning.
And almost everyone is there- almost the entire city. People bring food and drink to contribute, and there is plenty to be had by all. Even after half a decade of siege, the people of Fandelose have never been driven to deep hunger.
Our heroes are acclaimed as main heroes of the war. They are the Defenders of Fandelose, the Heroes of the Wall. The Dragon walks with them, and all of them have made names for themselves.
But of course, nothing is ever all good.
The soldiers grumble. None of them have received any pay yet, and it’s six years overdue- more, in some cases. And the Bronze Council is still not back in power. There are definitely... areas of tension yet to be fully resolved. Areas that have been safely ignored for nigh on six years, while much more immediate concerns threw themselves at the gates over and over again.
Not tonight. No, let tonight be for tonight- a celebration of victory, a collective triumph for all of Fandelose’s people.
***
It takes little time for the party to become separated by the roar of the crowd, the temptation of different performances, different food and drink, different people. To her delight, Vann-La finds herself swept into Lar-Gonn, the Kree sergeant that has fought beside (and beneath) her since the initial engagements by the Black Gorge. They have been courting for several years, showing the legendary elven patience, but tonight is the night. She lets herself be seduced by Lar-Gonn’s delightful little morsels called chocolates.
In the morning, he will give her the rest of the bag.
***
Wandering through the massive press of people, Torinn is surprised to stumble upon General Pythock, his face painted with makeup, orating to a collection of citizens. Torinn smiles at the general, and is not surprised to see his answering sneer.
Pythock, of course, is the general that was in charge when the party first reached Fandelose, a month or so ahead of the Six-Fingered Hand, when General Argos had been imprisoned in the Black Tower, framed by Millbury. Pythock had gained his position by virtue of his aristocratic roots, and had made a very poor impression on the party. In fact, I don’t think he had been to work at all between when we got to the city and when we got Argos out of the tower, muses Torinn.
Yet when the dragonborn edges close enough to hear what Pythock is saying, he is astonished to hear the man taking all the credit for the victory against the Hand and for making the plan that sent the party after the enemy leadership!
“Yes,” Pythock says, rolling his eyes in Torinn’s direction, “those on the walls are usually the ones acclaimed by the folk who see only the men fighting, and don’t know about the meticulous planning that goes into such things, planning done by people such as myself.”
“And General Argos, of course,” Torinn says loudly. He notes that the crowd around the... discussion... is growing larger.
“Of course,” Pythock sneers. “Generals, and marshals, and those wise enough and smart enough to make decisions. Those are the real heroes of this battle.”
”You’re no Argos,” Torinn sneers back.
“It’s the Dragon!” someone in the crowd gasps.
“It was the people of Fandelose, more than anybody, who won the day for the city. And us- myself, Kratos, Ligir, Heimall, Hkatha, Loridell and Vann-La, plus our cook.”
“Of course,” Pythock says disdainfully. “Your slaying of a few dozen kobolds and goblins makes you an essential part of the victory.”
”No, but our slaying of Heshwat the Eviscerator does.”
“A shame you couldn’t finish off the enemy leadership. Too bad some of them escaped you- or was it the other way around?”
“One of them escaped us,” Torinn replies, “and not for long.”
They argue back and forth for some time, trading insults and barbs. Their debate grows more and more heated, until, after one particularly cutting remark from Torinn about Pythock’s harlot-painted face, the general bursts out, “I’ll put you in the stockade for that!”
“Ma’am yes ma’am!” Torinn replies, standing at attention.
General Pythock glares at the dragonborn. “Justice must be served,” he growls.
“Justice must be served!” Torinn answers.
“Your service,” splutters Pythock, “has been exemplary, but your insubordination...”
”Well, sir,” Torinn retorts sarcastically, “as soon as you get to your desk, you can draw up charges against me.” And since you’ll never bother going to work, it will never happen.
“Oh, believe me, sirrah, I shall!”
But of course, Pythock never does.
***
Everyone has a great time. There is plenty of food and drink, and stronger, stranger things find their way into the party. Ligir makes brief contact- again- with a group of gnomes, but it is fleeting, although the brownie that they give him leaves him hallucinating for most of a day.
Heimall, on the other hand, overhears some drunken bigots plotting a final solution to “the gnome problem.” “I’m sure that if they hadn’t been pulling strings behind the scenes the whole time,” says one of the bigots, “we’d have won this war in less than a year!”
Were you paying attention at all? Heimall wants to scream. Instead, he just moves on to another table.
The feasting goes on through the night, and none of our heroes go home alone. Even Torinn, the only dragonborn in the city, finds himself in the arms of a young maiden that night- or at least, a young woman.
A young woman that just happens to be Bridget Willow’s daughter.
Next Time: On leave, our heroes decide to keep working... as they go in pursuit of Morl, the Goblin King!
The people of Fandelose have triumphed over a seemingly numberless horde. They have held out against all odds, and although it took almost six years, they have driven off the foe at last. Heshwat the Eviscerator, who had made a daily practice of torturing captives before the walls, now stares sightlessly from the top of a pike, mounted atop those self same walls. The Six-Fingered Hand has been driven back- at least for now.
General Argos announces a great festival, open to everyone in the city. There will be food and entertainment aplenty, and everyone is invited. A small force will remain on watch, and there are scouts in the outlying areas, so even if a tattered remnant Hand force manages to make an attack, the city should have plenty of warning.
And almost everyone is there- almost the entire city. People bring food and drink to contribute, and there is plenty to be had by all. Even after half a decade of siege, the people of Fandelose have never been driven to deep hunger.
Our heroes are acclaimed as main heroes of the war. They are the Defenders of Fandelose, the Heroes of the Wall. The Dragon walks with them, and all of them have made names for themselves.
But of course, nothing is ever all good.
The soldiers grumble. None of them have received any pay yet, and it’s six years overdue- more, in some cases. And the Bronze Council is still not back in power. There are definitely... areas of tension yet to be fully resolved. Areas that have been safely ignored for nigh on six years, while much more immediate concerns threw themselves at the gates over and over again.
Not tonight. No, let tonight be for tonight- a celebration of victory, a collective triumph for all of Fandelose’s people.
***
It takes little time for the party to become separated by the roar of the crowd, the temptation of different performances, different food and drink, different people. To her delight, Vann-La finds herself swept into Lar-Gonn, the Kree sergeant that has fought beside (and beneath) her since the initial engagements by the Black Gorge. They have been courting for several years, showing the legendary elven patience, but tonight is the night. She lets herself be seduced by Lar-Gonn’s delightful little morsels called chocolates.
In the morning, he will give her the rest of the bag.
***
Wandering through the massive press of people, Torinn is surprised to stumble upon General Pythock, his face painted with makeup, orating to a collection of citizens. Torinn smiles at the general, and is not surprised to see his answering sneer.
Pythock, of course, is the general that was in charge when the party first reached Fandelose, a month or so ahead of the Six-Fingered Hand, when General Argos had been imprisoned in the Black Tower, framed by Millbury. Pythock had gained his position by virtue of his aristocratic roots, and had made a very poor impression on the party. In fact, I don’t think he had been to work at all between when we got to the city and when we got Argos out of the tower, muses Torinn.
Yet when the dragonborn edges close enough to hear what Pythock is saying, he is astonished to hear the man taking all the credit for the victory against the Hand and for making the plan that sent the party after the enemy leadership!
“Yes,” Pythock says, rolling his eyes in Torinn’s direction, “those on the walls are usually the ones acclaimed by the folk who see only the men fighting, and don’t know about the meticulous planning that goes into such things, planning done by people such as myself.”
“And General Argos, of course,” Torinn says loudly. He notes that the crowd around the... discussion... is growing larger.
“Of course,” Pythock sneers. “Generals, and marshals, and those wise enough and smart enough to make decisions. Those are the real heroes of this battle.”
”You’re no Argos,” Torinn sneers back.
“It’s the Dragon!” someone in the crowd gasps.
“It was the people of Fandelose, more than anybody, who won the day for the city. And us- myself, Kratos, Ligir, Heimall, Hkatha, Loridell and Vann-La, plus our cook.”
“Of course,” Pythock says disdainfully. “Your slaying of a few dozen kobolds and goblins makes you an essential part of the victory.”
”No, but our slaying of Heshwat the Eviscerator does.”
“A shame you couldn’t finish off the enemy leadership. Too bad some of them escaped you- or was it the other way around?”
“One of them escaped us,” Torinn replies, “and not for long.”
They argue back and forth for some time, trading insults and barbs. Their debate grows more and more heated, until, after one particularly cutting remark from Torinn about Pythock’s harlot-painted face, the general bursts out, “I’ll put you in the stockade for that!”
“Ma’am yes ma’am!” Torinn replies, standing at attention.
General Pythock glares at the dragonborn. “Justice must be served,” he growls.
“Justice must be served!” Torinn answers.
“Your service,” splutters Pythock, “has been exemplary, but your insubordination...”
”Well, sir,” Torinn retorts sarcastically, “as soon as you get to your desk, you can draw up charges against me.” And since you’ll never bother going to work, it will never happen.
“Oh, believe me, sirrah, I shall!”
But of course, Pythock never does.
***
Everyone has a great time. There is plenty of food and drink, and stronger, stranger things find their way into the party. Ligir makes brief contact- again- with a group of gnomes, but it is fleeting, although the brownie that they give him leaves him hallucinating for most of a day.
Heimall, on the other hand, overhears some drunken bigots plotting a final solution to “the gnome problem.” “I’m sure that if they hadn’t been pulling strings behind the scenes the whole time,” says one of the bigots, “we’d have won this war in less than a year!”
Were you paying attention at all? Heimall wants to scream. Instead, he just moves on to another table.
The feasting goes on through the night, and none of our heroes go home alone. Even Torinn, the only dragonborn in the city, finds himself in the arms of a young maiden that night- or at least, a young woman.
A young woman that just happens to be Bridget Willow’s daughter.
Next Time: On leave, our heroes decide to keep working... as they go in pursuit of Morl, the Goblin King!
the Jester
Legend
In the heat of midsummer, the piles of bodies scattered everywhere for miles are starting to rot, to swell with percolating juices. Clouds of flies gather, swarming over everything. Rats and vultures feast, as they have done for years in the vicinity of Fandelose.
Amongst the corpses, fitful, wary groups of starving goblins and kobolds slice the less-rotten chunks of flesh before scampering back into the cover of the nearby hills or forests, feeding on rotting meat, many of them becoming ill and then being slain and eaten as fresh meat by their fellows.
Under the blazing sun, some corpses stir to unlife, animated spontaneously by the heavy pall of death that still blankets the area.
Within the city, the people continue to celebrate, but the mass of rot and filth surrounding them will have to be dealt with- or else plague will come.
***
The defenders of Fandelose have earned their leave. In thirds, the military is given a month off. Our heroes are amongst the first wave. Free time, to do with as they will, for a month! It has been a lifetime since they had such leisure!
Kratos tells his friends, “I’m done. We’ve protected Fandelose, and I’m married with kids now. I can’t be running around risking my neck every day anymore.”
“I understand,” nods Hkatha. “You have responsibilities now.”
“Yes.” Kratos sighs. “Good luck. Come over for dinner sometime.” A pause. “I’m going to talk to General Argos next week and resign my commission.”
The others stare at him without speaking for a moment.
“I have kids,” Kratos repeats.
***
Minus Kratos, the rest of them head out into the rotting battlefield and move quickly towards the command tent, hacking their way through throngs of zombies and worse undead along the way. They are looking for loot, of course, but of greater interest to them is the goblin king Morl, who escaped their attack on the Six-Fingered Hand’s command tent. Once they cut their way to the tent, they look for tracks.
Of course, there are thousands of tracks.
Heimall scratches his beard. “Well, we know where he started, and we know he’s goblin sized.”
“He had nice boots,” recalls Torinn. “Most of the goblin tracks are probably in sandals or barefoot.”
“And we know he ran off that way,” gestures Iggy.
The party starts a thorough search, and although it takes them several hours, they find a group of tracks that they presume to be Morl’s, accompanied by several other goblin-sized tracks. They set out in hot pursuit, following the tracks until they come to a meeting with another group of tracks- but these are different: hooved, but clearly from an upright creature. “Whatever they are, they’re probably about the size of a bugbear,” muses Vann-La.
“It seems like minotaurs fit,” Ligir suggests.
They continue along, following the tracks as they head up into the scrub-covered rocky hills to the south. As evening grows deep the party finds a ruin at the end of the trail, with a trap door leading down to a set of wide descending stairs.
“Let’s go.” Vann-La hefts her hammer and pushes the trap door open, then leads the descent down a flight of cracked stone stairs. Small rivulets of water run down the stairs’ edge; slime and mold grow on the walls. The others follow close on her heels.
At the bottom, the stairs spill into a chamber dominated by a massive statue of a minotaur with a wide-bladed greataxe in its hands. Vann-La raises a hand and halts the party. “There’s blood on that axe,” she murmurs.
Cook moves cautiously forward. “Maybe I check it out,” he says, then blanches when he sees the size of the blade. “Oooi,” he groans unhappily.
But as he starts to move forward, something moves behind the pedestal that the statue stands upon. A large, growling beast that our heroes instantly recognize as a worg pads into view.
And immediately begins to bark loudly.
Vann-La curses and springs forward. Voices suddenly rise in a surprised babble from off to the left, and more barking starts coming from both sides, where there are exits from the chamber.
As Vann-La rushes towards the visible worg, the great statue sweeps its blade around in a great circle, slashing her with brutal force- but deftly avoiding the worg. Vann-La rolls with the blow, then darts the rest of the way forward to the worg, which she engages with brutal efficiency.
Meanwhile, another worg enters the fray from either side. To the left, the voices have stopped- They were speaking in Goblin, thinks Torinn- and there is no sign of the speakers as of yet.
The party moves in, trying to dodge the statue’s blade while bringing the battle to the worgs so that Vann-La is not surrounded and overwhelmed. But the statue’s axe is swift and deadly.
I must disable that, thinks Cook. He takes a deep breath and then springs forward, under the blade, and darts atop the pedestal to begin his work.
Things get more interesting when Heimall tries to skirt the statue around the left side and gets caught by one of the hiding bugbears, who wraps a tight leather cord around his neck and drags him back. Vann-La darts over to aid her friend, but the bugbear uses the warlord as a shield, catching Vann-La’s hammer blow on Heimall’s breastplate. Both of our heroes curse, but Heimall can’t seem to break the strangler’s grip!
But the battle quickly turns. Heimall manages to avoid the bugbear’s attempts to use him as a body shield again, and Vann-La brings her hammer into the bugbear’s face, pulping its nose and teeth. With a red wail, the bugbear collapses back against the wall, raising its hands in front of its ruined face.
Heimall whirls and buries the point of Throat-Ripper in the bugbear’s chest.
The rest of the fight is quick and intense, and in only a few moments, the worgs and the other bugbear have been laid low, and the statue has been disabled by a combination of Cook’s mechanical skill and Torinn and Ligir’s magical ability.
“Well, at least they know we’re coming, after that racket,” Torinn says wryly.
The party explores the two chambers that the bugbears and worgs came from. To the left is a simple chamber with four bedrolls laid out. One corner of the room has a trash heap in it, consisting mostly of food waste. A few barrels and crates of torches and foodstuffs form a rough wall segregating the trash heap from the rest of the room.
To the right, the party finds what is clearly a temple, dominated by an altar with a huge set of horns above it. Ligir whistles. “I wonder what kind of beast those came off of,” he says. The horns are curved like a bull’s, but they are far too large for any bull. Tapering to a razor-sharp point, each horn is as wide as Vann-La’s waist at its widest place. Straightened, each horn might measure seven feet long or thereabouts. The altar itself is a barbaric block of black stone faced with bones, with bloodstains all over it. The whole assembly glows with a ghastly green light.
“This is an altar to Baphomet, the demon prince of minotaurs,” pronounces Torinn.
“Looks like we were right,” Ligir says. “Maybe Morl has found some new allies.”
There are other exits from the central room with the chopper statue: two archways are blocked by curtains and two doors lead out from the wall opposite the stairs. The party decides to investigate the curtained off areas first. The first one appears to be some kind of meeting chamber, with a decent-sized table surrounded by chairs and several stools. Vann-La immediately strides to one of the walls and announces, “There’s a secret door here.”
“Those are some sharp elven eyes you have there.” Heimall smiles, clearly impressed. Not much escapes Vann-La’s notice, that’s for sure!
The party takes up positions around the secret door. Vann-La opens it, but all that is beyond it is a small 5’x5’ space. Vann-La strides forward and warns, “Stay ready!” And she opens the secret door that- again- she had noted without so much as a glance around.*
Then she charges.
Beyond the second secret door is a guard room with hobgoblins in it! The first falls in a bloody cloud of bone and flesh when the Kree’s warhammer crashes into his chest. The others rise and draw, but the rest of the party is already pouring in through the secret door.
There are shouts and cries from the adjoining room as more hobgoblins stir and try to pull themselves out of their beds, where they were no doubt dreaming of pillaging the people of the Empire. The main direction of combat seems clogged with fighting, so Cook darts around the side- via a passage looks like it leads around to the chamber ahead- and then skids to a stop.
“OGRES!” he bellows. “Oi, bad news!”
But the pair of ogres are still just barely waking up, bleary-eyed and blinking. There’s no time to think- so Cook hurls shuriken at them, throwing for the eyes in a blinding barrage! Both ogres roar in pain and surprise.
The fight is confused, with several foes awake to begin with and a second wave that comes not long after when those that were sleeping have gathered their weapons and risen to their feet. Led by a goblin prince, the goblinoids fight a delaying action while the ogres gather themselves, try to shrug off the blindness and start to move forward.
But by then it is virtually too late. The party crashes into the enemy like an avalanche, and the Hand forces fall quickly to their onslaught. The ogres are tougher, but by the time they can see again, Cook has issued stern cuts to both of them, and before more than a few more seconds pass, the fight is over.
The party takes a few moments to catch their breaths and heal, although the enemy only left them with a few minor scratches. Then they search the area- it seems to consist of only the ogres’ bedroom, the guard room and the room in which several hobgoblins had been sleeping. In that chamber, a fireplace blazes. There are a few minor personal effects of the goblinoids and ogres, but nothing of real value.
The party confirms that the goblin prince they slew in here was not King Morl. “One of his allies, or an heir, perhaps?” speculates Heimall.
The party moves back to the entry chamber and pushes through the other curtain. This one leads to a short hallway, that turns to the right at the end and widens (or perhaps spills into a room). Our heroes again advance, and turn the corner.
The hallway extends just over 40’ before it opens up into a chamber that the party’s light barely touches. Several alcoves open to either side of the hallway along the way. In the chamber there seems to be some sort of depressed area, for the party can just make out the upper body of a figure standing in the depression.
A skeletal figure with three skulls atop its frame.
Vann-La immediately begins to rush down the hallway towards it, and it cackles.
And ghosts stream out of the alcoves.
Next Time: Our heroes fight for their lives as they try to follow Morl’s Retreat!
*At this point, Vann-La’s passive Perception was a 26; add to that the lantern of revelation or whatever it’s called that Torinn has as an at-will utility that pretty much always gives her a +2 bonus while they’re dungeoneering... well, most of the time, if I’m using appropriate secret door DCs I can pretty much count on the party finding them...
Amongst the corpses, fitful, wary groups of starving goblins and kobolds slice the less-rotten chunks of flesh before scampering back into the cover of the nearby hills or forests, feeding on rotting meat, many of them becoming ill and then being slain and eaten as fresh meat by their fellows.
Under the blazing sun, some corpses stir to unlife, animated spontaneously by the heavy pall of death that still blankets the area.
Within the city, the people continue to celebrate, but the mass of rot and filth surrounding them will have to be dealt with- or else plague will come.
***
The defenders of Fandelose have earned their leave. In thirds, the military is given a month off. Our heroes are amongst the first wave. Free time, to do with as they will, for a month! It has been a lifetime since they had such leisure!
Kratos tells his friends, “I’m done. We’ve protected Fandelose, and I’m married with kids now. I can’t be running around risking my neck every day anymore.”
“I understand,” nods Hkatha. “You have responsibilities now.”
“Yes.” Kratos sighs. “Good luck. Come over for dinner sometime.” A pause. “I’m going to talk to General Argos next week and resign my commission.”
The others stare at him without speaking for a moment.
“I have kids,” Kratos repeats.
***
Minus Kratos, the rest of them head out into the rotting battlefield and move quickly towards the command tent, hacking their way through throngs of zombies and worse undead along the way. They are looking for loot, of course, but of greater interest to them is the goblin king Morl, who escaped their attack on the Six-Fingered Hand’s command tent. Once they cut their way to the tent, they look for tracks.
Of course, there are thousands of tracks.
Heimall scratches his beard. “Well, we know where he started, and we know he’s goblin sized.”
“He had nice boots,” recalls Torinn. “Most of the goblin tracks are probably in sandals or barefoot.”
“And we know he ran off that way,” gestures Iggy.
The party starts a thorough search, and although it takes them several hours, they find a group of tracks that they presume to be Morl’s, accompanied by several other goblin-sized tracks. They set out in hot pursuit, following the tracks until they come to a meeting with another group of tracks- but these are different: hooved, but clearly from an upright creature. “Whatever they are, they’re probably about the size of a bugbear,” muses Vann-La.
“It seems like minotaurs fit,” Ligir suggests.
They continue along, following the tracks as they head up into the scrub-covered rocky hills to the south. As evening grows deep the party finds a ruin at the end of the trail, with a trap door leading down to a set of wide descending stairs.
“Let’s go.” Vann-La hefts her hammer and pushes the trap door open, then leads the descent down a flight of cracked stone stairs. Small rivulets of water run down the stairs’ edge; slime and mold grow on the walls. The others follow close on her heels.
At the bottom, the stairs spill into a chamber dominated by a massive statue of a minotaur with a wide-bladed greataxe in its hands. Vann-La raises a hand and halts the party. “There’s blood on that axe,” she murmurs.
Cook moves cautiously forward. “Maybe I check it out,” he says, then blanches when he sees the size of the blade. “Oooi,” he groans unhappily.
But as he starts to move forward, something moves behind the pedestal that the statue stands upon. A large, growling beast that our heroes instantly recognize as a worg pads into view.
And immediately begins to bark loudly.
Vann-La curses and springs forward. Voices suddenly rise in a surprised babble from off to the left, and more barking starts coming from both sides, where there are exits from the chamber.
As Vann-La rushes towards the visible worg, the great statue sweeps its blade around in a great circle, slashing her with brutal force- but deftly avoiding the worg. Vann-La rolls with the blow, then darts the rest of the way forward to the worg, which she engages with brutal efficiency.
Meanwhile, another worg enters the fray from either side. To the left, the voices have stopped- They were speaking in Goblin, thinks Torinn- and there is no sign of the speakers as of yet.
The party moves in, trying to dodge the statue’s blade while bringing the battle to the worgs so that Vann-La is not surrounded and overwhelmed. But the statue’s axe is swift and deadly.
I must disable that, thinks Cook. He takes a deep breath and then springs forward, under the blade, and darts atop the pedestal to begin his work.
Things get more interesting when Heimall tries to skirt the statue around the left side and gets caught by one of the hiding bugbears, who wraps a tight leather cord around his neck and drags him back. Vann-La darts over to aid her friend, but the bugbear uses the warlord as a shield, catching Vann-La’s hammer blow on Heimall’s breastplate. Both of our heroes curse, but Heimall can’t seem to break the strangler’s grip!
But the battle quickly turns. Heimall manages to avoid the bugbear’s attempts to use him as a body shield again, and Vann-La brings her hammer into the bugbear’s face, pulping its nose and teeth. With a red wail, the bugbear collapses back against the wall, raising its hands in front of its ruined face.
Heimall whirls and buries the point of Throat-Ripper in the bugbear’s chest.
The rest of the fight is quick and intense, and in only a few moments, the worgs and the other bugbear have been laid low, and the statue has been disabled by a combination of Cook’s mechanical skill and Torinn and Ligir’s magical ability.
“Well, at least they know we’re coming, after that racket,” Torinn says wryly.
The party explores the two chambers that the bugbears and worgs came from. To the left is a simple chamber with four bedrolls laid out. One corner of the room has a trash heap in it, consisting mostly of food waste. A few barrels and crates of torches and foodstuffs form a rough wall segregating the trash heap from the rest of the room.
To the right, the party finds what is clearly a temple, dominated by an altar with a huge set of horns above it. Ligir whistles. “I wonder what kind of beast those came off of,” he says. The horns are curved like a bull’s, but they are far too large for any bull. Tapering to a razor-sharp point, each horn is as wide as Vann-La’s waist at its widest place. Straightened, each horn might measure seven feet long or thereabouts. The altar itself is a barbaric block of black stone faced with bones, with bloodstains all over it. The whole assembly glows with a ghastly green light.
“This is an altar to Baphomet, the demon prince of minotaurs,” pronounces Torinn.
“Looks like we were right,” Ligir says. “Maybe Morl has found some new allies.”
There are other exits from the central room with the chopper statue: two archways are blocked by curtains and two doors lead out from the wall opposite the stairs. The party decides to investigate the curtained off areas first. The first one appears to be some kind of meeting chamber, with a decent-sized table surrounded by chairs and several stools. Vann-La immediately strides to one of the walls and announces, “There’s a secret door here.”
“Those are some sharp elven eyes you have there.” Heimall smiles, clearly impressed. Not much escapes Vann-La’s notice, that’s for sure!
The party takes up positions around the secret door. Vann-La opens it, but all that is beyond it is a small 5’x5’ space. Vann-La strides forward and warns, “Stay ready!” And she opens the secret door that- again- she had noted without so much as a glance around.*
Then she charges.
Beyond the second secret door is a guard room with hobgoblins in it! The first falls in a bloody cloud of bone and flesh when the Kree’s warhammer crashes into his chest. The others rise and draw, but the rest of the party is already pouring in through the secret door.
There are shouts and cries from the adjoining room as more hobgoblins stir and try to pull themselves out of their beds, where they were no doubt dreaming of pillaging the people of the Empire. The main direction of combat seems clogged with fighting, so Cook darts around the side- via a passage looks like it leads around to the chamber ahead- and then skids to a stop.
“OGRES!” he bellows. “Oi, bad news!”
But the pair of ogres are still just barely waking up, bleary-eyed and blinking. There’s no time to think- so Cook hurls shuriken at them, throwing for the eyes in a blinding barrage! Both ogres roar in pain and surprise.
The fight is confused, with several foes awake to begin with and a second wave that comes not long after when those that were sleeping have gathered their weapons and risen to their feet. Led by a goblin prince, the goblinoids fight a delaying action while the ogres gather themselves, try to shrug off the blindness and start to move forward.
But by then it is virtually too late. The party crashes into the enemy like an avalanche, and the Hand forces fall quickly to their onslaught. The ogres are tougher, but by the time they can see again, Cook has issued stern cuts to both of them, and before more than a few more seconds pass, the fight is over.
The party takes a few moments to catch their breaths and heal, although the enemy only left them with a few minor scratches. Then they search the area- it seems to consist of only the ogres’ bedroom, the guard room and the room in which several hobgoblins had been sleeping. In that chamber, a fireplace blazes. There are a few minor personal effects of the goblinoids and ogres, but nothing of real value.
The party confirms that the goblin prince they slew in here was not King Morl. “One of his allies, or an heir, perhaps?” speculates Heimall.
The party moves back to the entry chamber and pushes through the other curtain. This one leads to a short hallway, that turns to the right at the end and widens (or perhaps spills into a room). Our heroes again advance, and turn the corner.
The hallway extends just over 40’ before it opens up into a chamber that the party’s light barely touches. Several alcoves open to either side of the hallway along the way. In the chamber there seems to be some sort of depressed area, for the party can just make out the upper body of a figure standing in the depression.
A skeletal figure with three skulls atop its frame.
Vann-La immediately begins to rush down the hallway towards it, and it cackles.
And ghosts stream out of the alcoves.
Next Time: Our heroes fight for their lives as they try to follow Morl’s Retreat!
*At this point, Vann-La’s passive Perception was a 26; add to that the lantern of revelation or whatever it’s called that Torinn has as an at-will utility that pretty much always gives her a +2 bonus while they’re dungeoneering... well, most of the time, if I’m using appropriate secret door DCs I can pretty much count on the party finding them...
Last edited:
the Jester
Legend
Don't be too shocked to see me throw a handful of updates in a week a lot of the time.
Then again, August through September you prolly won't see as much.
Anyway, new update comin' below!
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