Story HourPost your ongoing tales from your campaigns, and read those from others for inspiration. Lots of other RPG boards post "Story Hours", but this is where it started!
“Fall back!” the warlord bellows, and everyone tries making their way to the junction corridor…
…and that’s when they see ten zombies shambling toward them from the darkness. They’re being attacked from both sides now, and the enemies in the sarcophagi room have no end in sight. The implications of this are horrifying; they’ll be torn to shreds down here and no one in Winterhaven will ever see them again.
They don’t know what they did to trigger the skeleton trap, but fortification in the hallway is a decent tactic to avoid waves of arrows hurling toward them. Skeleton archers without good line sight put their bows away and advance with rusted longswords, and for every few undead they cut down, ten more leap forth from iron coffins the next round!
Fortunately, most are minions so they drop easily, and their attacks don’t inflict terrible damage. Helga and Kerric take the brunt of the assault, using their high AC to deflect blows, or their hefty hit points to absorb damage while the weaker character defend the zombie flank.
Irann curses anything she can see (both magically and literally) and lobs gouts of eldritch fire. Erevan conjures a globe of flame and rolls it into the midst of the zombies, incinerating any that get too close.
[GM Note: I think it was around now that someone said that we were really playing Diablo and not D&D].
The group is wavering between fighting and fleeing, and the hesitation weakens their tactics. If the skeletons keep spawning endlessly there will be no point to keep fighting…unless there is a way to stop them on the other side. If they can chop a path through the zombies they’ll have a clear run back to the surface, at least to catch their breath and decide on another strategy.
Arrows continue raining down on them, mostly pinging off armor or shields but occasionally sinking into flesh. The zombies are picked off relatively quickly, but for five rounds in a row the ranks of skeleton warriors grows thicker and thicker, crowding almost every available square. Row upon row of clacking dead warriors fall beneath the PCs blades and flame.
The zombies are finally all destroyed, giving Brandis and Irann a chance to run back upstairs to where they first found the Goblin Trap…to retrieve the barrel of lantern oil.
They’re going to burn the bastards to a second death down there.
It will take five rounds to retrieve it, and in the meantime Helga, Erevan and Kerric do what they can to hold back the enemy. Erevan continues scorching the warriors, and then rolls his flaming sphere into their midst, igniting a few others. But the skeletons have no fear and march relentlessly into obliteration, trying to overwhelm them with sheer numbers.
When the barrel of oil is finally rolled down to the group (and fortunately Brandis and Irann met no resistance alone) Kerric shoves it to the middle of the hallway. They’re very curious to know what triggers the trap; is it their presence, some magical signal, or something else? The barrel stops in the middle of the floor and does not seem to begin another wave. They don’t hear scratching yet either. Helga braves the arrows that will fly at her once she enters the room and charges in, screaming at the top of her lungs.
A few barbs sink into her, but most bounce off. Kerric is hot on her heels, his shield raised and his bastard sword swinging arcs through their enemies. Rusted blades shatter against their armor, and then Erevan’s flaming sphere is bobbing through, igniting their ancient dry bones into crackling conflagrations.
Irann runs in too, teleporting short distances as cursed skeletons are obliterated by the warriors ahead of her. Soon, the group of five adventurers has pressed the enemy to the rear of the chamber where the ceiling rises.
[GM Note: There is actually quite a bit of descriptive detail about this end of the room I glossed over; I’ll get to that next time].
After a long, brutal, exhausting battle against a seemingly endless horde of magically animated undead, the flow has ceased, and the last two skeletal warriors hack and chop at Helga as she advances on them with murder in her eyes. The end comes soon after that, and the group heaves in great sucking breaths, listening to the stillness around them and the pounding of their hearts.
They’re alive, not too badly hurt, and standing in the middle of what looks like a holy shrine. Or unholy, depending on who you ask. There is a wooden altar to the north and south, a vaulted ceiling shimmering with dull starlight, and a large set of double doors to the west.
Kerric suspects something in this room has to do with the plague of skeletons, and he’s also worried that they could continue pouring out again. Behind them, the long hallways is littered with dozens of shattered bones, weapons and tattered chainmail, the remnants of a long battle that could have gone very poorly for the heroes.
They begin to search…
And that’s where we stopped.
[GM Note: A whole lot of this session ventured into unexpected territory, but that’s fine. The battle in the skele-crypt was not as deadly as it seemed at first, but man, I was surprised when I read over that section. I hadn’t planned on them going there and had not prepped it at all, nor did I recall what the trap entailed. Fortunately I had a co-DM helping this session! It went much smoother than it would have otherwise; i didn't have any miniatures prepared].
The heroes are entrenched in a strange chapel of gentle, starry light. Behind them the hallway is littered with dozens and dozens of bones and blades, remnants of the last bizarre encounter in the Skeleton Monster Closet. Above them the high ceiling is concave and painted with an exquisite rendering of Bahamut, the Platinum Dragon of Justice, a benevolent god sometimes worshipped by Man. Its eye burns with a soft white luminescence.
To the left and right are two altars, both identical, both emblazoned with draconic imagery and runes. Small clusters of candles magically burn atop the altars. To the north is a large set of iron double doors that holds an ominous promise of what might lie beyond.
Kerric the Paladin of Kelemvor suspects that the altars offer a way to shut down the Skeleton Monster Closet…but he can’t read the words. But the warlock Irann can, so she squats down, trying to decipher the cryptic prayer. The others stand guard, but are dismayed to see the bones in the hallway slowly begin disintegrate, turning to a fine gray powder, the blades rusting and cracking and crumbling too.
And within a few short seconds they hear claws scratching inside the sarcophagi again!
This bodes ill, and Irann redoubles her efforts to read the Draconic script. Soon she has translated a prayer and recites it to Kerric, who humbly kneels at the altar, even though it is not his god, and beseeches the aid of Bahamut. A feeling of tranquility flows through his body, and moments later the scratching stops. The dead have been silenced. For now.
But Kerric is not sure how long this fix will last. If they leave and return some days later the magic trap might reset itself. Regardless, they know how to stop the flow of undead. With some breathing room, they investigate the altars closer.
Underneath one they find a smooth marble tombstone, with the epitaph:
GONE TOO SOON – ISABEL KEEGAN.” This must be the wife of Sir Keegan who brutally slew his family and friends so long ago. The other altar has a similar flat tombstone, engraved with: “LOST TOO SOON – KEERA & KELLA KEEGAN.”
The dead twins.
Almost as soon as they have read the inscription, the temperature noticeably drops and lights seem to dim. Their breath visibly puffs in the chilly air. From out of nowhere, two little girls have abruptly appeared in the hall, staring at the heroes with white eyes.
“FATHER’S ANGRY…” they say in unison, their ghostly voices echoing throughout the corridor.
“FATHER’S ANGRY…”
Their feet end in swirling mist, the same mist that the heroes released earlier from the Goblin Trap box.
Kerric takes a deep breath and swears to the ghostly twins that he will avenge their deaths. It is part of his holy duty to Kelemvor. They say nothing else and dissipate into mist. Helga regrets they didn’t try to question the ghosts, but there is no guarantee they would be capable of answering anyway.
Kerric and Erevan the wizard put their combined knowledge of Religion and Arcana together and try to figure out what these dead twins are, and why they might have been inside a silver-lined chest in the possession of goblins. They no longer think that they are vampires, and while the spirits can perhaps be temporarily destroyed, the only way to send their souls to a higher plane is to ritualistically consecrate this room. [A Minor Quest]. That is something they’ll deal with later.
They discuss their options and look over the hastily drawn map for Merp the Moneylender in Silverymoon. There are four places they have not searched, and they decide to backtrack to the top level and explore there first, rather than entering the large double doors. Leaving enemies behind them just doesn’t seem like a good idea and could compound their problems later.
So, back at the top level, they look under beds in the guard room and find some gold, and then it’s off to the north where they saw a light. Erevan runs upstairs to the surface first to check the status. It’s been raining and is cloudy now, but there is no indication of foes lurking outside. Good.
The hall to the north widens to reveal a wood door on the west, a wood door to the north, and black iron double doors on the east. All are closed. A lantern hangs on the wall, shedding wobbly light. Kerric and Brandis creep forward, weapons extended, their ears perked for the slightest sign of trouble. Kerric hears gruff voices behind the north door but can’t understand the language. Erevan presses an ear to the cold iron double doors and hears nothing. Likewise, the wood door to the west is silent. Brandis gets closer to the north doors and hears a strange conversation beyond, spoken in goblin between three individuals, and it concerns eating someone’s fingers and toes!
Kerric clearly hears a fourth voice wailing, “NO! No nononononononono!”
They discuss their options, and Irann picks the lock on the west door. There’s a storage room beyond filled with dry rations. Nothing of particular interest. However, they tie the handles on the iron doors together with rope so that if anyone tries to exit it will be very difficult, if not impossible.
The group clusters around the door where they heard voices. Helga touches the handle. It’s unlocked. Licking her lips, she gently pushes it open a sliver, revealing a few closed jail cells. She opens it a little wider, revealing more and more of the chamber, and then swings it all the way!
There’s a man-sized person in here, his face obscured by a black torturer’s mask, and wearing a black apron and leather armor. He’s bending over a flame pit with two burning hot pokers. There are also two small armed goblins immediately visible.
“Who are YOU?” the torturer grunts, but doesn’t wait for an answer. He launches toward the dwarf with a raucous battle cry even as the two goblins whip out bows and begin peppering the heroes with tiny – yet horribly accurate - arrows. Helga plants her feet and meets the torturer head on, but his poker thrusts into her shoulder and the cloth beneath immediately smolders and ignites. Brandis jabs through the doorway with his halberd, gouging the torturer in the ribcage. He howls in pain, but doesn’t stop twisting the poker in Helga’s shoulder.
Kerric and Brandis both try to help pat out the flames, but they’re unable to accomplish much in the chaos of the fight. [GM Note: Thinking back on it, using a minor to get out a canteen, and then a Standard to dump it on the small flames could A) Put them out, or B) Give an additional saving throw, or C) Give a bonus to the saving throw]. Vicious blows are exchanged in the doorway, and all the while two goblin sharpshooters are launching arrows with cruel accuracy. Helga is Bloodied and forced to back off. The torturer is hampered by numerous conditions himself, but as soon as he retreats from the door it slams shut in the hero’s faces. Someone was behind it the whole time waiting for him to move out of the way.
Not wanting that to happen again, Kerric retrieves a broom handle from the storage room and crams it into the door jamb so that it can’t be closed. Helga bursts in, a permanent scowl on her face, and nearly gets stabbed in the spleen by a waiting goblin beside the door. She deflects the blow and hammers the butt of her axe onto his head. Arrows whistle at her, and then Kerric and Brandis surge into the room, taking the fight to the archers.
Meanwhile, needless to say, the wizard has been throwing magic missiles through the open door while the warlock curses and eldritch blasts anyone she can see. They’re safely nestled out of melee combat reach.
The masked torturer leaps back into the fray, and Helga is dismayed when multiple attacks from she and her comrades seem to harmlessly bounce off his leather jerkin! Chuckling evilly, the torturer stabs down again and again, but fails to make a connection with Helga, who finally plants her axe deep into the crown of his head. Blood spurts out in a crimson shower and the man keels over backwards, dead.
Kerric and Brandis find a third goblin archer inside a cage in the corner of the room, and as soon as they’re in sight he starts shooting. Kerric soon skewers an archer into the wall, and Helga charges the one in the cage. They try to intimidate the goblin into submission and surrender (and only fail by a single point) but the goblin is incensed and willing to fight to the death, so Helga obliges him. Snickety-snick.
Once the fight is over they search around the room. It’s obviously a torture chamber, replete with cruel instruments of pain, and even an iron maiden. Erevan detects magic on the armor the torturer wore and finds that it bears a minor Bloodcut enchantment. Despite the stink and the blood, he puts the armor on. They investigate the prisoner cells, and that’s where they find the creature who previously shrieked “NO nononono!”
There is a pathetic-looking goblin hunched in the back of the cell, a pot over his head and covering his eyes. There are curious burn marks adorning his face and arms.
“Who are you?” asks Kerric, “and why are you in here?”
“Me Splug, mm-hmmm,” the goblin answers, peeking out with one eye from under the kettle. “Don’t you eat me, mmhmmm!”
[GM Note: Splug’s voice and mannerisms were liberally borrowed from Billy Bob Thornton in Slingblade]
Well, the group doesn’t have any intention of eating the dirty goblin, although Splug goes on to insist how bad he surely tastes. The group isn’t keen on letting him out either, and they take their time questioning him and trying to glean any motives the creature might have. Splug reveals numerous things that may or may not be true, but they don’t detect any overt dishonesty from him.
1) Splug has been here with the goblins for many months, and he is a simple guard.
2) He works for Boss Fatty, a fat -eating goblin. Splug hates him. And no, Splug doesn’t know any inherent weaknesses or statblock vulnerabilities that they might exploit (nice try though!) Fatty likes to fight with a big crossbow and target practices on rats and other goblins.
3) Boss Fatty in turn works for Kalarel, a human magic maker of some kind. Splug never sees him, and just knows that he’s a mean, bad bad man. And he don’t like pretty things. Not one bit. In fact, he likes ugly dead things.
4) Boss Fatty is behind the iron doors outside the torture chamber, and has around a dozen goblin guards.
5) Splug was terribly injured by a burning thing in the dark, but it burned him without heat (acid?) His scars would indicate this. The thing killed the squad he was with while they were investigating a cave. Splug barely escaped.
6) Splug is now nearly useless and half-blind, so the mean goblins threw him in here and decided to torture him and eat him, mostly out of boredom and natural malevolence.
7) Splug isn’t feeling any particular loyalty toward goblins right now, or hobgoblins for that matter, and the group of heroes collectively Intimidate Splug into servitude, under the threat that if he EVER betrays them, they’ll hunt him to the far corners of the world. And then they WILL eat him.
8] He knows that Irontooth was a goblin and a loyal follower of Kalarel, but Splug never met him personally.
9) Splug says that he found a secret door downstairs in the stinky level, but couldn’t open it. He offers to show the group this door as an offering of trust.
10) There are hobgoblins in the lower level, a whole bunch of ‘em, but Splug don’t ever go down there.
11) There’s an excavation site nearby on the top floor, buncha goblins been digging there for weeks looking for treasure. They got some meanie guard drakes with them. Splug doesn’t much like the drakes; they have bitey bitey sharp teeth.
12) The ghostly little girls. Oh, yeah, Splug knows about dem! They scare him. And they really annoyed Kalarel, but that big man wasn’t scared of them. He made magic and trapped them in a box, and gave that box to the goblins to scare off intruders.
13) Lastly, they question him about Boss Fatty’s room behind the iron door. Is there another way out? Splug has been in there before and doesn’t recall seeing an exit, but he says that Bossy Fatty is clever. They suspect that there might be another way in or out.
After this interrogation, they finally let Splug out of the cage. He can wield a small shield, javelins and a sword, although he’s an even less capable fighter since his injury. They don’t really want him for combat though, but as a source of subterfuge and information.
[GM Note: The Monster Manual says that all monsters have a healing surge but most cannot activate them on their own, they need help. So, I think that the warlord or paladin might be able to activate Splug’s second wind once per encounter. I’d still keep him out of a fight if you can help it, he’ll drop fast regardless].
The group decides they want to take care of this Boss Fatty problem first. It’s just not wise to leave a large number of goblins lurking around behind them. They still don’t hear any sounds behind the iron door, but the group did make a lot of noise outside very recently. Someone might have heard. They send Splug inside with explicit instructions: Intruders are at the entrance! COME QUICK! HELP!
Kerric and Erevan hide inside the torture chamber while everyone else skitters around the corner to the main entrance chamber where the rat pit is. The plan is to separate the enemy and pick them off in small groups, rather than confronting the whole bunch at once. Kerric watches through a crack in the door, but not long after Splug has entered, they hear him yelp and come streaking out, bearing left and running toward the others. He tells Brandis that the goblins were on high alert and armed, with a table turned over, and were asking him how he got out of the cage. They must have heard the fight outside and dug themselves in, waiting for intruders to enter.
Not good.
About a minute later a lone goblin scout exits the black iron doors, fails to see Kerric hiding, and then closes the doors.
Well, so much for the plan to ambush the gobbers. They’re on high alert right now and a head-on confrontation might be difficult. But the PCs have another plan; they find a chain in the torture chamber and wrap it around the handles on the iron door, hoping to trap the goblins inside. They’ll come back later after some time has passed and try to catch them off guard again.
They’re not sure what to expect as they open the door to this new passage. Bright light emanates from multiple lanterns as they creep down the stairs. They pass an open passage on the right that Splug shies away from, whimpering. He says that down THERE the thing attacked them, the thing that burned him with no heat. Helga takes a couple of steps inside and sees that the flagstones and architecture from elsewhere gives way to a natural cavern. Water drips from the ceiling into chilly puddles. Ignoring the passage for now, they send Splug ahead to report what he sees at the dig, and he returns saying that there are three diggers and two drakes.
Drakes. Only Brandis knows what drakes are, basically vicious lizards that can be trained as loyal pets, not unlike guard dogs.
The group is lined up in the hall outside the room with only a partial view within. The flagstone floor has been ripped apart, creating small pillars connected by planks. Kerric can just barely see a small dragon-like creature curled up on one of the platforms. They hear goblins complaining, but only Brandis speaks goblin and he can’t quite make out the words.
They have momentary surprise, and decide to act on it. Helga initially wants to remove the plank connecting the nearest island, until someone gently points out that the drake has wings and would just flap over to their side anyway. So, Helga CHARGES into the room, attempting to leap over the wobbly plank and bring the fight straight to the drake, but her feet tangle up at the last instant and she drops like a lead balloon to the earthen floor ten feet below.
Splat.
On the other side of the room a goblin digger blinks and rubs his eyes. Was that a flying dwarf he just saw? The drake turns its head, reptilian nostrils flaring.
Helga moans and spits dirt from her mouth. Kerric runs down the ramp, leaps over her body, and darts toward the second drake down on the ground, followed by Brandis the warlord. Again, Erevan and Irann stay far from the midst of battle and attack from range, although the wizard has been missing terribly tonight.
The three diggers are also armed with bows (goblins don’t leave their beds without some kind of weapon), and they are the same annoyingly dangerous sharpshooters that the heroes encountered in the Torture Chamber.
And to their further dismay, Kerric finds that Splug was quite correct about the drakes – they are VERY mean and very bitey bitey bitey. The reddish beast flies at the paladin, jaws clamping onto his arm and shredding through the armor. Helga has already picked herself up and charged the closest archer, pinning him down and hacking at him with mad sweeps of her axe. A drake leaps off from the pillar island and slams into her, teeth latching onto her leg, its head thrashing back and forth like a shark.
Between a few well-aimed arrows and the drake, Kerric finds himself suddenly bloodied and in danger. He manages to daze the drake with a daily power, but fails to put enough distance between himself and his foe, and the next thing he knows the drake has lunged at him, and Kerric is knocked unconscious and dying.
Helga crushes a goblin, and then spins on an injured drake, slamming her axe through its skull. Arrows continue pinging down from the elevated goblin, but Erevan targets him with multiple magic missiles. Irann teleports inside the room for line of sight to the last drake and curses it, although she is struck (for the first time perhaps!) by several arrows. Brandis expends a daily, walloping a drake for massive damage.
Someone manages to stabilize Kerric so that he quits making Death Saves, but he is still unconscious. The last drake is slain, soon followed by a goblin, and then there is only one lone archer left. An eldritch blast explodes unholy flames from his eyes and mouth, and the little beast crumples into a charred heap.
Kerric is helped to his feet, and the group spends as many surges as they can to recuperate. They’ve depleted some Action Points and dailies and are planning on leaving the Keep to rest and recuperate, either in the woods or back at Winterhaven, the latter of which will offer Wolftooth to Brandis Padraig if they choose that route. They just don’t think it is safe to stay in the keep. [Wise move, guys!]
They search the dig site first and find an old battered scrollcase that the goblins probably thought useless. It contains two rituals: Detect Secret Doors and Repel Vermin, two spells that the wizard doesn’t have.
[GM Note: This is something new I’m trying. I would have done it after the last fight but I forgot, so I’m including it here in the recap. Keep in mind that any information learned is purely for player entertainment and cannot be used metagame by the characters. Also keep in mind that WHEN this scene takes place is also unknown and left deliberately vague].
Kalarel turned his face upward, allowing droplets of warm blood to splash across his jaw and cheeks. He opened his mouth to drink. Red rivulets stained his ram-horned helm, and his features glowed hellishly in the wan candle light. Sluggish liquid pooled around his feet, a dark morass of mixed blood and viscera. Nearby, a humanoid figure lurked in the shadows, its features obscured.
The deathpriest of Orcus allowed the last of the blood to fall, and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stepped out of the pool. It was very dark in this place, and the only sounds heard were the squishing of his boots and distant, muffled screams. The screams soon stopped. The figure standing in the shadows said nothing.
“I’ve heard word from my spy in Winterhaven, Maw,” the priest finally said. He was staring off into the darkness. Although human, Kalarel’s features displayed a bestial anger, a hatred of life and living things that made him seem more monster than man. The shadow in the darkness did not answer, but skeletal fingers did gently tap each other, waiting for Kalarel to continue.
“The Mirror of Scarvoss has been stolen from the graveyard. Those…stupid kobolds failed to dig it all the way out.” His lip was peeled back in a sneer, his fist curled into a ball. “Lord Orcus will be very…displeased. That mirror held a piece of the Shadowfell within in it, and would have made opening the rift much easier, and greatly aided Orcus’s bid for rulership of the shadow world.
But no matter. No matter. We continue the plan.”
He continued to glower into the darkness.
“Apparently,” he said with some difficulty, “a human fool named Douvan Stahl and a Halfling have taken the mirror north. I dispatched agents, but even now it might be too late. The mirror is likely beyond our reach.”
The figure in the shadows spoke. “And you did not send me?” A rasping voice, as if its throat were full of dry dirt.
“No, Maw. I need you here. We can still open the rift, but we’ll need more blood than before. Much more. Buckets...of blood. Do you understand?”
A skeletal head nodded. “Yes…Master Kalarel.”
“Good. Seek the surface then, inquisitor, and attend my bidding. And if you happen upon any Bloodreavers, all offers for their slaves are to be accepted. We need sacrifices now more than ever. Winterhaven shall suffer, oh yes. Their children shall wallow in suffering.”
A rotting figure stepped fully into the candle light, illuminating a hideously scarred corpse dangling with sharp implements of torture.
“As you wish, Master,” Maw whispered and dissolved into the darkness, leaving Kalarel alone with his thoughts…
The session begins immediately after the last one. The five heroes are standing in the excavation pit, goblin and drake corpses sprawled about them. Splug is muttering and sputtering but hasn’t run off to hide yet. They discuss their options, but had previously settled on a plan: return to Winterhaven to rest and recoup.
Trudging back up, they do check the door to Boss Fatty’s chamber, but the iron chain is wrapped around it, and there’s no sign that anyone has been out. It will have to do for now, and they’ll return after a night’s rest to determine if their idea actually trapped the goblins inside.
Splug is glad to leave with the heroes, and the little half-blind, limping goblin seems amicable in their company, just glad not to be food and fodder for his own degenerate species. Roughly an hour later, just as the sun is beginning to dip behind the treeline, the band of adventurers reaches the town gates. Rond Kelfern is atop the battlements and heartily greets them, but his greeting turns to surprise when he catches sight of Splug on his leash, cowering behind Irann the half-elf warlock.
“What in the nine hells is that? A bloody goblin!”
The militiaman is upset, but the group quickly explains that the goblin is a prisoner and under their control. Splug nods furiously. “Prisoner, mmm-hmmm…I am I am mmm-hhmm…” They enter town and take care of some business first, which amounts to visiting Thair Coalbiter the smithy, selling off some weapons and wine and other loot they’ve acquired, and smelting down the abominable golden goat idol they found at Irontooth’s waterfall lair. Between the raw metal and the small inlaid gems Thair is able to mint them a hefty little sack of coins (Stamped with their faces! Liberators of Winterhaven! No, not really).
The idol reminds them of their mission for the Frog Queen; return to her on the next full moon at Jade Hill with Irontooth’s hands, which Sister Linora has kindly preserved with magic. But that is still some time away; only about a week has passed since their first troublesome encounter on the road with kobold brigands.
With some bookkeeping out of the way, it’s off to Wrafton’s Inn for much needed food, ale and relaxation. Erevan, Irann, Kerric, Helga, Brandis and Splug enter the tavern room, clearly hearing the melodic croon of the elf minstrel Kelrella Sweetleaf inside, who nods as they enter. Her Halfling isn’t there, so she’s strumming the harp herself. The common room is bustling with bodies and beers, and they see that Lord Ernest Padraig is here as well, deep into his cups and sitting rather close to busty and lusty Salvana Wrafton. Her arms are draped over his shoulders, and she’s whispering into his ear. But as soon as Padraig sees his son and his comrades, he lurches to his feet.
“You’re back!” he slurs. “How fares the mission at the old keep? Have you ended the threat?”
Well, the threat is not exactly GONE yet, but they’re working on it, and will be returning tomorrow after a good night’s rest. They don’t really want to start talking too much with Padraig here in the middle of the tavern, especially since they know a spy is active in Winterhaven. Lord Padraig is aware of this too, but in his drunken state his caution might be thrown to the wind. Besides, Salvana Wrafton is being terribly distracting and pulls Ernest back to the table.
But trouble almost starts anew when Thair Coalstriker hobbles into the room, still stinking of sweat and soot, and locks eyes with Splug for the first time. Splug smiles. Thair doesn’t. His nostrils just flare to disproportionate sizes.
“Gob…gob…GOBLIN!!!”
The dwarf smithy hauls a barstool over his head, intending to smash Splug into pulp. Helga and Bradnis intervene, managing to talk Thair out of killing their new “assistant.” The dwarf isn’t happy about it, and continues throwing evil glares at the goblin, who busies himself under Irann’s skirt and cloak as much as possible.
Eventually the group retires to their chambers, and Brandis drags his father away from the amorous clutches of Salvana Wrafton.
“She’s not worth it, Ernest!” Brandis hears Salvana whispering harshly to Lord Padraig. He pushes her away and leaves the inn with his son. Brandis is horribly embarrassed by their behavior, but his father IS known to be somewhat of a lady’s man, and Salvana has a rep as a tart. Stumbling back to the walled Padraig estate, Ernest Padraig has a gift ready and waiting for his eldest son: the Padraig family blade, Wolftooth.
Sliding the enchanted blade from its sheath, Brandis is overwhelmed by its elegance, the way the weapon is perfectly balanced in his hands. Indeed, this sword will help bring justice and revenge to the citizens of Winterhaven. Brandis’s mother Cynthia is still asleep, well under the influence of snailwort, so Brandis spends a little time with his youngest sister before retiring to bed.
The night passes mostly without incident…MOSTLY…at least, up until seven hours later when heavy knocking upon Erevan’s door rouses the wizard from meditation. It’s the dead of night. A gruff voice shouts: “Hey! You in there! We need help! NOW!”
Erevan doesn’t recognize the voice (and the group is keen to the fact that this is the same trick they tried against the goblins, trying to lure them out of their lair!) but he peeks out the door anyway and sees a bedraggled Winterhaven Regular with deep scratches down the side of his face.
“Please! You must help! My name is Guy. There are…these…things coming out of the graveyard! The dead! Corby and I saw a blue light behind the gates and we went to investigate, and then they swarmed at us! By Sune! They tore Corby to pieces! Right in front of me eyes! Just…ripped into him! You’ve got to help!”
Well, this sounds like a job for a group of well-armed heroes, so Erevan quickly relates the details to his friends. They suit up, buckling on armor and sheathing blades. They question the Regular, asking him how many creatures he saw, and what the blue light was. He didn’t get far enough into the graveyard to see. All he knows is that poor Corby- poor young Corby! - was killed right in front of him, and so the soldier ran out of the cemetery, pursued by a small group of slavering things.
Kerric wonders if they were zombies…or ghouls. Ghouls. The latter would be a much more dangerous foe, and everyone looks closely at Guy’s wounds, wondering if he has somehow been infected by disease. Is he going to transform into a monster too? They don’t know for sure, but he would probably have to die first in order to rise again.
While the group finishes preparing, The Regular is sent to Padraig’s estate to warn Brandis and the others. Helga orders Splug to stay in the room, lock the door, and don’t open it for anyone until they return. Nodding, the half-blind little goblin squeezes under the bed. Soon, the companions have congregated outside and see that the night is oily black, with not even a shred of moon to see by. In the distance beyond the gates, the faintest hint of blue light shimmers on the clouds. There is a flurry of activity atop the battlements as soldiers muster, firing crossbows at unseen targets beyond the gates.
Erevan rushes to the parapets and looks down. There are three corpses below riddled with bolts, none of which are moving. He considers blasting them with fire magic just to be safe, but the bodies don’t appear to be getting back up. Rond Kelfern cracks the gates and lets the companions out. Closer inspection of the corpses suggests that they are indeed just animated zombies, and not their more dangerous cousins, ghouls or ghasts. In the distance a faint blue shaft of light is visible inside the graveyard, so without further delay, the group proceeds down the hill.
The fence is wrought iron, spiked on the top, but the front gate hangs ajar, torn from the hinges. Stepping closer, they see movement on the path within and hear slavering, slurping and the crack of wet bones.
Helga, Brandis and Kerric are at the forefront, the squishier spellcaster holding the rear. Helga steps through the gate, axe brandished, and sees a undead creature rummaging through the guts of Corby the Regular.
Erevan casts a light spell, and Kerric shouts, but the zombie does not pay attention until Helga approaches. It shambles to its feet, blood and entrails drooling from its mouth, and moves toward the dwarf, who promptly separates its head from its shoulder. Rotten fluids spurt from the neck hole and the zombie collapses. But there’s another one in the trees, slowly shambling forward, and the group realizes that there are many, many gravestones in this cemetery. Erevan slays it with a single magic missile.
Kerric pushes inside, tossing a sunrod toward the center of the graveyard. It sends a welcome blaze of light spreading every direction. Only areas shielded by granite mausoleums remain in total darkness. Wolftooth in hand, Brandis Padraig approaches the mysterious blue circle of light, scanning for enemies. At the corner of the mausoleum he hears soft crying, a woman’s lament, and definitely NOT the little girls from the keep, Sir Keegan’s ghostly dead twins. Peeking around, he’s not entirely surprised to see a dirty-faced Ninaran the Half-Elf crumpled on the ground.
“I’m so sorry!” she wails, obviously distraught. Her face is streaked with tears, her cheeks gaunt and hollow. She trembles head to foot. “I made a mistake!” she moans. “I…a…a mistake…” Her voice trails off into incoherence. Beside Ninaran is a crumpled piece of paper stained with unknown fluids. He picks it and scans over the letter quickly, disturbed by what it says. Ninaran, it seems, is Winterhaven’s little spy, and here on orders from Kalarel.
Brandis clearly sees a large circle on the ground inscribed with runes, but the magic is well beyond his comprehending. More disturbing is the shallow grave in the middle…
…and the hand rising out of it.
Soon followed by the stiff, lurching motions of a familiar elf who has just recently died.
Ash.
Dirt falls away from Ash’s pale, emaciated face, already crawling with maggots. Ninaran’s clumsy attempt to bring him back has only made the elf a mockery of who he once was, and Ninaran seems acutely aware of her mistake. And perhaps many of her other mistakes.
Ash stumbles toward Brandis, hands outstretched to attack, but the warlord beheads the ex-rogue in one quick strike with Wolftooth, and his one-time companion is sent to eternal rest. That leaves Ninaran blubbering in the corner though, and she could still be a threat. After all, she allied herself with Kalarel, a power-mad priest of Orcus, and has already caused untold damage. There’s more to learn from her, but for now Ninaran is bound and tied so that she cannot harm anyone. She does not resist and slumps to the ground, shell-shocked and incoherent in her grief. There’s some discussion about what to do with her, fearing that something could easily kill Ninaran and prevent them from questioning her later.
But all is not quiet in the graveyard. More and more graves are becoming disturbed; dirt froths and spits forth; hands and heads begin to rise from multiple directions, and a low, moaning ululation sweeps across the cemetery, growing in severity. Helga charges the north quadrant, positioning herself over newly rising corpses and decapitates them. Irann the warlock teleports to the top of the nearest cairn, while Kerric and Erevan take a closer look at the mysterious blue runes. It is obviously some sort of dark magic reanimating the bodies, but neither understands the dweomer enough to influence it. It is, perhaps, too late already. The damage has been done.
Kerric the Paladin tentatively approaches the largest mausoleum in the cemetery, one with two green copper imps squatting on the lintel. The gate has been torn apart and he hears moans inside. Erevan tosses a light spell directly into the entrance. Kerric, Brandis and Helga position themselves at the front. There is movement inside, and then Kerric hears a distinct chuckle!
Not good.
Something intelligent is in there, something obviously taking pleasure in what is about to happen. Zombies start lurching out, but everyone’s readied actions hack them to pieces. Bodies litter the entrance, but then a new foe swings around the corner, its face a horribly mangled visage of terror:
Helga and Brandis are overcome by unnatural terror, compelled to flee from Lord Maw on their next turn, but Kerric steels his nerves against the unnatural effect.
“You shall not leave here, creature of undeath!” the paladin shouts. This is Kerric’s passion in life, to eradicate the undead and thereby serve his god Kelemvor, and this creature before him, some sort of revenant, is an unholy blight upon the world, and Kerric risks life and limb to destroy it.
The revenant (an inquisitor actually) answers with a gravelly laugh and lashes out with his whip, even as more zombies trundle out from the hidden chamber. “Tear them to pieces!” the inquisitor shouts, and the zombies all get free attacks. Kerric charges him, his longsword glowing brilliantly with holy radiance, and slams into Maw’s shoulder.
But seconds before impact, a globe of gloom surrounds the inquisitor, partially drinking the sword’s radiance and reducing damage. Their eyes meet, and the inquisitor’s soulless gaze nearly paralyzes Kerric, but he resists again. Unperturbed, the paladin of Kelemvor continues his attack, determined to wipe the grin from the thing’s face, but from nowhere a huge, shadowy hand appears, wraps around Kerric’s torso, and bodily FLINGS him from the mausoleum!
Helga and Brandis have already retreated, unwilling to even look at Lord Maw, but they discover a new wave of zombies rising from the western side of the cemetery. A LOT of zombies. Half the graveyard has vomited forth its progeny, and these shambling things are all headed toward the fight. Furthermore, more foes sweep around the corner from a hidden exit on the south side of the mausoleum.
Erevan rains down eldritch fire, and Irann showers down purple curses and blasts, obliterating handfuls of the undead as they surge toward easier targets on the ground. Within seconds a large group has clustered around Helga and Brandis, and from within the mausoleum Lord Maw shrieks: “TEAR THEM TO PIECES! NOW!” Claws rake across armor and flesh, but the warriors retaliate, butchering the zombies into messy gobs.
But then Helga meets the gaze of the Inquisitor. Its unholy stare bores into her mind, rooting her to the spot in paralytic terror. And she’s STILL too scared to approach the thing even if she weren’t immobilized. If the zombies manage to surround her…
But Kerric isn’t overcome by fear. Hatred of the undead burns within him like a flame. He charges past Maw’s minions, sprints back into the mausoleum, and brings the edge of his blade cracking down. Radiance sears necrotic flesh from Maw’s face, and he staggers away, shrieking, his shield of gloom expired. Kerric finds he is alone in the crypt with the servant of Kalarel. Maw staggers to his feet, uncoiling the whip and lashing out again and again, but it bounces off Kerric’s armor. And Maw fails to recharge his powers, Claw of Orcus or Speed of the Damned.
Raising his blade high, holy energy emanating forth, Kerric slams the sword down, skewering Lord Maw through the breastbone. The blow sends Maw flying over a casket and he crumples into a lifeless heap, finally vanquished (and not even getting a chance to use all his powers!). Kerric yanks the magical amulet off Maw’s throat and gives it to the wizard.
With Maw dead, the fight is soon over. The blue glow fades from the enchanted circle, and the cemetery returns to utter silence. Not a bad job. They wiped up dozens of foes who would have terrorized the outlying farms, killing families and children, and the Winterhaven Regulars would have been forced to confront Lord Maw on their own…and probably perished. Only a small squadron of trained fighters exists to protect the whole town and the outlying fields.
Taking a breather, they decide to question Ninaran the half-elf who is still subdued. Teary and mumbling, she begins telling a story in hushed tones, one that the group is not sure they entirely believe. Brandis Padraig, most of all, does not want to believe it.
Because…
…as Ninaran tells it, Lord Ernest Padraig is her full-blooded father.
Many years ago a younger (and equally randy) Ernest Padraig bedded an elven woman. She bore a child from this union, but worse, she was deeply in love with Ernest Padraig. But he would have nothing of the relationship, especially given the political circles in which he was involved. It would be scandalous to even consider such a thing. He washed his hands clean of both she and the child, a little half-elf girl named Ninaran,
But in her grief, the mother died not long after childbirth, leaving Ninaran lost and alone in a largely uncaring world. Alone that is, until her mother’s spirit returned one day, whispering of secrets and vengeance from beyond the grave, whispering of justice against the human who brought so much misery and pain to Ninaran’s life and who killed her mother.
Revenge against Lord Ernest Padraig, his family, and all that he holds dear.
The ghost, a banshee as some would call it, shared these corrupt thoughts with her daughter, and in due time introduced Ninaran to someone who would help exact the revenge she sought:
A man named Kalarel.
And Ninaran has served Kalarel for many months now, feeding him information, exchanging notes, updating him on who is in town, and otherwise making sure that his plans, whatever they are, would not be disturbed. But it was not until Ninaran saw the corpses rising that she realized the true fault of her ways and just how far she had stepped over the boundaries of mortal decency and wallowed in the realm of corrupt necromantic evil. Even the elf Ash- beautiful Ash - became a hideous thing.
Well, that’s nice, but the group isn’t exactly enamored by Ninaran’s sob story. They brusquely pull her up and push her into Winterhaven, where they’ll let the authorities decide what to do with her. But upon reaching the estate of Lord Padraig, Brandis has a few questions for his father: namely, is what Ninaran told them true?
Sighing, the still-intoxicated Ernest Padraig closes the door to the study.
“It is…possible,” he says quietly to the group. “But not proven! Not proven. But…there was an elf woman once, yes. Long ago. Long…long ago.”
Brandis begins to wonder just how many children his father has sired across the lands. How many half brothers and sisters does he actually have? Regardless, Padraig pleads for them to tell no one, and this information must not leave the walls. And above all his wife Cynthia must not know. Well, the group wouldn’t mind some gold sealing their lips, but Padraig is exhausted and drunk, and would like to sleep on it and speak with them more tomorrow.
The rest of the night passes uneventfully, and since only Kerric the Paladin burned a daily power in the battle against the inquisitor, they decide to press on that very morning and return to Shadowfell Keep, without even talking to Padraig first. Time is of the essence, and if the confiscated note from Ninaran is any indication, Kalarel will soon complete his ritual and open the rift to the Shadowfell, an unhappy event that the heroes are sure will spell doom for everyone--and possibly themselves too. If Lord Maw is a precursor to what sort of creature will roam the countryside under the Shadowfell, they definitely don’t want to see that happen.
The rest of the night passes uneventfully, and since only Kerric the Paladin burned a daily power in the battle against the inquisitor, they decide to press on that very morning and return to Shadowfell Keep, without even talking to Padraig first. Time is of the essence, and if the confiscated note from Ninaran is any indication, Kalarel will soon complete his ritual and open the rift to the Shadowfell, an unhappy event that the heroes are sure will spell doom for everyone--and possibly themselves too. If Lord Maw is a precursor to what sort of creature will roam the countryside under the Shadowfell, they definitely don’t want to see that happen.
RETURN to SHADOWFELL KEEP
They arrive the following morning, the 7th of Mirtul. The sky is clear and blue, a light breeze ruffling their clothes and hair. Less than 24 hours have passed since they were here, and it remains to be seen if they successfully trapped the goblins and Boss Fatty in their chamber. Splug is with them again, humming and mumbling, eager to please his new masters who have emphatically promised that NO…they won’t eat him…so long as he obeys their wishes. Miraculously enough he did not try to escape while they were fighting in the graveyard. Splug must be intimidated past any thought of self- preservation or betrayal.
Atop the rocky knoll they see evidence of activity. Multiple footprints, both small and large, have disturbed the grass and dirt. Sunlight illuminates the stairs, so brandishing his longsword, Kerric descends as quietly as a clumsy warrior in plate armor can manage. But the paladin nearly stumbles over a hidden tripwire! He sees it in time and gingerly lifts his boot over the string. It is nearly invisible, stretching down the stairwell and around the corner, hugging the junction of floor and wall. This was not here before.
Using her meager rogue skills, the half-elf warlock Irann inspects the string, searching for traps. It doesn’t seem rigged to collapse the ceiling or anything so treacherous, so perhaps it is an early warning system. Everyone carefully steps over the string and they descend back into the pillared rat pit trap room.
The fake canvas floor has been replaced over the rodents. Beyond where they fought the goblin guards, all bodies have been removed and blood mopped up. Down the eastern stairwell toward the excavation site is only seething darkness and no sound. Peeking around the corner toward the torture chamber, Brandis sees the two double doors cracked open, the iron chains removed. Yes, somehow the goblins escaped, and not only that, they set traps in case the heroes returned to finish the fight.
Well, as luck would have it, the heroes are back and the goblins are none the wiser. As far as they know…
They move up, shuffling down the hall as quietly as possible. The torture room is shut and the storage room is shut. They discuss their options, wavering between a full frontal assault or trying to lure the enemy out again. They even discuss some Prestidigitation illusions, but ultimately, Erevan uses mage hand on the torture room door and quietly opens it; there is no one visible inside. They don’t want to walk in front of the cracked double doors because someone watching would immediately spot them.
Still, Erevan takes a risk and peeks around the corner. He sees a wooden table at the end of a long corridor. One goblin has his back to the door; a second goblin is facing Erevan, but was looking down at some dice on the table. Hanging over their heads is a brass bell attached to the string.
Well, this is it, the guard station. The heroes still have the element of surprise, and Erevan opens the fight with a SCORCHING BURST!
Flames explode over the table, blackening the dice, burning the chairs, snapping the string…and missing both goblins. They leap up, screeching, and immediately turn toward the doors.
The little buggers are armed with spears and javelins, and they immediately hurl projectiles at the intruders. Kerric is brutally injured, and the goblin cackles in wicked glee. But Brandis and Helga surge down the hall, forcing the goblins to retreat toward a black curtain. One is already bloodied and limping, but the other makes it to the curtain and rips it down, screaming for help in his guttural goblin tongue.
A door opens and more goblins pour out of a room.
The defenders are at the forefront of the battle, pressing the advantage. The warlock continues cursing anyone in sight, and more often than not, eldritch purple flames explode from the eyes and mouths of unsuspecting minions.
Kerric advances to a second door where he sees a goblin peeking through. Not giving the monster another chance, Kerric kicks the door open and strikes! His blade hews the goblin in half, but it had four more friends waiting just beyond, and all of their blades stab toward the paladin. He deflects two, weathers the sting of a third, and the fourth bounces off his armor. And then the paladin quickly shuts the door!
“There’s a lot of these guys!” shouts Helga the dwarf, who has opened a door to another room bristling with gobber warriors. She tears into the middle of them, hacking viciously left and right. Brandis advances to a wide set of wooden double doors, wondering what might be behind them…but he goes to help Kerric instead on his side of the battle.
But seconds after he has stepped away, the double doors swing open and a new voice shouts out from within:
“KILL THEM!” It’s shouted in goblin tongue though, so everyone except Brandis just hears, “MOR GRASKA!”
A fat, ugly goblin is wielding a crossbow, and he’s standing well back from the doors that an ally has opened. This is Balgron the Fat, known as Boss Fatty to Splug, and he’s a fiend with a crossbow. A projectile whistles out, embeds in Irann’s thigh and hampers her movement.
Meanwhile, the dwarf is dancing with gobs to the south, while Kerric is managing the north room. Fighting in close, confined spaces is preventing anyone from getting surrounded, although the battle has now reached three fronts. Kerric and Brandis cut down another foe, and for the second time Kerric quickly shuts the door, winking at a goblin, promising that they’ll be seeing each other again soon.
The goblin looks terrified.
Confident that the paladin can handle the enemy, Brandis rushes to the big double doors, slams them shut, and pushes his halberd through the handles to lock them in.
For Kerric the paladin, it’s still a standoff at the sleeping quarters. Irann rushes up to assist him, just as Kerric flings the door open and stabs a goblin to death, and then shuts the door yet again, leaving a final quivering foe inside. Kerric soon hears a shriek of pain though through the closed door and finds that the goblin has impaled himself on his own spear rather than confront the enemy.
Erevan and Helga pick off the last stragglers in their room, which is awash with red blood by now, and reconvene with their comrades. It has been 3 or 4 rounds since Brandis shut Boss Fatty away, and they’re getting worried that they might have left the bastard alone for too long. What if he’s setting a trap for them?
Like a cabbage cannon?
No, that just won’t do at all, so Helga and Brandis charge into the bedchamber, determined to squash him once and for all…but there’s no sign of Fatty.
Curtains have been ripped down that offered privacy around a simple sleeping cot, but a small hatchway hangs open. Peering down the hole, Helga can’t see anything until Erevan casts a light spell into the depths. They can barely see a section of flagstone tunnel at the end.
“Where does it go?” asks the dwarf, preparing to scramble down into the hole to follow the goblin boss.
“Wait,” says Brandis, a hand to her shoulder. The warlord pulls out their scribbled map of the keep, noting where they are and where they have been. “That tunnel probably leads down to the excavation site.”
“There’s no way out.”
“Not quite,” says Brandis. He taps a small unmarked tunnel. “Natural caves here. Where Splug was attacked. By…something.”
They all peer down the small tunnel, knowing that if they’re going to catch Boss Fatty, they’ll have to follow him into whatever dank hole he crawls…
Thanks Elder. I spend a lot of time on the sets and the subsequent pictures. What's not conveyed in the Story Hour is the sound effects and sound tracks, which i try to tie to the action and scenes.
The story is deliberately just a fast and quick recap, not a true STORY like so many of those here on EnWorld. I found that in the years since we play i (we) forget so many details of games, so i'm trying to preserve it in these recaps. A real story takes so much time to write!
[GM Note: These events take place either when the main Shadowfell party has first reached Winterhaven, or right before their arrival. It is likely that Douvan and Merric passed the other heroes on the road without knowing].
[GM Note: This adventure also springboards a homebrew campaign that starts after Shadowfell is complete].
For three days Douvan Stahl and his companion Merric Littlefoot have trudged northward along the Evermoor Way from the small hamlet of Winterhaven, carrying with them a curious artifact: a large ornate mirror confiscated from the watery grave of a dead dragon named Blacksoul. It was not easy to haul the item up from the mud, and even harder to salvage when an ornery bugbear and his friends appeared and tried to murder them.
But the two adventurers prevailed, and upon reaching Winterhaven with the mirror (which surely must be valuable!) the local sage and scholar, portly Valthrun the Prescient, told them that certain parties might want the mirror back at all costs. The mirror, in fact, could cause grave danger for everyone in Winterhaven. Well, Douvan the Ranger and Merric the Rogue didn’t much like the sound of that, but Valthrun was insistent. He had smiled gently, twiddling his wide thumbs.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “just leave and take the mirror as far from Winterhaven as you can. I believe it is called the Mirror of Skarvoss, and a small piece of the Shadowfell is trapped within. The Shadowfell is a dark place of…well…nevermind. Just go, my friends, and may the luck of Tymora be with you.”
But Douvan is not one to rely on luck so much as sweat and blood. Merric…well, yes, he lives day to day on luck and mischief. But they have no problem taking the mirror to Silverymoon. In fact, their sponsor Merple the Moneylender will probably be very interested in what they found and possibly give them a bonus. Their only task originally was to inspect the dragon grave and determine if it was salvageable, but it had been well looted by the kobolds.
That was three days ago when Valthrun’s words first worried them, and since then the two heroes had to fend off an attack by kobolds who had already destroyed another wagon and its occupants.
[GM Note: We didn’t actually play through the fight; there are enough kobolds in this campaign already]
Perhaps the vicious little bastards were hoping to recapture the mirror of Skarvoss, but Douvan and Merric didn’t leave any alive to question afterwards. They encountered no more problems, and on a brilliant vermillion dawn, their wagon being pulled by Jim the Mule, they clear a rocky rise that offers them a majestic view of mighty Silverymoon, Gem of the North.
They enter through the southern gate, passing the School of Thaumaturgy and the Lady’s College. Throngs of people have already begun to stir, and the morning air is split by cries from birds and children and voices in a multitude of racial tongues, soon joined by the creak and groan of daily commerce. Jim plods sullenly onward and they reach the translucent, shimmering Moonbridge that spans the River Rauvin. Merric cannot stand looking down through the semi-transparent bridge into the swirling current below, (it gives him terrible vertigo) so he stares into the sky, whistling.
The Market is bustling with activity from various vendors and customers. Douvan and Merric plan to head straight to Diagon Alley and Merple’s shop, but then a large shadow passes over their wagon from above. Douvan looks up, shielding his eyes, and is surprised to see a large griffon wheeling down on their location. Moments later he spots a second griffon, and then a massive owl joins their ranks, all three bearing armed riders!
“What is this?” mutters Merric, hand flitting to his dagger.
The birds of prey alight on the cobblestone streets right in front of their wagon, and Jim the Mule is clearly displeased at their proximity. A rider clad in purple plumes and purple leather armor, not unlike a bird himself, hops off his griffon. A tiefling woman dismounts as well, but the woman on her owl remains seated. Douvan sees an armband on each person designating them as Silver Knights, part of Silverymoon’s standing army. Douvan raises his hands in submission. He doesn’t want any trouble.
“You there!” shouts the purple-plumed warrior. “Halt in the name of the Griffon Guard! What do you carry in your wagon?”
Dozens of citizens are gawking at this exchange. It is not everyday that the Griffon Guard swoops down from the sky on unsuspecting travelers. A griffon squawks its impatience, shifting from one taloned foot to another.
Douvan clears his throat and answers as honestly as he can. “It is a mirror we found near Winterhaven. We are bringing it to Merple the Moneylender, of Diagon Alley.”
The man steps closer, shouldering a wicked looking longbow. “The Mythal of Silverymoon detected an item of unacceptable power within our borders. It is our sworn duty to inspect any and every violation of the law. Open your wagon, sir. Slowly, please.”
Douvan obliges, sweeping back the fold and pulling off the black cloth to reveal the mirror safely nestled in the back of the wagon.
The Griffon Knight says, “Is that all? A mirror?” He looks somewhat perplexed.
“Yes,” answers Douvan. “We…we aren’t exactly sure what it does. We were just told…” and Douvan relates some of the details about the Mirror of Skarvoss, as told to him by Valthrun the Prescient. He ends with mention of the Shadowfell, and possible danger associated with Winterhaven if it had remained.
The Griffon Knight nods, and when Douvan is done, he snaps his fingers at the others. “This mirror will have to be confiscated and tested. My apology for the inconvenience, but it is our obligation. Please do not argue.”
“But…I…” And yes, Douvan does want to argue, but he doesn’t want to anger them either. “Will we get it back?” he asks imploringly.
“Perhaps,” the Griffon Knight says. “That all depends on what our mages find. But don’t hold your breath in a jelly cube, as they say.”
Douvan wracks his brain about the Silver Knights. They are resourceful and formidable, but known to be fair. Douvan is not a citizen himself, but has spent so much time in this city that it almost feels like home.
“Well…I would like some other compensation then,” Douvan says. “We went through a lot of trouble to get this mirror.”
“A LOT of trouble,” Merric adds peevishly.
The Griffon Knight rubs his chin as Douvan tries to convince him, looking to the owl-rider for advice. “Well, Onyx?” She shrugs, and ultimately he shrugs too and pulls out a piece of parchment. He begins scribbling with a quill. “My name is Grax Steelfeather. Consider this a receipt then. Come to the Rookery at dawn tomorrow, we’ll know by then is this mirror of yours can be returned or not. If not, the City will offer you some sort of reparation. I can’t say what exactly, it’s not up to me.”
Douvan shakes each of their hands, appreciative that he is at least being given a fair chance. Not long after Grax the Griffon Knight hands the parchment to Douvan, a new contingent of Silver Knights arrives with their own wagon. They take the mirror and carefully load it, and begin trundling through the streets towards Alustriel’s Palace.
“G’day gentlemen,” Grax says with a nod, and he mounts his griffon. Seconds later they’re all airborne and vanishing toward distant airy spires.
Merric sighs. “It could have been worse.”
Douvan agrees. But in truth, he thinks this is probably for the best. If the item is indeed a threat it is better for experienced wizards to deal with it. If nothing else, they’ll get some sort of recompense for their trouble, perhaps a sack of gold. That would be good enough.
Merric has some business he must attend to elsewhere, so he bids goodbye to Douvan. The Ranger intends to find Merple the Moneylender and get paid. Merric says that perhaps he will meet him later at The Green Tankard. And if Merple will let Douvan bring Merric’s share of the finder’s fee, all the better. The grizzled ranger retrieves his possessions from the back of the wagon, including the magical maul taken from the bugbear a few days before. He intends to sell it when he gets the chance.
Douvan finds himself winding through the convoluted streets of Silverymoon on his way to Diagon Alley. Silverymoon is a unique place where the various races all live in harmony, and he enjoys walking down tranquil neighborhoods decorated with bright flowers and soaring exotic trees.
He eventually leaves the residential area and reaches Diagon Alley, a place he would not normally visit. Spellcasters of all sorts make their living here, and he passes more than one shop housing bizarre items behind the glass; various stuffed imps with lolling red eyes and urns puffing smelly colored smoke; floating baubles spinning around mannequin heads and rows of twiggy broomsticks designated as: “ON SALE! TODAY ONLY!”
He finally reaches the unadorned door of Merple the Moneylender and raps the appropriate amount of times. A squeaky voice announces: “Enter!” The door swings open of its own accord and Douvan steps in. The place is the same as he remembers, small but cozy, a roaring iron furnace on the wall, a few shallow steps leading down to a den lined with bookshelves. Merple is sitting in a chair behind a desk cluttered with pens, quills and a fat ledger book. There’s a new item though. It looks like a large square cage draped by a blue cloth.
“Douvan!” he cries. “Good to see you again! How did you fare in Winterhaven? Find anything interesting?”
Douvan starts at the beginning and tells him the whole story; the trapped bridge, the flooded excavation site, the dozens of kobolds, the human helping them, the bones and the mirror and the bugbears and Valthrun and the Shadowfell and the Griffon Guard taking the mirror. Merple’s face changes during the story from extreme joy at the beginning, to glum disappointment by the end.
“They took it, eh? Sad, sad, sad news that is. Very sad to hear. It sounded like a most exquisite artifact! Worth a coin or two, I’m sure, I’m sure. I hate to say this, but it is unlikely they will return it, Douvan.”
The ranger is aware of this too, but doesn’t dwell on the news. He steps closer to the cage and is jolted when a pink tongue whips out.
“CROOOAK.” There is a huge toad inside.
“Oh, don’t mind him. That’s Toady, a rare speckled specimen from the Evermoors. Should make short work of the nasty rodents around here. He’s quite nice, actually. I’m fond of him.” Douvan takes his word for it.
As promised, Merple pays his half of the fee for finding the Tomb of Blacksoul and determining that there is nothing there left to salvage. He insists though in paying Merric in person. Merple makes a few notes in his fat ledger book, emphatically dots the entry with his pen, and closes the book.
“Well,” says Merple, “with that done, are you interested in a new job? I always have several pots brewing on the stove. For instance—”
But Merple is interrupted by heavy pounding on the door. The pattern of knocks is very specific. He presses his lips together into a thin line. “Oh my. Oh my oh my oh my. He’s early. Very early.”
Merple is flustered and stands up, wringing his hands. Douvan is confused. “Not good, no no no. Not good at all. Douvan, you must leave. Wait! No! He mustn’t see you leaving, no no no. Hide in the closet here. Wait! No! He’ll look there. Oh my oh my oh my, dear dear dear dear…” Merple pushes Douvan toward the cage. “Go in there with Toady. Don’t worry, he’s very gentle! Just be quiet and don’t say a word. Zip! Zip!” Merple makes a pinching motion across his lips.
Douvan stares at the dark cage with the big toad inside. He doesn’t like the sound of this, but Merple is clearly upset. “Are you sure, Merp—”
“Yes! Yes! Just go!” he hisses. “And quietly!” To the door he shouts: “Coming! Just a wee moment!”
Douvan is bustled into the cage with the wet, spotted amphibian, and a tongue lashes out to lick his arm. Or taste him, he isn’t sure which. There is not much room and Douvan maneuvers to the back, hunching down for as much cover as possible and peeking out through the dark fabric draped over the cage. Merple has returned to his chair, pressing down the lapels of his coat, and then announces: “Ah…enter!”
The front door creaks open. A shaft of light spills down the steps, a shadow elongated upon the threshold. From his position, Douvan cannot see who it is. Footsteps slowly click into the room, and then the door closes.
“Balthazar!” says Merple with forced sincerity. “A pleasure to see you so soon, a pleasure indeed. How…ahem…how can I help you today?”
A man says, “Help me, Merple? I believe you have helped me enough already.” The voice drips with sarcasm. Douvan shifts for a better angle, peeking out into the room. A man clad in black robes with red trim and a pointed hat has stopped in front of Merple’s desk. Draped around his neck is a hissing maroon pseudodragon, its yellow eyes glaring all directions.
Douvan’s stomach lurches. This man is obviously a wizard with his familiar, and he does not look happy.
“What seems to be the problem, Balthazar?” asks Merple. “Perhaps we can work out—”
“The problem, my squat Halfling, has to do with a bag of powdered unicorn hoof you sold me. The PROBLEM, my dear, conniving, treacherous little half-man, is that you sold me powdered mule’s hoof instead!”
The pseudodragon spits and hisses, flapping its wings. Merple pales.
“It’s not true!” he wails, his voice squeakier than ever. “It’s not true, Balthazar! I didn’t know! I didn’t know!”
“It’s your job to know,” growls the wizard, producing a long, thin maple wand from the depths of his robe.
The pseudodragon leaps from his shoulder and flaps to the floor, sniffing. “Do you think that Balthazar of the Potion Emporium wouldn’t notice that kind of trick in my magical workings? Do you even comprehend the sort of unwanted side effects that arise from daring to ADD a mule’s foot? DO YOU? Or course not!” Merple falls to his knees, begging and pleading.
Douvan pushes the fat toad aside, wondering what in the Nine Hells he has gotten himself into. Toady pushes back some, feeling equally cramped in the cage. Douvan is knocked into a latch he had not seen previously. There seems to be a secondary door on the back of the cage that is flush to the stone wall. He peeks out the curtain again. The pseudodragon is closer, sniffing and snarling.
“It was an honest mistake!” shrieks Merple. “Please believe me, Balthazar! It won’t happen again, I swear!”
“Oh, I know it won’t,” the wizard says airily. “Not for the next day at least. After that, I expect you to be on your best behavior, Merple.”
The tip of the wand begins to glow blue. Merple’s face is bathed in its light. “What are you going to do?” he whispers in abject terror.
The wizard’s smile is not pleasant. “Teach you a lesson.”
“You don’t have to do this.”
“Yes. I DO.”
A thin beam of light streaks out, enveloping Merple and followed by a puff of acrid smoke. He screams once, but when the smoke clears Merple is no longer there, replaced by a large squat frog, a pair of oversized glasses dangling awkwardly from its face.
Merple-Frog croaks and hops away, while Balthazar cannot help but to laugh. He puts the wand away, circles around to the ledger book and begins flipping through it, still chuckling. Douvan is appalled, and not more than a little terrified! He shrinks back into the cage, but the pseudodragon familiar is curious about Toady and the shadow lurking behind it. It has moved closer than ever, ruffling its wings and squawking a warning to its master.
Balthazar looks up from the ledger. “What is it? Oh my, yes. Look, Merple! You have a friend here! One of the few you’ll probably ever make. Wretch.”
Balthazar walks closer to the draped cage. His eyes narrow. “Is someone…in there?”
Icy cold fear fills Douvan’s gut. He nearly springs out of the cage, using the toad as a shield and bolting for the door, but doubts his chances. The wizard’s wand is out again. Douvan brushes the backdoor latch, and this time in the subsequent glow from the wand he sees the outline of a trapdoor in the wall outside the cage. The cage is pressed flush against it. Douvan does not waste another second. He pushes the toad out of the way, jerks the small cage door open, and presses on the stone outline. There is a quiet click as a secret panel opens.
“WHO IS THERE?” bellows the magician. “SHOOOOOOOW YOURSELF!”
The front door of the cage magically jerks open and Toady wriggles out, just about the same time as Douvan has squeezed himself into a passage obviously made to accommodate a halfling and not a human. He tries to close the secret door just as the red pseudodragon darts into the cage. Douvan succeeds, and then shuffles on his elbows through a narrow dank tunnel, but soon bumps his head on a stone wall. Beneath his fingers he feels a wooden trapdoor with a metal ring. He pulls up, feels space yawning beneath him and an unpleasant stink. He doesn’t have time to ponder the destination. The secret passage is opening behind him. His fingers scramble for a dilapidated wooden ladder, and then Douvan is moving down, down, down into darkness, his boots scuffing on wood and stone, his heart hammering in his chest. Blue light fills the tunnel above him and he hears the throaty rasp of the pseudodragon. He hears running water and the strong smell of a sewer, and soon Douvan’s feet touch on a cold stone floor. Far above him the blue light winks out, and then he hears doors slamming.
He’s trapped down here. Wherever “here” is. He can’t see a thing in the pitch blackness.
I couldn't resist throwing a Wand of Polymorph into the adventure. It scared the player pretty bad (this was a solo obviously). Mechanically, in 4e, i imagine it would work on just a temporay basis, or work like Turned to Stone. Merple (behind the scenes) failed all of his saving throws and was stuck in that shape.
He’s trapped down here. Wherever “here” is. He can’t see a thing in the pitch blackness.
He’s not terribly worried yet. He did not descend far; he’s surely in the upper level of Silverymoon’s sewer system, which is well maintained by sweepers and ratters. His keen directional sense gives him an idea of which way to go, and he knows that the aqueducts empty to the east. Plus, he has several sunrods that will light the way if all else fails, but he doesn’t want to use them quite yet. Too much light. Feeling along the wet, slick walls, Douvan eventually finds a torch sconce and half a torch. He lights it with tindertwigs and looks around him in the wan illumination. He’s on the cusp of a sluggish, stinking channel, bobbing with all sorts of glistening, unsavory things.
Douvan starts walking toward what he hopes is an exit.
The debacle upstairs worries him though. Merple has never wronged Douvan, not that he’s aware, and his punishment at the hands of the mage seems unduly cruel. Transmogrification or Polymorph, whatever they call it, also seems illegal. Douvan starts to wonder if there is a way to blackmail the wizard, and then he has second thoughts about that as well. He’ll need to speak with Merric first. One must never be careless with a wizard.
Half an hour later Douvan stops cold when he hears a new sound over the swish of dirty water – a rhythmic flapping like a wet leather sheet, and it is moving closer. He pulls his sword and waits, unable to see anything down the dingy tunnel more than twenty feet or so, listening to something draw nearer, and nearer, and nearer, and THEN—
Something bulbous, pink and veined explodes around a corner at high speed! It careens off a wall and whips past him, darkness swallowing it within seconds, coming and going so fast that Douvan barely caught a glimpse. His heart rate finally starts to slow, and he thinks back on what he knows about creatures in the sewer system. It must have been a sludge bat, a relatively harmless if disgusting denizen of the region.
He continues, eventually reaching a junction blocked by slick green slime dripping from the ceiling. He can possibly leap to the far side but would rather not risk it. Untold diseases lurk in the water. Douvan hunches down and waits, anticipating some flotsam and jetsam to float by eventually, maybe something that will support his weight so he can vault across.
He hasn’t been waiting long when he hears voices in the distance.
Douvan slowly grinds out his torch and retreats a short ways, watching torchlight approach from a tunnel across the watery channel.
“I’m hungry,” a voice rasps. “Where’d that sludge bat go?”
“I dunno,” says another. “Shut up.”
Douvan also hears rats squeaking, and a few moments later several unsavory characters enter his sight. They’re ratmen, almost surely the lycanthrope kind, with elongated noses and twitching whiskers. They’re armed with shortswords, and the foremost wererat carries a torch. A few filthy rats scurry around their feet.
Douvan presses his back against the wall, cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. They’re heading his way, and their vision is much, much keener than his own. This is also their element, and he’s not sure if he can take on two of them at once. Separately perhaps, yes, but both? They’re filthy, cruel little monsters, and he is sorry that he encountered them. Worse, as lycanthropes, he lacks a silver weapon to make the wererats truly howl in pain. This won’t be easy.
The wererats push open a moldy door and root around inside, then exit again and stand at the lip of the channel. “We’ll jump,” one of them says. “Stand back, need room.”
Douvan sees his chance. He unslings his bow, peeking around the corner from cover. The ratman has backed up, testing his footing, and then sprints forward, gaining momentum to leap over the gap. Douvan readies to fire just as the wererat is about to leave his platform. The arrow catches him square in the chest. It shrieks in midair, floundering, hits the corner of the far walkway and flops into the water. It rises, sputtering and choking and squealing as the current carries it down the tunnel.
“Meazel! HELP!”
The other wererat follows, extending a hand to pull him out. Smiling, Douvan shoulders his bow and backtracks until he finds a hidden storage room. Inside he finds some old mops, one of which is sturdy enough to use as a pole. Praying for the luck of Tymora, he prods the bottom of the stinking channel, and then hurls himself across. He thuds to the other side, safe and sound, and keeps walking. He soon finds a new door, but it is swollen in the frame. He rams a shoulder into it, bounces off, and then tries a better plan.
Skullthumper.
He takes the maul out and starts hitting the door. Cracks appear, spreading wider and wider, and soon he has battered the door down. He steps inside a disgusting room filled with rotting bags of grain covered with tiny black insects. There is a cracked barrel that he rolls in front of the door, and then he takes some time to reapply the pitch to his torch. There is only enough fuel left for a few minutes, but he still has the sunrods. Unfortunately, the sunrods will draw the attention of anything nearby long before Douvan sees it approaching.
He finds a second door, but there is only wrecked equipment beyond it. Then he sees the ladder.
The same sort of ladder that led him down here to begin with. He has just started climbing up rungs when he hears footsteps approaching! Outside the ravaged door he sees the wobble of torchlight. Fearing that is the wererats again, he climbs the ladder double haste, pushes through a lid at the top and finds himself in a narrow drainage tunnel flooded by a beautiful thing—
SUNLIGHT!
There is an iron grill above his head, but once he laces his fingers through it Douvan finds that the grill is firmly secured. He hears wagons outside rolling across flagstone streets and the neigh of horses. He sees legs walking by, so he’s probably standing in a drainage tunnel on a main thoroughfare.
“Hey! Someone help me!” he calls out. He’s ignored for the most part, and then he hears sounds from below. At least one person has entered the room beneath him.
“Is anybody there? I need out of here! Help!”
Finally, a pair of immaculate shoes stops beside the grate. The face is unseen because of the dazzling corona of the sun behind the man’s head.
“What are you doing in the drain?” asks the man. Douvan is VERY disappointed to find that the man’s voice is familiar.
“Ah…please…ah…please help me out,” he says lamely.
The other man is quiet for a moment, and then with an exasperated huff, mutters, “Very well. Stand back.” He pulls forth a maple wand, taps the iron grid, it shudders violently, and then peels back like the skin of a soft fruit. Thanking the gods for his fortune (and wondering at the incredible irony of his benefactor being someone he does not want to see again), makes sure his assumption is correct.
It is. His savior is none other than Balthazar of the Potion Emporium, with a rather mean-looking pseudodragon curled about his shoulders like a scaly cat. Up close Douvan sees his bushy black eyebrows, and the glint of intelligent green eyes.
“Can you help me up?” asks Douvan.
Rolling his eyes, the mage in the pointed hat starts to oblige, but pulls back. “By the gods, man, you reek! No! I won’t help.”
Douvan pulls himself out and stands up, turns around calmly, and fires an arrow down the shaft. He hears a shriek.
“Do…I know you,” asks the wizard slowly.
Douvan shakes his head. “No. No, I don’t believe you do.”
The cage with Toady had been very dark, and Douvan scampered from sight before they had a good look. But the pseudodragon looks suspicious…and so does his master.
Nevertheless, Douvan thanks them again and then jogs into the crowded streets, putting as much distance as he can between them, and tries to remember how to get to the Green Tankard to tell Merric the story. He needs a beer after all of that.
Kerric, Helga, Erevan, Irann, Brandis Padraig and Splug the Goblin are in Boss Fatty’s bedchamber, looking down the narrow, twisting tunnel. The fat goblin boss and his accomplice have escaped, and judging from the scuff marks and a dust-free rectangular block of tile, they’re dragging a small chest with them. Do they follow? Do they wait and see if Fatty turns up elsewhere? After their last tangle with the goblins they decide to rest for a few minutes and recuperate, but this gives Fatty even more of a head start. It doesn’t matter; the group needs time to discuss their options.
According to their sketched map, the tunnel should exit roughly near the excavation site. But from there Fatty could have roamed anywhere, even back to the surface if he wished. But they think that the treasure chest will be relatively easy to follow. The scuff marks are distinct.
Helga the Dwarf Fighter is chomping at the bit to track him down and crack her axe on Fatty’s skull. She’s very impatient with all the chitchat and planning, but the others are more cautious, throwing magical and mundane light down the tunnel first. Splug is asked to search it, but mumbling his refusal, he’s obviously scared of coming face to face with Fatty, and they don’t want to sacrifice Splug (also called SPUD by the group) in such a worthless fashion. They’ve actually come to like the little groveling guy. His chunky yellow face beams up at them with approval when they say he doesn’t have to investigate.
The group is not badly hurt, so they return to the main entryway, even checking the surface for clues. Daylight filters down the steps, but there is no sign of anyone else. Moving down the stairs toward the dig site, they find a secret door in the wall gaping open, forming an S-shape that snakes back to Fatty’s chamber. The chest has been dragged across the corridor and down a set of steps into a natural cavern…
…the same cavern where an unknown monster burned Splug with acid.
The goblin is terrified to return, but feels safer in the company of his new, formidable friends. They check the excavation site and see that no one has been here either. Helga and Kerric naturally take the lead, brandishing their blades, and navigate down the stairs toward the cavern. The room beyond is riddled with dripping stalactites. The air is noticeably cooler. Somewhere in the distance Kerric thinks he hears the squeak of rats, but he is hardly worried about that. Rats are sword fodder.
“Gonna bash me some goblins,” mutters Helga darkly, not for the first time. Her bloodlust has been raised ever since the last fight. Usually, multiple cold beers are required to calm her down.
The fighter and paladin advance silently, senses alert, when Kerric suddenly shouts:
“…the floor…BY KELEMVOR!”
It crumbles under their feet, plunging them into a deep pit. Helga shrieks, a baritone dwarvish cry of pain, and the others hear the crunch of bone, metal, and stone. The dwarf and paladin are crumpled twenty feet below, moaning.
“Ah don’t like this,” mutters Helga, spitting dirt from her mouth.
“Me neither,” says Kerric, standing up and dusting himself off. He looks up at the others. “We’re fine. We need a rope, or—wait…what NOW?”
The paladin tenses, his hands darting out to brace himself, but it is too late. Helga’s fingers scramble on stone. She’s screaming for help as the floor beneath them fractures, splinters, and crumbles away, dropping both heroes into utter darkness!
Irann, Brandis, Erevan and Splug hear the splash of water and gurgling cries that quickly fade away.
“After them!” yells Erevan. He rips coiled rope off his back and throws it around a stalagmite. Glancing up, however, he sees multiple tiny red eyes on the ceiling. He tosses a light spell, scattering several large rats hiding up there among the jagged rocks. Returning to the pit, Erevan ties two lengths of rope together, cracks a sunrod, attaches it to the end and tosses it down into the hole. Brilliant light fills a natural cavern before plunging into frigid water, becoming blurry and diffracted. Splug is wringing his hands and moaning.
“Why didn’t you tell us there was a trap here?” demands Brandis.
Splug shakes his head. “Me not know! Hmm-mmm. Goblin not weigh much. Big man heavy.”
They call their friends’ names, but there is no answer. Altogether, they’ve fallen over 60 feet into icy water. Drowning or battered to death on rocks is a very real possibility. They have to find them as soon as possible or it will be too late. Brandis volunteers to go down first, so securing his weapons, he clambers hand over hand down the rope. He’s swaying back and forth in midair, gazing at eerie rock formations that have developed over hundreds if not thousands of years.
With some difficulty, Brandis finally reaches the river bank. It is steep, slick rock, and his footing is precarious, but there is no other sign of immediate danger. The tunnel continues south for fifty yards before rounding a bend, and it is obvious that Helga and Kerric have been swept down this way. Brandis ties the other end of the rope to a stalagmite.
“Did you know there was an underground river?” Iraan asks Splug. The goblin shakes his head, no. He had no idea this was below the keep. Not liking this development one bit, Irann rubs her hands briskly and prepares for some physical exertion. This is not her area of expertise. And this is exemplified seconds later when her grip slips from the rope--and with a shriek--she’s in freefall. Brandis watches helplessly as the warlock lashes out for the rope, catching herself before she hits the water or sharp rocks. She lands on the far side of the river, trembling in fear.
Splug is next and shimmies down like a champ. Lastly, Erevan makes it partway and then Fey Steps the rest of the distance. But Brandis is on a different side than the others, so after some testing (the water is fairly deep here) they are able to throw a rope across so that Brandis joins them.
But then Erevan hears laughter, and looking at the shattered hole in the ceiling he sees two leering goblin faces: Boss Fatty and his buddy. The goblin boss laughs once more and then tosses the other end of the rope into the hole.
Now they’re trapped down here.
“Thank you!” Erevan yells.
“I hate that goblin,” mutters Brandis. Splug (Spud) nods furiously in agreement.
The bank of the river can be followed if they’re careful, but it is slow going. They have to pick their way through tight rock formations. A while later they see a cave entrance on the far side of the river. There are runes and words carved into the archway, but they’re not close enough to decipher them, and don’t want to waste time instead of finding Helga and Kerric. They keep going, but soon reach another bend in the river and find a similar archway on their side. Brandis sees goblin runes engraved above the tunnel.
The first inscription is the oldest and barely legible. An arrow points northeast and reads:
TALLOW’S DEEP – SEVEN DAYS.
Another arrow points north and the words translate:
TO THUNDERSPIRE LABYRINTH – THREE DAYS.
And the final inscription is multiple arrows pointing all directions, and says:
MAGLUBIYET’S EMBRACE- ANY DAY!
Brandis knows that this is the cruel god of the goblins, Maglubiyet, and this message is simply stating that goblins can die anytime, anywhere, and will join their dark god in the afterlife. A pleasant thought as Splug is reading the words alongside him. The goblin sighs.
But their friends were not deposited here. There is a small waterfall nearby, so they were probably shucked right off the edge. The heroes continue their search, growing more and more worried with each passing step.
A while later the current slows and becomes a calm pond-like area. Part of the water is diverted into a side stream, with much of it probably leaking through cracks in the limestone basin into lower levels. But there’s something else of immediate concern: Helga’s boot. It’s lying on the shore. Irann picks it up, but there is no sign of the dwarf or paladin other than blood and drag marks on the stone. It looks like something hauled them away into a narrow tunnel where the creek flows.
Brandis follows, splashing into the icy water, his magical longsword Wolftooth in hand. Erevan, Irann and Splug tentatively follow. The creek plunges over the lip of a ravine, spattering on unseen rocks far, far below, but on the other side is small chamber with a man-made fort of some kind. The walls are cobbled together from stone and mud. It looks very, very old. He doesn’t hear a sound other than the murmur of water nearby. A human skeleton lies on the floor, the bones as yellow and cracked as old parchment.
Brandis finds a battered wooden door scored by deep grooves and scratches. Something has bashed its way inside. Behind the door are barrels and sacks shoved against it as a last-ditch barricade, but something broke through anyway. Brandis gives the room a cursory glance; there is a lot of junk here to sort through, and he sees a smashed dwarf skull with spiders in the eye sockets, but no Helga or Kerric.
Outside, however, the others are about to have company. Erevan spots movement a split second before a tiny, insect-like creature scuttles from a dark alcove. About the size of a small dog, it hisses and clicks at him, and then lunges! Serrated limbs slash at his robes, and then two more scurry out from hiding as well.
“Brandis!” shouts the wizard. Erevan unleashes a shimmering silver missile, but his aim is off and it soars down a tunnel. Splug squeals and tries to hide behind Irann as the warlock throws a curse at an agile beast. Brandis leaps into the fray, skewering a monster on the tip of Wolftooth, even as Erevan immolates the others with a burst of flame. Within seconds the battle is over, their enemy’s legs quivering in their final death throes.
There are drag marks and blood stains on the floor leading down the same tunnel from which the insects emerged. Their friends must be down there, dead or alive, and the group hurries to find them. The tunnel descends sharply, but the last few feet are very slick and Brandis tumbles. He catches himself and is glad he did – he could have fallen off a small ledge that juts over an open room. A rickety bridge stretches across to a tunnel on the far side. The others clamber down as well, but Erevan slips and rolls to a bumpy halt against their legs. Embarrassed, he dusts off his robes and peers over the side…
“The bridge doesn’t look safe,” mutters Irann. She’s already sick of this place, but all three heroes roll miraculously poor Dungeoneering checks; they’re not even sure they’re in a cave! Brandis volunteers (again) to go first. They tie a rope around his waist just to be sure, and he steps onto the bridge. It holds his weight, and he continues…
…and is soon immensely grateful for the rope.
A weak plank shatters beneath his boot and the warlord plunges through!
Irann, Erevan and Splug grab the rope and Brandis stops short, swaying back and forth in midair below the bridge. But then he sees something moving. A huge black shape detaches from the darkness and surges toward him, something with a hideous vulture’s head and two massive arms that end in deadly scythes.
“PULL ME UP!” screams Brandis. “Pull me FASTERRRRRR!”
His companions heave with all of their might, and Brandis starts to rise, but they’re not quite strong enough. He falls again, even lower than before and dangerously close to the hook beast, which is now slashing at him. It can’t quite reach, so it moves to the sloped wall and digs its hooks in, climbing up so that it can snag the squishy dangling morsel of meat.
“GET ME OUT OF HERE!” screams Brandis. The others keep pulling, bracing themselves and hauling with all of their pitiable strength. The hook monster is now level with Brandis, and with one arm anchored to the wall, it lashes out with the other…and rips a horrible wound across the warlord’s chest. Brandis is knocked away, blood pouring from his splintered armor where the hook ravaged him. One more swipe will probably finish him off. He swings back in, feet propped and ready to kick at the thing…
Erevan casts an ice spell on the sloped wall, and the hook monster loses its grip. It tumbles to the bottom, rolling back and forth on its hardened carapace, and just as they’re hoping the beast might be incapacitated, it hops back up, madder than ever.
The wizard, warlock and goblin keep pulling, and Brandis finally ascends to the ledge. The infuriated hook monster keeps flailing below them, unsure if it can reach their position. They sure as hell hope not.
The bridge has proved an obstacle, yes, but they eventually cross it with mundane and magical methods. They rest in the center span while Brandis catches his breath. There’s another bridge on the far side of the tunnel, in better shape too. Furthermore, water and blood streaks are on the planks; their companions Helga and Kerric were dragged this way, although they’re not sure how they circumvented the weak bridge. One of Kerric’s gauntlets lies on the tunnel floor which Irann retrieves for him. Hopefully, the horrible hook beast behind them won’t be able to pursue.
Linear Mode
And yet another word from our sponsors
