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!
This is our Forgotten Realms “Keep on the Shadowfell” campaign over the past few months. It is set in the 4e Realms but does not follow canon very closely; I still used Orcus as the deific source of evil rather than a Realmsian god from the web enhancement. If you’ve read my other story hours you’ll know that I like to add pictures from our games, many of which are doctored post-session specifically for the recaps. I’ve broken the adventure summaries into smaller chunks for easier digestion depending on their length.
These were written primarily for the players, often referred to as “You”, although I kept in mind that other readers would see it eventually and sometimes I refer to them (you guys) as well. The style I use is a blend of prose, game mechanics and summarization that I find quick and easy to write. It’s no eloquent novel, that’s for sure. I also use lots of “GM Note” asides. A few of the background story elements and NPCs developed over the course of the adventure, so I’ve gone back and tried to enhance them for a more cohesive narrative.
Unfortunately, I think my players care less about cohesive narrative and more about killing monsters and taking their stuff. Ah. C'est la vie.
These are the chapters:
Prologue Adventure #1: Winterhaven Adventure #2: Court of the Frog Queen Adventure #3: Ambush on the Old Road Side Trek (I): The Grave of Blacksoul Adventure #4: A Dismal Den of Dragon Droppings Adventure #5: Shadowfell Keep Adventure #6: Splug! Adventure #7: Lord of the Maw & Boss of the Fat Side Trek (II): The Streets of Silverymoon Adventure #8: Caves of Peril Adventure #9: Slime Central Adventure #10: The Hobber Barracks Adventure #11: Chief Krusk, Sir Keegan & Traps Galore Side Trek (III): The Fate of Blacksoul Adventure #12: Cathedral of Shadow Adventure #13: The Claws of Orcus Epilogue
We’ve really enjoyed 4e so far, and I thought this was a great introductory adventure. I can’t say that it is my favorite version of D&D (magic is rather lame now), but combat is a helluva lot of fun. I tried to address some of the shortcomings in the module, such as one-note NPCs and lack of detail for the main villain, Kalarel. We’re moving on to Thunderspire next, but I may very well skip Pyramid of Shadows and segue into King of the Trollhaunt Warrens, planting it smack in middle of the Evermoors.
Many thanks to other DMs who gave me ideas I unabashedly stole. Take what you want from here!
Prologue
The dirty half-elf girl looked up from the parchment in her hand. This was the correct address, yes: 20 Spinagon Alley, Silverymoon. She crumpled the paper. It was a squalid, ugly building, with peeling lichenous green paint, and blackened, boarded windows. She could hardly imagine anyone living here, but Ninaran had lived in worse places. She sucked in a breath and let it out slowly.
This is where her mother had told her to come. Despite that her elven mother was long, long dead and buried.
She raised a fist and rapped lightly on the door. Silence. She looked up and down the street but saw only trash spinning in the chill wind. It was cold out here, no one up and about yet. She raised her hand to knock again, wondering if her mother’s angry spirit had made a mistake, but the door suddenly cracked open.
An eye glared at her.
Ninaran found that she could not speak. Perhaps she should not have come at all. What was she doing here? Did she really think that this stranger would help?
“Are…are you…Kalarel?” Her question was a mere whisper, nearly lost in the rustling wind.
The eye blinked, and the door opened wider.
“Enter.” A man’s voice, deep and full of command. She did not dare disobey. Gathering the hem of her muddy traveling cloak, she stepped up and entered the door. It closed behind her with a snap and was quickly bolted shut. She stood in a small, dirty apartment. The room stank of something sickly sweet and rotten, and the only light flickered from a large candle on a table, but the candleholder was half a human skull. The man, whose features were shrouded by a black hood, stepped slowly away from the door, watching Ninaran. She stood quietly, looking down at the paneled floor between her feet. She did not want to see his face.
“You must be…Ninaran. Yes. Your mother told me you would be here soon.”
His eyes were just two glittering dark jewels under the hood. He was tall too, broad shouldered and emanating an authoritative presence that genuinely frightened Ninaran on some primal level. She did not say anything, just nodded.
“Sit,” the man instructed.
Ninaran found a chair. He walked behind her, his boots clicking on the cold wooden floor, and she heard him stop. Her fingers were shaking, but whether from cold or fear she did not know.
“We have much in common, you and I, Ninaran the half-elf.”
Ninaran wondered what that meant exactly. She had never met this man before, and would not known of him at all unless her mother’s banshee had repeatedly come to her, instructing Ninaran to seek this person out, a man who would help Ninaran find what she and her mother sought…
…revenge.
“Did…did you…know my mother in life?” she asked, her voice hollow even to her own ears.
“No child,” he answered, “but the dead speak to me more eloquently than the living ever could. Her very soul screamed for revenge against the human who burdened her with a child all those years ago, and then promptly abandoned them. Your mother died from grief, did she not? So in love with a young man named Ernest Padraig that his rejection of her and her young daughter was more than she could bear. Heartbroken.
This…Padraig killed your mother Ninaran, just as surely as if he had slid a blade between her ribs himself.”
Ninaran felt the tears and the old rage building, bubbling up in her gut like a hot fountain. It was true what Kalarel said; a young nobleman named Ernest Padraig was her natural father, according to the banshee’s tale of woe that haunted her so many nights. Ninaran hated this man she had never met, a man that long ago thoughtlessly killed her mother without even knowing.
“I know of loss too,” the man said, placing a hand on her shoulder. Ninaran stiffened at the touch.
“The lust of the Padraig family has passed through many generations. My own blood is tainted by their seed, by the father of the father who left you with a life of inequity and poverty. And my own mother…” and he paused briefly, as if struggling with a memory, “…died too young. Too young.”
Kalarel stepped around the chair and pulled his hood back. His head was clean shaven, his features strong and angled, his skin deeply tanned, almost handsome in a way if not for the maniacal gleam in his eyes.
“So you see Ninaran…we do have something in common. And we share a desire for revenge.”
“Revenge…” she whispered so quietly it was barely audible.
“I can help you Ninaran, if you help me. I have a powerful master, more powerful than you can imagine, with control over life and death in the palm of his hand. I have business in the small town of Winterhaven to the south, and if you help me, I promise that you will have the revenge you seek. Ernest Padraig lives there even now with his family, uncaring of the woes he has spread.
Help me Ninaran the Half-Elf, and you will see justice served.”
And Ninaran knew in the deepest part of her soul that this evil man was right.
Great start. Love the way you have tied Ninaran and Kalarel together. Moving the story to the North rather than going with the Dungeon idea of the Thunder Peaks is also interesting.
WIND by the FIRESIDE (Traditional trail ballad; author unknown (but really Ed Greenwood!)
“So as you shiver in the cold and the dark, look into the fire and see in its spark—
My eye…watching over you.
As you walk in the wind’s whistling claws, listen past the howling wolf’s jaws—
My song…comes to you.
And when you’re lost in the trackless snow, look up high where the eagles go.
My star…shines for you.
You are not forsaken. You are not forgotten. The North cannot swallow you. The snows cannot bury you. I will come for you.
Faerun will grow warmer and the Gods will smile. But oh my love, guard yourself well—
This may not happen for a long, long while.”
But it is the season of Greengrass now, the 1st of Mirtul, far from the cold clutches of winter, and five heroes are escorting a single horse-driven wagon from the majestic city of Silverymoon. Their destination: the small walled hamlet of Winterhaven. The wagon driver, an ugly but amicable half-orc named Gobbo Goodnest, is taking his wares to Winterhaven to sell during the weekly Market day.
The party is going along as protection, as well as fulfilling a job for Merple the Moneylender, a Halfling businessman in Silverymoon.
The group has been hired to go to Winterhaven and map out an old crumbled keep in the vicinity, a derelict of a long lost age. Brandis Padraig, as a long time resident of Winterhaven, knows legend and rumor of this place, but has never been there. Merple only has an incomplete map of the region and would like to have updated information added to his archives. He has given the group a copy of what he has, although it is not particularly detailed or useful.
In addition, Merple has tasked them with a secondary mission; he has another employee in the region, Douvan Stahl, who was looking for the remains of a dragon’s tomb. If they can find Stahl, let Merple know if he’s alive or dead, or if he ever found the dragon tomb he was searching for.
The Heroes:
Helga Hammerhelm, female dwarf Fighter (out to prove her worth to her clan).
Eravin, male eladrin Wizard (a miraculous survivor of the Spellplague that stripped him of his former levels; he has recovered enough lore to gain 1 level of expertise)
Brandis Padraig, male human Warlord, eldest son of Lord Ernest Padraig of Winerhaven. He has not set foot in Winterhaven for several years while seeking his fortune and fame in the wider world.
The group has only known each other for a few weeks, and they know little about each other’s abilities or backgrounds, other than the obvious. Brandis Padraig has not been home for two years, and is sure that his family will be overjoyed to see him. Gobbo Goodnest chortles and talks incessantly, but abruptly stops and pulls up the reins when he spots a flicker of movement in the distance behind a clump of rocks.
“Ya see that?” grunts Gobbo.
They do indeed, and Ash the rogue tries to flank around the side. The rest of the group sees several lizard-like dog men peering out from behind boulders, not particularly trying to hide, but Ash spots a few more concealed beyond the boulders. Brandis Padraig advances, perhaps a little too brazenly, and is instantly swarmed by enraged kobolds, including a heavily armed soldier bearing a dragonscale shield! Shrieking, they duck and jab and stab at Brandis, shifting out of the way, and then a hidden slinger hurls a glob of sticky glue at his feet, anchoring Brandis to the road. He’s immediately in serious trouble.
The wizard and warlock employ their magical resources, tossing magic missiles and cursing foes with eldritch fire. Helga the fighter dwarf leaps into the fray with her battleaxe, hewing foes down in vicious chops. The dragonshield kobold blocks her attacks with advanced tactics and proves to be a worthy foe. Their blows ring off each other’s armor and steel.
Ash moves behind a kobold and tries to slit its throat, only to be rushed by a second dragonshield warrior. It is an enemy he does not wish to fight alone. Meanwhile, the kobolds have continued to dance around the mired Brandis Padraig, who is unable to escape the gluey mess entangling his feet. He is quickly bloodied, and then dips perilously close to death before the closest attackers are either killed or retreat. To his immense fortune, the kobold slinger throws several globs of burning pitch that all miss him. Had they hit, he might have died.
Brandis finally manages to escape, but has been giving tactical orders the whole time.
The first dragonshield soldier is dropped, eldritch fire exploding from his eyes after the warlock’s curse infuses his soul with dark portent. She teleports to another spot across the battlefield, powered with the death of her enemy, and targets another foe. Helga charges the remaining three enemies, ignoring their opportunity attacks, and wails on the dragonshield with a devastating Brute Strike. The soldier falls to one knee, but staggers up, still in the fight -- until Ash backstabs him. Steel hacks into the kobolds from both sides, and the slinger’s head is brutally removed from his shoulders, spewing dark blood in a wet arc.
Soon the battle is over, the dust settles, and blood begins to cool in the road. Gobbo Goodnest is ecstatic, praising the heroes and their martial prowess. Apparently, kobold brigands have been a problem on the King’s Road recently, but Gobbo had been hoping to avoid a confrontation. Still, he promises the group that Salvana Wrafton of Wrafton’s Inn will offer them room and board for free, his treat for the first night or so. They’ve earned it, no doubt.
Several hours later as dusk is crawling over the horizon, the group sees the walled palisade of Winterhaven behind the trees in the distance.
To the east though, outside the gates, they see a mournful procession of crying women in the graveyard, and a small casket being lowered into the ground. Brandis does not recognize anyone immediately, other than the priestess of Sune present for the funeral rites: Sister Linora.
“What happened here?” Brandis quietly asks once the rites are finished.
Sister Linora is pleased to see Brandis Padraig and hugs him, telling him that it has been a long while. As for the funeral, a child was killed by marauders in the outlying farms. The problem has been getting worse and worse as of recent. Sister Linora asks with some difficulty if Brandis has spoken with his family, and if he knows about…Kel.
His youngest brother, only twelve years old.
Brandis has heard nothing, and Sister Linora says that he really should find his father and speak with him. Greatly disturbed now, Brandis ushers the others toward the front gates. There are two sentries, one of whom Brandis immediately recognizes as Rond Kelfern, head of the Winterhaven Regulars, the town’s militia. They greet each other, and Rond says that Lord Padraig is either at his walled estate, or at the Inn.
Drinking. Yet again, as has been the case ever since Kel...
The group heads to Wrafton’s Inn first, and by now dusk has settled cool and purple over the town. Even before the doors open they hear a female minstrel inside, and soon her voice soon washes over them, backed by the pungent smell of ale and cooked sausages.
The singer is a female elf who melodically croons and nods to the newcomers (GM Note: she was singing a song from the Beowulf movie]. A disheveled Halfling sits at her feet strumming a lyre, with a hat extended for coins. Eravin the Eladrin Wizard is immediately attracted to this young minstrel (despite his advanced age), and taking a position at her side, he uses cantrips to call forth fluttering fireflies to augment her performance. (YAY! Non-combat use of magic!!)
Gobbo Goodnest, Helga, Brandis, Ash and Irann all enter the bar area and are greeted by a tall, attractive human woman named Salvanna Wrafton, owner and bartender.
There are a few patrons eating and drinking here, and Salvana immediately recognizes Brandis. She tells him that his father is at the back booth, thoroughly immersed in his cups. Brandis immediately goes to speak with him.
“These are great warriors!” praises Gobbo, clamping a hand to the dwarf’s shoulder. “They slew many dirty ‘bolds along the road this eve. Left not a one standing!”
Mugs are raised in appreciation from the farmers and patrons at the bar, including one from a heavy-set human with a ruddy face.
“Well met then, strangers,” the large man drawls. “It is always good to hear of less trouble on the road. Every little bit helps! My name is Valthrun the Prescient, local “purveyor of knowledge,” or some such audacious title. Who might you be?”
The group asks about the kobold problem first, and find that it has indeed become a serious problem over the last few months. The little bastards are getting braver and braver, going from attacking individual travelers on the trade road to actually infiltrating houses and stealing babies! The Winterhaven Regulars don’t have enough members to patrol the farms outside the walls. Worse, says Salvana Wrafton quietly, Lord Padraig’s own young son Kel has been killed by raiders while out hunting. He is wallowing in grief, and his wife Cynthia Padraig has gone almost mad. She arms herself at all times now, and will not let their youngest daughter out of her sight.
While Helga, Ash and the others are relayed this gossip, Brandis is hearing pretty much the same thing from his father. Lord Ernest Padraig is an emotional mess, but extremely glad to see his oldest son, who has blossomed into a fine warrior just as his father did.
Valthrun the Prescient is a wealth of information, and continues drinking and engaging the newcomers while Salvana keeps their mugs and plates full. Talk eventually turns toward questions about an old keep outside of town.
“Aye, the old keep,” murmurs Valthrun, rubbing his chin. “I know of it.”
“Some say it’s haunted,” whispers Salvanna. “Ghosts. Vampires. Why in Sune’s good name would you want to go there?”
Well, money talks, and the group is being offered good coin to map it out by Merple the Moneylender in Silverymoon. Valthrun says he doesn’t know too much about it, other than it might have been a watchpost for the old kingdom, but that was probably hundreds of years ago. Now, it’s likely just a goblin den or some such foul place. Still, Valthrun is intrigued by their questions; it panders to his love of lost lore, so he immediately volunteers to retreat to his tower and search his library for clues about the old keep. When they see him again, he says, he’ll know much more. [Journal Updated!]
Brandis and his father soon leave, his mother needs to be seen, and the rest of the group steps outside into the cool night air. They hear ringing blows from a hammer and anvil, and soon see a dwarf hunched in the ruddy glow.
The dwarf has an obvious gimp leg, and walks with a limp to dunk the shaft of hot metal in a barrel of water. Helga addresses him, asking if he has anything for sale. Exceptional weapons perhaps? The smithy, Thair Coalstriker is bitter and barely acknowledges her questions, spitting curses as he hammers a sword, pretending he is bashing a goblin’s head into greasy pulp. Helga pushes the issue, and Thair roars in anger, unpleased to have someone reminding him why he can’t be the skilled warrior he always wanted to be. They ask a few more questions about the kobold problem, and a mysterious keep outside of town. Thair knows that the kobolds need to be smashed into pieces, but he can’t say much about the keep. Maybe Valthrun or Lord Padraig knows more. Thair HAS heard the name “IRONTOOTH” mentioned in relation to the kobolds, so that might be a leader. He doesn’t know where the kobolds are lairing though, but he thinks that the Militia Leader Rond Kelfern might have an idea.
They haggle some with Thair, and he buys some kobold swords to smelt down, although he wants nothing to do with the dragonscale shield. It's not born of the earth, like rock or iron.
The night ends with the party deciding that the immediate kobold problem in Winterhaven is their chief concern. Perhaps Lord Padraig needs some “help” with this problem, and Brandis Padraig has nothing but revenge on his mind.
As for Ash the elven rogue, he stands silently in the shadows, biding his time and keeping his dark thoughts to himself. For the others, they might be…disturbing.
[GM Note: As the first official 4e adventure, I thought combat was fast and furious with little to no interpretation problems. Roleplaying was actually easier to do with a group of people already comfortable with it. There were no rules dictating how you should or should not act, and alignment was not an issue. I still don’t quite get the Skill Challenges though]
Nebulous's Keep on the Shadowfell (FR) Updated 10/28/08
Adventure #2: Court of the Frog Queen
PART ONE
An hour has passed since the last session when the group spoke with the bitter dwarven smithy, Thair Coalbiter. Their main mission is still to find and map an old keep somewhere in the vicinity, but of more immediate concern is the kobold problem. Two of the heroes (The Warlock and Wizard) retire to bed at Salvana’s Inn, but Ash the Elf Rogue and Helga the Dwarf Fighter stay on the lower level, sipping drinks at their own tables. Ash prefers to be alone, but Helga openly chats with Salvana Wrafton as she cleans up and prepares to close for the night. Meanwhile, Brandis Padraig, son of Lord Padraig, is still at the walled estate attending to his beleaguered mother and father.
As for Ash…
…the rogue has not been resting very long on his stool when someone sits down close beside him. It is a young half-elf woman, not uncomely, somewhat tomboyish, with short cropped hair and a smattering of freckles.
“Who are you?” she asks bluntly, but quietly, so that no other patron might hear. There is a pig farmer and a drunkard nearby. Ash is blunt in return, immediately distrustful of her forward approach. A quick glance offers many clues about her; her skin is dirty yet tan, as if she is outdoors often; her scent ripe as if she has not washed for days; both her forearms are bandaged. The half-elf introduces herself as Ninaran, and asks again what has brought Ash to Winterhaven. “A task for gold,” is all he offers. Seemingly satisfied, Ninaran goes further, asking Ash what it is like to be a pure blood elf, untainted by a human lineage? What an odd, odd question. Ash is quiet and somber by nature, and suspects that this strange half-elf girl is perhaps attracted to his dark nature. His cowl is pulled up, covering his features in shadow, but she presses in close enough to see his eyes.
“Do you like to walk?” Ninaran asks. Ash nods, and the half-elf urges him up. “We walk in the dark then. It suits us, doesn’t it? Hides us, warts and faults and all.”
“What do you dislike so much about your heritage?”
Ninaran sneers, looking away. “Weak-willed humans. It disgusts me. None of the grace and beauty of…your kind.”
Her eyes flash at Ash, and the elf is intrigued. “And why should I trust a stranger in the dark? You might try to kill me.”
Ninaran laughs. “You to fear me? Indeed, elf, it should be ME afraid of you in the dark!” Ash smiles ruefully, obliged to agree with her. So, he tells Helga he is stepping outside, and the two depart.
Meanwhile, Helga…
…is enjoying her fifth mug of frothy cold ale while Salvana Wrafton sweeps meticulously around her legs and wipes the table down with a wet cloth.
“So you know Brandis Padraig, eh?” the tavern-owner asks. “Oh, that boy has grown up handsome, an image of his father he is. That Lord Padraig is a striking man. I’ve had an eye for him some years now, truth be told! Truth be told, aye. Too good for that wife of his. She’s a crazy one I say, even before Kel passed on. Had only I met Ernest when we were younger, there might be a different Lady Padraig!”
Helga has heard about the problems with the Padraig family though, and the death of their young son Kel has created emotional turmoil, sinking the Lord into his cups and the wife into a pit of wailing despair. Salvana is extremely talkative and keeps spilling her feelings about Lord Padraig, until Helga starts to wonder if the woman has an ulterior motive for talking to her so much. Is she hitting on me? the dwarfs wonders, and gulps her beer in silence. Strange. The dwarf isn’t sure what to do about that so she just drinks more.
And behind the walled royal estate, Brandis Padraig…
…holds his sobbing mother in his arms. She is hysterical, and has not stopped crying since he arrived. She laments the loss of her son Kel, and has not let Brandis’s young sister out of her sight since the incident two weeks ago. Lord Padraig stands nearby, his brow furrowed in worry. Cynthia Padraig drags Brandis to the trophy room and shows him a shield on the wall that surprises him:
A fresh goblin head is mounted there, its eyes wide in shock!
“Filthy beasts. They took my Kel’s head!” she sobs. “They took his head, Brandis, and we’ll do the same to them! Find their vicious, ugly heads! As many as you can! Kill them and hurt them and bring me their rotting little heads! We’ll mount them around the keep, a warning to all! Stay away from our children! Stay away!”
Her eyes are wide, her lips trembling, and then Cynthia begins twisting her hands, mumbling that the blood won’t come off, it just won’t come off no matter how many times she washes them… Lord Padraig finally guides her to bed, and then returns to Brandis.
“Son, your mother is very ill. I…I fear for her health. Do you know Delphina Moongem? Perhaps not. She has lived here for not long. She is an elf maiden with some magical talent. She has been picking herbs to brew tonics and elixirs for your mother, to calm her. I feel that Cynthia might harm herself otherwise. But the ingredient for the tonic is rare and nearly gone. Delphina can only pick it by moonlight on Jade Hill, nearly a mile from here. There are…rumors that creatures of the night will not harm Delphina, and so far such rumor seems true, although I know not why. She seems to walk untroubled in wild places blessed by the gods perhaps. But…there are things in the woods worse than goblins and kobolds. Please, accompany her to Jade Hill. Protect her while she finds the herbs. Your mother needs it more than anything right now.”
Brandis nods gravely, and swears to help find the herbs…AND the heads.
And outside Wrafton’s Inn…
…Ash and Ninaran have stepped into the brisk night air. It is newly spring, the month of Mirtul, the moon full and bright, and they walk side by side toward the walls. Ash finds this girl to be very strange, but can’t quite put his finger on why. “What are the bandages for?” he asks. She is defensive and changes the subject, pointing to a ladder leading to the parapets. They climb up near the guard towers and stand overlooking the night scenery. To the north looms the immense High Forest, and Ash mentions that he was born there, deep in the shadows with his people. Ninaran is fascinated by his tale, and presses him for more detail. Ash works his way around to the nature of the bandaged arms again, and Ninaran finally admits that when one hates themselves enough, they’ll try to kill themselves. The bandages hide scars, but that is long ago and not of concern now.
She changes the subject, pointing to the woods and says that she has small hut near town. She lives there, away from the encroaching walls and hubbub of people. She wants Ash to follow her there. It will be…private. Right….Ash isn’t too keen on following this woman into the woods alone, even though he does figure himself superior in a fight. She seems genuinely interested in him on a physical level, but she’s dirty and uncouth, almost as she lives off the land and only forays into civilization occasionally.
Ninaran repeats the offer, but just about then Brandis Padraig has exited his father’s estate and sees Ash up on the wall with another figure he can’t identify. He climbs the ladder and finds Ash with a female half-elf. Brandis briefly explains that they need to round up Helga because they have some “business” to take care of outside the walls.
Ninaran’s features flash with anger that they have been disturbed. “My offer then, Ash? What of it?”
“It will have to wait,” he says. “Tomorrow though, I will see your abode.”
“Then I’ll join your task tonight,” the half-elf says. “I know these woods well.”
Brandis shakes his head. “No…but thank you. This is a family matter. We can take care of it.”
Ninaran is clearly offended, and after exchanging a few heated words with Brandis, she spits at his feet and says, “You worthless Padraigs are all alike.” She clambers down the ladder which Brandis probably would have kicked over were it not bolted to the timber.
“By the love of Sune, Ash, what kind of company do you keep?”
Helga is soon roused from her table, still carrying her final beer and feeling quite intoxicated. The three of them let their other companions sleep, confident that this entourage is sufficient to protect Delphina Moongem while she collects the herbs and roots necessary to brew a tonic for Cynthia Padraig. Following his father’s directions, they soon find the simple flat and knock on the door. It is answered by a red-haired elf maiden, her hair intertwined with fragrant flowers.
“Oh. Yes! You’re son of the lord, of course. Come to help me find snailwort? Of course you are. Come, come! It grows on Jade Hill, but we must find it while it’s fresh. I know where to look. Follow me!”
She pushes past the group, barefoot and clad in a skimpy dress, and the others look at each other thoughtfully. Delphina Moongem seems to imbibe a few too many herbs that she collects. She is a flighty, absent-minded girl who dashes ahead, seemingly oblivious to whether they are following or not. She is unarmed and only carries a satchel to gather ingredients. At the front gates the guards recognize her, and she states her business as an errand for Lord Padraig. They open the gates enough for everyone to slip out one at a time, and then the gates close behind them.
They are beyond the walls, the moon a high, pale white orb looking down on them.
The forest creaks and chirps with night creatures, rustling softly as they pad down a well- worn path. It is not terribly dense wood, certainly nothing like the tangled undergrowth of the High Forest which Ash knows hides all manner of secret, dangerous things. Delphina hums to herself, stopping occasionally to pluck a purple mushroom that she nibbles. The party members begin to wonder just how much this young elf girl is in her right mind, and how much she’s floating in a semi-world of wonder and bliss. How could she possibly survive alone out here?
Soon though, they hear something large tromping through the woods. Ash halts Delphina and Brandis, but the elf wanderer giggles and pulls away, dancing ahead without heed. Helga grabs the girl and forces her to wait while Ash sneaks ahead. He hears the thing moving around, twigs cracking and branches breaking, and then a breathy SNORT! He freezes just as he crawls around the enormous bole of a duskwood tree, and he sees in the shadowed canopy a large porcine silhouette; cloven hooves, bulbous head and snout, curved tusks – it’s a huge boar, and it sees Ash at the same time!
“Big…PIIIIG!” the rogue bellows, tossing his sunrod at the thing, and the creature explodes toward him with a ferocious snarl!
Light blooms around the tree in a wide berth, and in the resulting glare Ash clearly sees that this boar is not wild; a saddle is strapped to its back, stirrups dangling down, but the saddle is slathered with a copious amount of fresh blood…
The ground is uneven from roots breaking the soil, and the beast’s charge is hampered, but it still manages to gouge the rogue. Ash staggers back, swinging his dagger in defense, using the trunk for cover. Helga puts her beer down and unslings her ax. Brandis the Human Warlord rushes up to help their ally, following the light from the sunrod, but they spectacularly fail both of their Perception checks, until Delphina points, crying out: “Look! Another piggie! I like piggies.”
Sure enough, there is a second boar crouched in the foliage on the other side of the duskwood, and it clambers over the roots and charges Helga, slamming into her. The dwarf stubbornly plants her feet and pushes back, falling prone at the thing’s cloven hooves. Like its companion, this boar also boasts a saddle coated with blood that is not the pigs.
Something in the woods killed the riders, but what exactly, they cannot tell.
The resulting fight is ferocious. The rogue and warlord manage to flank their boar, raining down sharp blows from longsword and dagger, hacking through tough hide and leather barding. Helga the dwarf has a tougher time, Bloodied by consistent hits from her foe.
“Delphina! Help me!” the dwarf bellows, but Delphina has trotted nonchalant to the base of the tree and is digging around, ignorant of the battle raging around her. Something has caught her interest, despite the rampant squeals and screams and scuffling.
At last, one of the boars is dropped, but ferociously surges up for one last dying attack, narrowly missing Brandis Padraig. Ash moves to flank the remaining boar, while Brandis gives the dwarf strategic advise, resulting in a flurry of axe blows, severing a tusk and half of the thing’s face. The boar staggers in agony while Ash sinks a dagger into its haunches, and finally Helga lands a killing blow into its skull, crumpling the beast into a quivering lump of coarse hair, brain pulp and blood.
They search the boar corpses, wracking their memories for knowledge about what kind of creature would ride a boar? Goblins have been known to ride wolves or worgs into combat, and the saddles are big enough...maybe even for a man. Or a large goblin. The only other clues are strips of cured meat in the side pouches, which could just as easily be cured beef as it could be cured human or cured elf. They don’t take the meat.
The next unanswered question is what killed the riders and left the boars?
“Ooh! Ooh! Look what I found!” cries Delphina Moongem. She rushes up, cradling plants in her hands. “Yellowfiddle! This is SO hard to find, you just don’t know.”
Helga the dwarf growls at her. “Why didn’t you help? We could have been killed.”
Delphina glances around. “Oh, I’m sorry. I…I did not notice. Are…are the pigs hurt bad? I hope not…”
The dwarf has had enough of this elf imbecile and stalks off. Brandis grunts, following, and Ash is about to follow too when he hears a distinct chittering laughter in the trees. They all stop, and for a brief moment catch a glimpse of something bright RED in the branches, and then it’s gone, tinkling laughter melting into the darkness.
Unnerved now, and afraid that something else is stalking them, they follow Delphina to Jade Hill, which she insists is not far. Soon, the woods reach an end and they see a large hill rising before them toward a clear, bright, uncluttered moon.
“There! Not far now!” the elf wanderer announces, and she hikes up her dress and begins climbing the hill. Brandis and Helga follow, but Ash hangs back, sinking into the shadows and extending his senses into the darkness behind them, wary of anything following, his dagger ready to lash out and kill it…
Delphina soon crosses a concentric circle of small rocks that rings the hilltop. Helga and Brandis stop outside these rocks, wracking their brains for the significance of such placement. The rocks are deliberately arranged, but they’re not sure why. They ask Delphina, who has dropped to her hands and knees and is digging into the dirt.
“A faery circle, silly!” she says, chortling. “Don’t you know anything? Wonderful magic happens here, things wondrous and beautiful! Now I must find the snailwort for Lady Cynthia. Your mother needs help, Brandis, and help her I will!”
Meanwhile, inside the perimeter of trees, Ash peeks out and sees his companions standing near the top of the hill under a bright, bright moon. He snaps his head around upon hearing laughter above him in the boughs. Again, something reddish leaps limb to limb and vanishes. He squeezes a hand around the pommel of his blade…
Helga and Brandis patiently wait for Delphina to find the ingredients she needs for the tonic. A cool breeze has begun to blow, one that strangely comforts them (demanding FORT saves). Brandis notices fireflies around him and reaches out to grab one…
…but upon opening his palm sees that it is a tiny woman!
Smaller than a dandelion, she sputters and sparks, and he releases it, soon to find it joined by dozens of variously shaped faeries that flicker with eldritch light. Helga hefts her axe to her other hand, unsure of what to make of this, and then a tiny creature alights on her head and begins braiding her blond hair. Brandis finds his sword belt unbuckled, and his blade clatters to the grass. Dozens of these things surround them, a miasma of faery-kin, a nimbus of soft light under the silent moon.
“Delphina—what are these things? What do they want?”
“Oh, just the faeries. They’re so sweet. But I’m busy now. Must dig! Your mother needs help, Brandis. Ah, I found some snailwort!”
Brandis is unimpressed by her help. “We mean no harm,” the warlord announces to the fey visitors. “We’re just here to collect some herbs. We mean no intrusion upon your sanctuary. We’ll soon be gone.”
At the bottom of the hill, still hidden, Ash sees an unusual amount of bright fireflies clouding the top of the mound. He hears giggling again, and spots another flash of red in the branches, this time attached to a small humanoid form. Something is closing in on his location, skirting between the branches with unnatural accuracy, something hefting a heavy metal blade gripped in gnarled hands…
Mist has begun to coalesce inside the ring of faery stones. The sparkling intensifies, the conglomeration of fey kin swarming and singing and chattering, the glow brightening, and then from the depths of the mist appears a short, squat green man with a red scarf cinched around his neck.
“Make way for the Frog Queen,” he croaks in a peculiar voice, a tongue that only Brandis identifies as an ancient goblin dialect. Helga can’t understand it at all.
Brandis stutters, staggering back from this small man who resembles a goblin, but unlike any he’s ever seen. His features are smaller, his demeanor different, and the goblin brusquely waves them aside.
“I Picklenose announce the arrival of the Frog Queen! All hail the Frog Queen! All hail… THE FROG QUEEN!”
Mist swirls and gusts about them, and to their shock and surprise, a HUGE amphibian foot plants itself in the soft green grass! A glistening wet body pushes itself through the fabric between worlds, another foot crashing down, followed by pendulous breasts swinging from a hybrid woman-frog. Her awful voice croaks across the hill in a tongue that is both alien yet intelligible.
“WHO’S UPON MY HILL THIS NIGHT?
WHAT YOUR MOTIVE? WHAT YOUR PLIGHT?”
Brandis and Helga are terrified, and the redhats and redscarves swarming out from the mist and surrounding them does not help the situation.
Ash is likewise being flanked in the forest by six redcaps grinning evilly at him. He dashes up the hill and joins his companions, taking his chances against the Frog Queen. Delphina cheerfully keeps digging.
Brandis stammers a response, reiterating that they are only here to gather herbs and then be on their way, and they meant no disrespect whatsoever. The fey creatures begin laughing, and the Frog Queen tells them that mortals should know better than displease her.
“TELL THEM WHAT HAPPENS, PICKLENOSE.”
The squat redscarf clears his throat and says that he used to be a human barber in Waterdeep, and now loyally serves in the court of the Frog Queen for all eternity.
Now the PCs are really worried.
This encounter instigates a Skill Challenge where they try a variety of Knowledge, Diplomacy and Insight checks, trying to gain some advantage in the situation and avoid eternal service as some ugly little toad monster. Helga wisely decides NOT to Intimidate the Frog Queen, which would have resulted in an auto-fail. Brandis has heard old wives tales about the Frog Queen and how she steals people to serve her, but she is not wholly evil or wholly good, just unpredictable. And ugly as sin.
Their stilted conversation sways back and forth, and initially the Frog Queen seems adamant that she wants to take the mortals back with her to the Feywild. There is clearly no way to escape, and impossible to fight them off, so the group carefully avoids any kind of melee. Brandis Padraig is finally able to convince her that he and his friends can serve her better on this side of the mystic veil, and he heartily offers their services in whatever capacity she deems worthy.
[GM Note: While this encounter was fun, I’m still unsure of how Skill Challenges are supposed to work. I feel like we’re missing an important component]
Ultimately impressed by this offer of servitude, the Frog Queen (who ended up sounding like Yoda) says that she will allow them to go free on ONE condition:
There is a goblin who has offended her, a goblin who has overstepped his boundaries. A goblin named IRONTOOTH.
Brandis knows the name because Thair Coalbiter and his father Lord Padraig mentioned it himself this very evening (The last adventure, session #1). Irontooth is whispered to be the leader of the raiders.
“BRING ME HIS HANDS ON THE NEXT FULL MOON,
ONE MONTH FROM TONIGHT. THAT IS OUR BARGAIN, MORTALS.”
So Cynthia wants his head, and now this Frog Queen wants his hands! There won’t be much left of Irontooth to dish around. The group readily agrees to her terms, and then the Frog Queen gestures toward Picklenose. He hands her a stone bowl. She gestures toward Delphina Moongem who brings a handful of snailwort and drops it in the bowl. The Frog Queen spits in the bowl, adds water from a decanter, and waves her wet fingers over the concoction. It bubbles and fizzles, acrid fumes rise up, and then she hands the bowl back to Delphina.
“THIS IS THE BREW YOU SEEK.
NOW GO, AND REMEMBER OUR AGREEMENT.”
Oh, they’ll remember alright. They won’t forget this night for a long, long time. The fey creatures begin slipping back into the mist, vanishing a few at a time, and soon the companions are alone on top of the hill.
Delphina sighs and yawns. “Oh…I am SO tired. I want to go home.”
We were down two players this session so i scrambled something new together outside of the plotline. I'll eventually tie the Frog Queen back into something more Feywild oriented, maybe the Trollhaunt Warrens if i ever get a chance to run it.
And although the players don't learn until much later, the boars belonged to the Bloodreavers.
The next morning, Ash the Rogue is woken by pounding on his door at Wrafton’s Inn. Sunlight slants through the windows, and he hears the chirp of birds outside. Hand to his knife, he warily asks: “Who’s there?” It’s awfully early in the morning for him to kill someone.
“Gobbo Goodnest it is, hero!” grunts the half-orc wagon driver from Silverymoon. “I got someone ‘ere who wants to speak with you.”
Ash unlocks the door, peeking out. Gobbo’s ugly mug greets him, along with a clean-shaven young man garbed as a Winterhaven Regular.
“And there he is!” crows Gobbo. “Barely out of bed, and this man could still gut a gob in the blink of an eye. What did I tell you, Corby? They’re true heroes!”
Ash is clear that he also has no qualms about gutting ugly half-orcs, but Gobbo rolls with the jest, only slightly unsure of its authenticity.
Corby nods in agreement with Gobbo. “Mr…Ash, sir…Lord Padraig sent me to rouse you and your friends, at…at your convenience of course. He wishes to speak with you, at his estate. Mr. Ash. Sir. It concerns his good wife, Ms. Lady Padraig.”
Ash agrees to wake the others. They smell bacon frying downstairs and that alone is enough to rouse them. Well, the Eladrin Wizard Erevan doesn’t actually SLEEP; he just sinks into a reverie of rejuvenation. He spent some time on the parapets the night before looking for invaders, unaware that his companions had actually left the walls to collect snailwort with Delphina Moongem. The half-elf warlock Irann was unaware as well.
Soon, Helga the dwarf, Ash, Irann and Erevan have all congregated downstairs. Brandis stayed at the estate with his family. Behind the counter a busty Salvana Wrafton easily greets them:
“Mornin’ strangers. Did ye sleep like the dead in my beds?”
There is another old man they recognize at the bar, the same pig farmer from the night before when they first arrived: Elian the Old. He’s pigless right now, but enjoying his morning beer before Market Day begins. “Hoo-eee! Morn to you, folks.”
Gobbo clamps a beefy hand on Helga’s shoulder. “Heroes they are, seen em myself in the thick of battle. Just what Winterhaven needs!”
Gobbo offers the heroes to peruse some of his wares from Silverymoon. He makes the trip once a month or so to sell trinkets and pottery, and to collect items to resell in Silverymoon. The group isn’t particularly interested in his wares though (or Gobbo himself), and they soon find themselves in the streets. Winterhaven is active this morning. People mill about outside; chickens cluck; pigs squeal and the general hubbub of the market filters through the air. Farmers from outlying fields come here to sell vegetables and furs; seamstresses set up kiosks to sell blankets and pillows; cobblers repair and sell shoes, and so on. The commerce seems reasonably rotund, although Corby points it is less than it should be, given all the brigands on the roads.
Following Corby’s lead, they’re almost at the interior gates when an attractive young blond woman approaches them. They recall briefly meeting her the day before, outside the city walls. She is Sister Linora, a Priestess of Sune and religious presence in Winterhaven.
“I heard what you did for Lady Cynthia. She…and we…thank you. I think that your actions will soon help us all through these dire times. I…I can offer you this. Not much, but it should aid you your troubles. Fare thee well, adventurers. You have Sune’s blessing.”
She hands them a small leather pouch that tinkles when Helga accepts it. “Careful,” Linora says. “It is fragile.” Helga sniffs the bag but doesn’t open it, but Erevan does. There are five small vials with a rune of healing upon. The party members take 1 each.
Corby leads them through the inner gates. “That Ms. Sister Linora is a kindly soul. I like her. Follow me now. Mr. Lord Padraig is waiting.”
Soon, Lord Padraig has heartily greeted them with a wide smile and handshakes. “The brew you and Delphina returned to us is the finest we’ve had yet. Cynthia is now in a deep, dreamless slumber, an aura of peace about her that I have not seen in weeks. I cannot thank you enough.”
“You can thank us with gold,” mutters Ash.
“Ah, yes, of course. Gold. Brandis and I have been discussing this.”
Brandis Padraig stands diligently at his father’s side, already geared for battle. “Father will pay you, but first we need to find this kobold lair, and this so-called goblin named ‘Irontooth.’ The threat to Winterhaven will not subside until we eliminate the threat at its core.”
“Yes, but the gold…?” insists Ash.
“Seventy-five pieces of Winterhaven-minted gold upon your return,” says Lord Padraig. That is acceptable to the heroes, but they still want 25 upfront for supplies. They also want to know if Lord Padraig has any magic items to give or sell them. No. The only thing he has is an enchanted sword, but that is the Padraig heirloom and will be passed down to Brandis one day, gods willing. Lord Padraig says that they should visit Bairwain Wildarson of Bairwain’s Grand Shoppe. He’s known to carry rare items from all over the Realms and can sometimes supply exceptional merchandise. He certainly likes to talk about it, Padraig adds.
Helga wants a better axe, and Brandis wants a polearm, so Lord Padraig tells them to speak with Rond Kelfern, Head of the Militia, and he’ll supply them with whatever weapons they need. The group visits the Siege Supply, and soon they’re off to find Bairwain Wildarson and his Grande Olde Shoppe of Excellente Stuffe.
A large, pompous sign swings above the shop with gaudy bright lettering, and the man behind the desk matches his establishment. He is impeccably dressed in a pressed purple tunic. Slick black custom-fitted shoes click on the tile as he approaches them. [He looks like an Prince Valiant to me, and portrayed as such].
“Greetings,” he says with a curt drawl and southern accent. “Help you this fine day? Welcome to Bairwain’s Shoppe of the Rare and Exquisite, as I’m sure you can see from my wares.”
Gilded birdcages hang from hooks. Glass cabinets house chiseled ornaments from Cormyr, Amn, and Aglarond and more exotic locales; ornamental swords dangle from the walls, encrusted with gems or sheathed in fine silver inlaid scabbards. The shop almost has the air of a miniature museum rather than a practical store, although there are plenty of mundane items interspersed among the flashier goods.
The group simply asks if Bairwain has any magic items for sale, and his eyes light up.
“Ah! That I do. That I do, travelers and friends. Not my normal bounty of goods, for I have not been to my…well, my “supplier” in some time, but I will soon enough. But I do have…”
And he offers them a quiver of 20 red-tipped steel arrows: Heartseekers.
“What do they do?” grunts Ash.
“They seek a foe’s heart!” the shop owner snaps. “What kind of adventurer are you? It’s obvious I would think.”
Bairwain offers them a newcomer “Friend Price” of 250 gp for the heartseekers (+1 arrows) but they can’t really afford it. Maybe later.
His second offer is more interesting, to Bairwain anyway. He hands a small mundane wooden box to the Dwarf and bids her to open it with the key. She does so. It’s empty. He asks her to close it again, open it, close it and then quickly open it, as fast as she can (Dex Check 10). Helga does so, and this time sees a golden chained medallion curled inside.
“It’s called the Box of Innox, or the Box of Innocuous Conclusions. Or even a Box of Illusion to some. Noble wives have used it to hide their pretty trinkets.”
The box is smaller than a shoebox, always weighs half a pound, and never seems to have contents. The only way to access the hidden items is to open it quickly a second time. It is not a Bag of Holding and can only accommodate what will fit within the dimensions of the box. Erevan the mage is particularly interested in this item, and convinces everyone to chip in to cover the 100gp price.
There’s nothing else they want in Bairwain’s store, although he says that he will be re-supplying in the near future and they should return. The group steps outside, enjoying the cool spring breeze washing over them, a vaulted deep azure blue sky over their heads, They begin walking briskly toward the north gate while Brandis fills in Erevan and Irann about their encounter with the Frog Queen last night.
They’re about to leave when they see Eilian the Old nearby with his morning beer and a pig. “Hoo-eee! They’re off! Luck with ya, adventurers! Kill me a gob! Kill me a—”
Helga snatches his beer. Ash takes his pig. Eilian looks after them, flabbergasted, and then raises his arms to the sky, wailing: “Why do ye gods hate me so!!!?”
Soon after, on the open road, they discuss their clues and goals: Thair Coalstriker, lame dwarf smithy, mentioned that the leader of the kobolds was named “Irontooth.” The Frog Queen confirmed that this Irontooth was actually a goblin, and this is strange: a goblin leading kobolds? Why? Lord Padraig and Rond Kelfern have heard that the kobolds lair near the waterfall, and since there is only one in the vicinity, Dorsail Falls, Lord Padraig has scrawled a rough map for them to follow, including the location of the old keep that the party is here to map for Merple the Moneylender. Padraig has never been to the waterfall himself and does not know if there are caves or not.
Although Padraig’s map is of inferior quality to this, it roughly offers the same information:
Last week, before they arrived, torrential rain had swollen the river so much that it was impassable. But the water level has subsided now. They elect to travel north on broken cobblestone and weedy wheel ruts along the Old Road that once stretched to the Silver Marches, skirting the southern Evermoors before monsters grew too large and hungry in that region. This road is no longer used and has fallen into disrepair.
They estimate a two hour journey overland, but they’ve only been traveling for a short while when they hear abrupt screeching nearby. Three small reddish bodies leap at them from hiding, and within seconds the group finds sharp swords jabbing at their kneecaps! It is much more dangerous than it looks.
These kobolds are well-armed and armored, militarily trained, and they launch their attack with precision, managing to strike Helga several times. The dwarf counters a few blows, and her companions quickly leap into fray. Irann the Warlock curses a Dragonshield soldier, Ash skirts the fight to flank another foe, and Erevan tosses a magic missile at a skirmisher who appears about thirty feet away, heaving a spear at them that manages to hit Helga. Bloodied within seconds, the dwarf flies into a rage. Brandis maneuvers into position with his polearm, but these kobold soldiers are keen, and repositioning on the battlefield triggers their own counter-maneuver dance.
[GM Note: I really like the dragonshield shifting tactics, although it takes a little getting used to. PCs hate it. What I don’t like so much is their Marking ability, which gets tricky to follow. We used a combination of glass beads and foam pads, the latter of which we’ll probably stick with. They’re color coded, stack easily, and visible from any direction].
Helga slams her battleaxe into a kobold’s neck, hewing its draconic noggin from its shoulders for later retrieval in a burlap sack.
But the combat takes an unexpected turn when a cloaked kobold appears near the slinger, bearing a rat-skull staff. It jabbers in an unknown tongue and tosses a hissing glob of green acid at Helga, narrowly missing her.
Erevan tosses an Ice spell the direction of the wyrmpriest, slicking the ground where they stand and knocking him prone. The skirmisher advances with his final spear into the thick of melee.
The female warlock absorbs the latent soul-energy of a fallen foe and magically teleports across the battlefield in a puff of purple-blue sulfurous smoke. BAMF! She has managed to spread vile curses across the battlefield the whole time, and few can escape her influence. Two of the dragonshield soldiers are finally killed, the third surrounded, and when the skirmisher tries to escape entrapment, Brandis Padraig thoroughly skewers the little dragon-dropping on the pointy end of his halberd, raising its writhing body to the sky for all to see.
Only the wyrmpriest is left. Helga rushes it, burning an Action Point to slam her axe into the thing’s side. It staggers, but manages to send a blob of acid arcing over her foe to painfully burn the warlord Brandis Padraig. The dwarf finally cleaves the beastie clavicle to ribcage, and a frothing vomit of acid harmlessly gushes from its mouth as it collapses backward.
The group is relatively unhurt, save for Helga who took a pounding. They sort through the bodies, finding a small shield, notched swords, red-scale dragon shields, and a curious draconic medallion around the wyrmpriest’s neck. Erevan detects no magic, but he does feel an indention on the back. On the flip side is the etched engraving of a goat skull…
The heads are quickly collected and thrust into a pouch to satiate Lady Padraig’s bloodlust. Helga the Dwarf doesn’t have any problem with wearing two of them around her neck as a grisly necklace, so long as they don’t stink yet.
Ash hunts the area for signs of where the kobolds came from and soon finds tracks leading northwest behind the ancient, weather-worn gravestones. They follow, and find themselves skirting the steep banks of Dorsail Creek. The bubbling brook is crossable now after the storms, but they stay on the east side and follow the tracks. The footprints range from just a few to many, and at one point they find footprints that are decidedly larger than a kobold—easily man-sized.
An hour later they hear the distant rumble of a waterfall and slow down. From their elevated vantage point they see the falls plunging down into a ravine. Ash elects to sneak ahead in the deep shadows of the canopy and return with a report.
Soon afterward, over the din of water, he hears scratchy voices united in riotous song. He sees movement through the branches and a then a number of kobolds foraging in the creek and along the banks. A suspicious blue glow emanates from a circle of stones where a red-skinned kobold sits cross-legged, a shortsword across his lap [and NOT taking a dump, as many suspected]. Ash counts at least twelve foes, and he returns to tell the others.
This could be trouble. They realize that getting surrounded by these buggers might be deadly, so they discuss several different tactics that will give them maximum advantage of surprise and terrain. Plus, there could easily be more enemies out of sight elsewhere, but the shadows around the waterfall are too stark to discern much detail without getting closer. But getting closer means risks getting seen.
Eventually, they creep as a group along the east side of the deluge, keeping far out of sight, and maneuver toward the top of the falls. Numerous rocks allow passage to the opposite side, and they don’t see any sign of foes stationed here. It is roughly 80 feet to the floor of the shallow valley, far enough for ranged attacks to reach. Ash the Rogue and Erevan the Wizard volunteer to stay up top and begin raining hell down them. Brandis the Warlord, Helga the Fighter, and Irann the Warlock will return to where they first arrived and flank the enemy with a ground assault, attempting to sow confusion among the kobolds
The wizard and rogue realize that it won’t be hard for the enemies to chase them to the top, which will take about 5 rounds to complete. Ash anchors a rope to a tree at the top, ready to rappel down quickly if the battle turns sour. He notches an arrow in his longbow and peers over the edge. A few more kobolds have appeared, and then he sees one saunter out from behind the waterfall! Sure enough, there must be a hidden lair within.
The ground force waits until the ranged attacks begin. Ash spies a kobold carrying several spears that it could possibly hurl to their location, so that’s his prime target. The rogue’s first arrow pierces the monster’s calf, pinning it to the ground. It shrieks in agony. A magic missile explodes to the ground beside it with a white flash. Draconic heads spin all directions, and at least one of them spots Ash and Erevan above the falls. They begin moving that direction. Ash fires again, skewering the other calf, and then a magic missile connects solidly with the kobold’s eyeball, killing it.
One batch of kobolds surges toward the left side of the falls, scrambling up the banks and soon they’re thoroughly obscured by vegetation. Ash and Erevan don’t have line of sight to them at all. To their dismay, one of the kobolds runs BACK inside the cave entrance behind the waterfall, probably to warn his friends. Five others rush toward the dragonshield soldier inside the ring of glowing blue stones and set up a protective perimeter.
Helga, Irann and Brandis clamber through the underbrush and try to dart across the creek to the cover of trees beyond, but Helga stumbles to one knee while halfway and is spotted. Hissing, a kobold in the circle points at her and the whole group begins pouring out of the circle toward them! Cursing, Helga picks herself up and joins her companions. The dragonshield weaves through the trees, a red blur of snarling anger, with its chattering allies nipping at its heels.
Ash and Erevan have very few visible targets now. Ash melts into the woods like a living shadow and waits for the kobolds to reach him, confident that he can at least outrun them. Ereven jogs the opposite direction, readying an area attack at the top of the falls as soon as the enemy is within 10 squares.
Back in the woods, Helga’s axe clangs against the soldier’s dragonscale shield. They exchange blows, smaller minions swarming around the others. Helga lands a jarring blow against the soldier’s shoulder. Brandis thrusts his blade between cracks in the armor, and then helps Helga follow up with a lethal blow, slaying the dragonshield quickly in a geyser of dark blood. Helga cleaves two more foes, Irann devastates another with eldritch magic, and the remaining minion runs screaming for his life back to the waterfall den.
They regroup and skirt along the treeline, finally ducking back once they’re closer to the cave entrance behind the waterfall. Brandis tries unsuccessfully to hide several times, resulting in several funny moments where his ass is probably sticking out from behind a tree while they loudly discuss what they should do next. Lucky for them, no kobolds were around to notice.
Above the waterfall, the group of minions reaches Ash’s hidden location…and fails to perceive him. He lets them all pass except for the last, and then lunges at its back with his dagger! And misses horribly. The dagger sinks into a tree, but the determined kobolds don’t even notice their attacker. They keep trudging up the slope while Ash struggles to yank his blade out.
The enemies reach the top and hop across the rocks…right into Erevan’s field of fire. Another icy patina blooms between their feet, slicking the rocks, crawling up the legs of two foes, slaying them instantly and jetting their bodies off the side of the cliff. Ash runs and LEAPS across the water, burning an Action Points as he lands at their backs and plants his dagger hilt-deep. The kobold collapses, shrieking, and is swept off the falls. Erevan follows up with a burst of fiery magic, and the last two kobolds fall screaming off the side, smoke wafting from their charred bodies, and joins the corpses bobbing below.
Breathing heavily, Ash and Erevan survey the battleground from their vantage point. They see no enemies, just muddied red water following the current. Their allies are hidden in the trees below, although Erevan spots the glint of Brandis’s halberd through the foliage.
Just about then, they hear a trumpet blaring behind the plume of water, followed by an angry war-cry if they ever heard one.
The group takes a minute (or five) to catch their breath and contemplate the next stage of their plan.
Somewhere in the cave below waits Irontooth and his rapacious friends, and surprise is no longer an option.
[GM Note: This session featured two 3rd level characters, Douvan Stahl the Human Ranger, and Merric Littlefoot the Halfling Rogue, approximately one week before the main storyline takes place. Douvan is an NPC from the campaign book, fleshed out here to a full character].
Background Info (not roleplayed):
Douvan Stahl is a gruff, hairy blond man, more content living off nature’s bounty than the comforts of civilization. Merric Littlefoot is the opposite; he prefers to skulk in urban shadows and lift unwanted (or unnoticed) goods from the rich and irritating. Together, they work as a team; one gruff and blunt, the other cheerful and boisterous.
These guys need money, and the Gem of the North, mighty Silverymoon, has no shortage of opportunities.
Two weeks ago they were hired by Merple the Moneylender. The bespectacled squat businessman hired them to find an ancient dragon burial ground somewhere near the small town of Winterhaven. According to their employer, a black dragon named Blacksoul (in Common, translated to Nar-Shagor in Draconic) was long ago slain in a duel with a golden wyrm, their blood raining from the sky. The corpse was buried somewhere in the hills by either the Cult of the Dragon or some other sympathetic party, and now Merple wants to find this burial ground.
He is a historian and procurer of lost knowledge. Douvan and Merric’s mission is to find this place, determine if it is intact, if there are obstacles in the area, and gauge whether anything is worth salvaging. Simple enough. If there’s enough reason to return, Merple will finance an excavation with a full team of workers.
So, loading their mule Jim with gear, Douvan and Merric travel south from Silverymoon to Winterhaven, braving brigands on the road, and arrive at the front gates near the end of the month, a few days shy of the first of Mirtul, the Melting.
[A week before Ash, Erevan, Irann, Helga, and Brandis Padraig arrive in Winterhaven].
But Douvan spends some time drinking and whoring first, most notably with Salvana Wrafton of Wrafton’s Inn [This is the DMs input, not the player’s]. The lusty innkeeper caught the ranger’s eye right from the start, but after bedding her for just a few short days, Douvan quickly found that Salvana could not stop talking about a certain Lord Padraig of Winterhaven, and what a wonderful man he is and how SHE should have been Lady Padraig instead! Jealousy rears its ugly fanged head.
By the good gods, Douvan doesn’t want to hear this, nor does he even care, so he and Merric inquire about where they can find this dragon grave. Well, it’s not common knowledge anymore, it must have happened long ago, but they are finally able to glean the information from a local sage and scholar: Valthrun the Prescient.
The portly man draws them a rough map of the area indicating where the grave might be found.
The Adventure Starts (everything until now was just summarized):
They leave at dawn with Jim the mule, marching northward along an abandoned road into a fine cold drizzle. Black clouds hover overhead, and thunder rumbles gently in the distance. They’re looking for a bridge near the road, and find it a mile outside of town. The creek would normally be passable, but heavy rains have swollen it. Water churns through the gorge, and the bridge itself doesn’t look safe. Still, Merric gives it a try, tying himself off with a rope just in case the bridge collapses.
He’s about halfway across when the wood and railing suddenly splits, nearly hurling him into the water. Merric leaps to safety, and an excellent Thievery roll indicates that the bridge collapsed in a predetermined manner. Looking closer, he spies extra ropes and widgets on the underside of the fallen bridge, rigged in such a way to fall if a certain amount of weight is applied. It is also constructed to be repairable.
With Douvan’s help, they snag the opposite side of the bridge, and swing it back up an d repair it in a manner that should support their weight. In theory anyway. Still, the middle of the bridge is in bad shape, but they cross one at a time, even the mule Jim who is oblivious to the danger.
Rain falls harder now and they’re quite chilled. They trudge on, passing a land marker on the map, a tall rocky knoll. Not long afterward both men hear something in the distance: the distinct ring of metal striking rock. They’re both stealthy, so they leave Jim roped up behind them and creep through the underbrush, peeking out to see an unusual sight:
A large number of scaly kobolds are congregating at the bottom of a dig site. The ground has been heavily excavated, and they’re still at work near the center with pickaxes. Large black bones rest in the center of a ring of small white skulls. Merric and Douvan look at each other, passing the unspoken agreement that they do NOT want to get in a fight with these guys. There’s just too many of them.
The dig site is filling with water and mud from the rain, and it is clearly hampering their progress. The kobolds are complaining, “It’s cold!” “I’m tired of this!” “I wanna go!” Both Douvan and Merric know a few words of Draconic. They keep watching for a while and soon newcomers arrive: a burly red-haired human man wearing no shirt, and a robed kobold bearing a rat-skull staff.
“Did you find it?” bellows the human in Common.
“Yes! Yes! Finds it!” several of the kobolds answer. Thunder crashes again, closer than before, and more words are exchanged between them.
“Finish it later,” the human says. “Too much rain. Mud. We’ll come back.”
The kobolds like this idea, and the group starts leaving up the hill, soon lost from sight in the encroaching rain and gloom. Now, Douvan and Merric really want to see what’s down in that hole, so they wait a while to make sure no kobolds wander back. Douvan goes first, Merric hanging back to keep watch. He slogs through shallow water and mud until he reaches the ring of skulls. They’re clearly dog-like kobold skulls, some older than others. Charred blackened bones fill the center of this ring, but something even stranger juts up from the middle: the top of an ornate silver mirror is buried among the skeletal remains.
Exquisite silver crenellations frame the glass, about six inches of which rises from the mud. Against all possible odds, the glass is not cracked or tarnished. Judging from the small part that he can see, most of the mirror is still submerged.
Douvan slogs back to Merric. “We need the mule,” he says. “Go get him. I’ll start digging. It won’t be easy but I think we can drag it out.”
“Why?”
“Why not? Now get goin’. I don’t want those ugly buggers to return.”
Merric retrieves Joe, giving Douvan about fifteen minutes to dig as hard and fast as he can with an abandoned shovel. But water and mud fills the hole faster than he can extract it, and by the time Merric returns the ranger is angry and slathered in mud. They put their heads together and try a different tactic. The excavation site has lumber from the original hill, and the group has plenty of rope with them. What heroes wouldn’t? They decide to rig a device over the mirror and use Jim the Mule to haul the mirror up and out. They’re not sure if it will work, or even how long it will take, but they get started anyway.
Half an hour into their project, with an “X” of wood erected over the mirror, bolstered by rocks for support, Douvan and Merric hear singing from multiple voices, one very deep, the others higher-pitched. It’s a butchered version of the Common tongue. They freeze.
It’s hard to discern the origin, definitely outside the dig site, and they wonder if they should run or hide.
“SO…der was an elfsy and his name was GRUE….
…but we cut him up and shut him up and cooked him in our STEW!
…and SO…der was a dwarvsie with a big beard too thick…
…but we cut him up and shut him up and ate him on STICK! Ho!”
Three figures appear at the east side of the hole: a huge bugbear, his fur matted from the rain. A goblin rides on his shoulder; another goblin struts at his side. All three goblinoids freeze as soon as they spot the Halfling and human crouched in the mud and water at the bottom of the dragon grave.
It’s a standoff of awkward silence, punctuated only by the rumble of thunder.
“What are you doing here?” Douvan finally asks, reaching slowly for his longbow.
[GM Note: Douvan’s carries a magical Bow of Phlegos and wears +1 Delver’s Hide armor; Merric wears Bloodcut armor and has a few other magic items I can’t recall right now. They both have several healing potions].
“What YOU doin’ here?” the bugbear answers in Common, likewise reaching to unsling a massive maul. He pushes a goblin off his shoulder.
“Yeah! What they doing here Winkle?” says the goblin.
“We’re just excavating this old burial ground,” says Douvan, reaching for an arrow. “Nothing to worry about.”
“Me gonna worry about ex-ca-vate-in your HEAD!” bellows the bugbear. “Sham! Tram! Get em!”
The goblinoids roll high Initiative and launch toward the PCs, but they have to maneuver down into the pit, and rain and mud hamper their movement. [GM Note: This entire fight takes place in Difficult terrain, which made for some interesting strategy].
The goblins can barely reach the PCs, unable to attack, and Douvan squarely pegs one with an arrow, bloodying him. Douvan and Merric slosh away from their foes, trying to put some distance between them. Winkle’s maul is a heavy beast of a weapon, a steel-shod thing bearing an engraved human skull.
Merric weaves his dagger back and forth in a deadly dance, and a goblin blackblade is nearly killed. “AGH! Winkle! It hurts!”
The goblins try to surround the ranger and rogue, and have just as much trouble moving in the muck as they do. In fact, normal 1-square shifting is impossible. But Merric is masterful at dodging Opportunity Attacks, and he ducks under multiple swings, air whistling over his head from the maul.
“Stand still!” roars the bugbear.
“Nope! Maybe later.”
The PCs have the advantage at first, sparring back and forth, landing hits left and right, until the bugbear roars, “SKULLTHUMPER!”
And here the battle turns for the worse. He lands a solid blow against Douvan, critically smashing him Prone and Dazed. The ranger squirms helplessly in the mud while the smaller goblins converge on him, thrusting rusty swords through his hide armor. Douvan screams in agony, burning a Second Wind.
And then the bugbear roars “SKULLTHUMPER!” again, the skull’s eyes in the maul glowing blue, and Merric the Halfling gets a taste of pain. He’s likewise bashed prone and dazed, rolling in the mud beside Douvan while the goblins cackle with glee. Douvan keeps failing saving throws while the goblins poke mercilessly at him, whittling down his hit points. Winkle’s maul splashes a geyser of mud and water beside Merric’s head as he rolls away, springing to his feet. Merric switches places with the bugbear, severely wounding him at the same time and Winkle is finally Bloodied. One goblin is horribly hurt, but the second is completely healthy.
Douvan is very injured by now. Merric is hurt too, but not as bad. His effective AC against Opportunity Attacks is a 26, allowing him to move away from the enemy with relative impunity; except that the little goblins keep rolling 19’s, and they deal sneak attack damage on top of that.
Douvan manages to pop up, but he can barely take a step away before he’s downed again by the crushing maul, and this time he doesn’t get back up. He’s unconscious and dying. Merric is alone against three foes. The Halfling dives out of the way, pushing through water toward the edge of the dig site, but that damnable maul catches him! Merric is slammed hard, staggers up, and keeps going, fumbling for a healing potion.
He has 1 hit point left.
[GM Note: Okay, at this point we figured the fight was over, dead PCs. It was looking grim, but it spawned the funniest jokes about Jim the Mule saving the day. He’s tethered outside the pit the whole time, just watching the fight. Jim to the rescue, hooves a-flailing!]
One goblin starts rifling through Douvan’s clothing and gear. The bloodied goblin and the bugbear chase Merric. They corner him, but he dodges their opportunity attacks and barely manages to reach firm terrain, clambering out of the muddy pit to high ground. He doesn’t know what to do. Douvan will die one way or another if he doesn’t get help (rolling a 20 for a healing surge is unlikely, but possible), but the Halfling has to eliminate the bugbear. The threat is too great.
Winkle follows Merric out of the pit while the other goblin returns to pull off Douvan’s shoes. Their fight continues at the edge of the pit, Merric ducking and dodging attacks from the bugbear who is now Bloodied himself. Merric manages to nearly push the thing off the side but it falls prone at the edge. Still, it gives Merric time to back off, chucking another healing potion. Winkle leaps up and stomps after him, but Merric can tell it is hurt badly. Their melee reaches the treeline, and another wild swing devastates a small pine behind the Halfling.
Merric counterattacks, surging toward the bugbear’s exposed belly and gutting him. Entrails spill out in ropy hot coils. The bugbear gurgles, trying to stuff his insides back, and then keels over dead.
Thunder rumbles menacingly over them.
“You smash that Halfling yet, Winkle?” shrieks one of the goblins. They couldn’t see the fight from down in the pit.
Merric deftly leaps from the high ground to low (Acrobatic Stunt DC 15), splashing back into the muck.
“Not yet.”
Flabbergasted, both of the goblins abandon Douvan, who has been bleeding out in the mud for 6 rounds now. He’s managed to stay stabilized every round, but rolls his first failure as soon as Merric returns. Two more failures and he’s dead. The goblins have stripped off his boots, his weapons, his gear and pouches, leaving him half-naked and unarmed.
Merric meets the goblins head on, quickly killing the bloodied one, and exchanging vicious cut with the other. Merric gets close enough to Douvan’s pouch to snag a healing draught, kicks the goblin away, and pours the liquid down the ranger’s throat.
Coughing, sputtering, Douvan sits up, grabs both blades that have both been thrust point-down in the mud, and roars with indignation at the final goblin.
The creature squeals in terror and runs.
Douvan and Merric sink down, exhausted. They let the goblin go; they can catch up to him later if they need to. Right now, they want to get this damned mirror out of the ground. They burn through healing surges, leaving them with very few, and continue attaching ropes to the rig. Douvan finally touches the mirror itself to anchor the rope, and a mild electrical buzz passes through his fingers. Not unpleasant, but not fun either.
The ropes are attached to Jim the mule, and all three begin pulling with all their strength. They’ll succeed on an 8 or higher on d20.
They roll a 4.
Cursing their ill luck, they’ll need to rig the device again if they want another roll, but it will take time. They decide not to do it yet. They’re low on resources, it’s getting dark, and the kobolds or something worse might return, and they’re in no shape to handle anything more than a dire mouse.
They grab Jim by the reins, strap the enchanted Skullthumper to his back [which most likely will be melted down for residuum], and lead him into the gloom. Douvan really hates goblins now. They would make a great favored enemy.
They camp out in the woods, eating a cold breakfast the next morning, and return to the dig site once the rain has stopped. It is a sodden mess, but with the mule's help, they are are able to finally bring the entire bizarre mirror out of the mud. They stand there blinking at in the chilly, cloudy dawn, wondering what exactly they have found...
They don't know what it is, but Valthrun the Prescient of Winterhaven very well might.
And there we stopped.
[GM Note: This was a Level 5 encounter calculated for two 3rd level PCs. It was meant to be a tough fight, and if not for the maul hitting them at the exact opportune times, the battle would have been much easier. As it was, they barely escaped with their lives.
Also, I didn’t coup de grace Douvan when he was down, and I had the goblins back off from the fight, letting Winkle handle Merric alone].
The PCs catch their breath after obliterating the kobolds outside the waterfall. They regroup at the bottom and consider their options: there are two entrances, so Ash and Helga tentatively peek into the southern hole while the others inspect the north. Erevan the wizard takes a closer look at the glowing circle of stones and suspects that this is an ancient remnant from a long lost kingdom, maybe as old as the days of Netheril. The circle might enhance his magical prowess if he stays within it.
Ash finds the tunnel behind the waterfall musty and dirty, filled with three-toed footprints and a foul stink. He sticks to the shadows, hearing nothing over the roar of the water nearby. He edges along a wall, dagger out, and finally hears movement around a corner. Dim light flickers inside the den from mounted lanterns. Taking a breath, Ash whips around the corner and rams his dagger to the hilt beneath a kobold’s chin! Hot blood spurts on this fingers and the kobold crumples. He completely surprised them, but a second kobold is not so easily dispatched and chucks a javelin at the rogue. Ash backs away, even as more kobolds converge on his position, likewise throwing projectiles. Helga hears the commotion and storms into the cave, her deadly battleaxe cleaving the nearest kobold in twain.
At the other entrance, Brandis Padraig licks his lips and slowly steps inside. He doesn’t see anyone. Stark shadows encompass him. He moves in carefully, halberd extended and ready to skewer anything that moves. Irann the warlock steps in as well, but she can just barely make out the shape of a kobold in the distance. With a flick of her wrist, eldritch purple flames explode from the creature’s eyes, nostrils and mouth, and it collapses into a quivering heap. She takes up a position near Brandis.
Meanwhile, Ash and Helga are cutting a swath through the kobolds. They can’t withstand axe and dagger and fall beneath their foes, inflicting minimal damage to elf and dwarf. On the other side, Brandis and Irann spot more kobolds hiding behind a wall. The little dragon-droppings hurl javelins at the warlock, painfully hitting her. Erevan the Eladrin Wizard enters the fray, tossing a sparkling missile across the chamber.
Many, many foes begin to crowd the room, and the fight is split between the north and south quadrants. There are more hidden rooms, tunnels and chambers out of their sight, and then Helga spots what looks like a black curtain obscuring a particular passage, hiding gods-knows what.
“There! A curtain!” she cries, pointing with the bloody haft of her axe. Erevan tosses a light spell and illuminates the entire area, but it reveals nothing other than a black cloth draped across a narrow corridor.
Both groups move toward the center, but a surviving kobold disengages from the fray, screaming, “IRONTOOTH! IRONTOOTH! SAVE US!” Three kobolds retreat from the battle, hiding in another room, but their retreat instigates a new wave of enemies, and from around a corner surges a HUGE goblin, a single enormous tooth jutting from his jaw. He wields a brutal battleaxe in both hands that looks every bit as dangerous as Helga’s.
The goblin, most certainly Irontooth, roars his anger at the interlopers, and then screams, “You will all DIE!”
It is not a threat to be taken lightly.
The goblin surges at Helga, crushing his axe against hers in a shower of steely sparks. Following hot on his heels, two Dragonshield Soldiers enter the battle, snarling in anger, and attempt to flank the dwarf, jabbing and stabbing at her with their vicious shortswords. From experience, the group knows that these guys are dangerous and will not easily fall like the other riffraff.
To make matters worse, the black curtain whips aside and a robed goblin steps out, a hideous skull staff in hand bubbling liquid fire from the mouth. The wyrmpriest tosses a glob of burning magic at the dwarf, and then quickly slinks back into hiding. Wash, rinse, repeat.
From the time Irontooth arrives on the scene, he is marked by the Dwarf fighter, flanked between her and Ash the rogue, and their positions do not significantly change. Moving away from the fighter will cause pain, which the goblin boss quickly learns.
The fight grows more perilous. Irontooth is a heavy hitter, and his axe slams into Helga numerous times, enraging the dwarf. The dragonshields worm their way into more advantageous positions, shifting into and out of combat, forcing the enemy to move closer. Irann wastes no time cursing the kobolds, sucking up their life energy as they expire and teleporting short distances. Erevan conjures a flaming sphere and rolls the ball of fire into combat, annihilating the weaker enemies and severely burning the stronger ones.
Every round, the kobold wyrmpriest pops out from hiding and hurls a glob of fire, almost always targeting the dwarf fighter who is engaged toe-to-toe with Irontooth. Ash the elf rogue attempts to backstab Irontooth at every opportunity, but a crafty dragonshield distracts him, moving into a flanking position. Still, the dwarf’s battlefield control discourages shifting, and the fight in the middle remains fairly static while foes further away race for hiding and cover. The three kobolds that retreated earlier enter combat again, trying to bolster their allies.
“Think you can kill me?” Irontooth roars, clanging his axe off Helga’s breastplate. The dwarf is slammed to one knee, and a painful ball of sorcerous flame explodes across her forehead, even as a hissing dragonshield sinks a blade into her ribs.
She’s having her doubts now.
But Irontooth is horribly injured himself. He’s been beaten, stabbed and kicked and burned by a hovering sphere of magical flame. Skin charred and smoking, the goblin leader hunkers down, and then EXPLODES UP in a swinging maelstrom of fury, burning an Action Point and hacking left and right and left and right!
The first swipe rips through Ash’s chest, exposing bone. The elf staggers, his world growing dark. The next slash jars a chunk of Helga’s armor from her body, but the third blow against Ash, even as he swoons from the first strike, nearly severs his head.
The elf collapses backwards.
Slain.
Helga screams Ash’s name, but Irontooth grins evilly through bloodstained teeth and renews his attacks on her, hammering again and again and again. Another javelin flies at the dwarf, puncturing her thigh, and a hissing glob of flame spits from the concealed wyrmpriest [who luckily for the PCs missed most of his ranged attacks].
Regardless, Helga is down to 1 hit point. If the dwarf falls, then the battle will quickly become a massacre.
Her companions surge to the rescue. Brandis is able to boost her morale, and Helga chugs a healing potion, bringing her back from the brink of doom. The damnable dragonshield soldiers are still alive though, as are several other foes, and the battle could easily swing any direction.
The wizard’s flaming sphere rolls around, igniting a minion into a pillar of flame.
Choking on his own blood, Irontooth is FINALLY skewered by a charging attack from Brandis Padraig. The son of the Lord of Winterhaven levels his halberd and mercilessly [burning a daily power], thrusts the steel deep into the goblin’s gut. Metal explodes near his spine, showering the wall behind him with gore. Irontooth grabs the polearm with both hands, barely managing to pull himself off. Blood fills his mouth. He staggers over Ash’s cooling corpse beneath his feet. The goblin raises his arms and face to the ceiling.
“KALAREL! PREPARE MY WAY!”
And then falls to his knees, gurgling his last breaths, and dies.
[GM Note: Adam believes they misheard what Irontooth said because of the loud waterfall; his actual words were, “CALGON, TAKE ME AWAY!”]
But the fight is hardly over. There are two injured dragonshields soldiers, a skirmisher, a wyrmpriest, and at least one minion still alive. The demise of their leader only infuriates them to new levels.
The wyrmpriest abandons his refuge behind the curtain and steps to the forefront, attempting to belch flames across Brandis and Helga! A frothy mix of hot flame and stinking breath washes over them.
But with the death of Irontooth, the conclusion to this battle grows likely. A dragonshield is beheaded, the skirmisher erupts into a ball of eldritch purple flames, screaming his dying words at the warlock, and the final dragonshield is immolated by the sphere of magical flame as it tries to extinguish itself in the waterfall. The battle finally focuses on the lone and uninjured…
…wyrmpriest.
But Helga is not feeling particularly merciful after seeing her friend Ash murdered, and a cascade of steel hacks through the kobold’s staff, even as if futilely raises the shaft to block the blow. Her blade sunders the staff and subsequently sunders its face in a splash of blood, joining the grisly viscera across her body.
Lungs heaving, the group stands in silence for a few moments, listening to the cacophonous falls and the drumming of their hearts. Nothing else is moving.
Not even the curtain.
Fearing more enemies and surprises, they ready their weapons and creep forward. Only silence waits behind the curtain. Grasping the coarse cloth in one hand, Brandis Padraig pulls it aside and looks in…
…and if this were a Cthulhu adventure, he would have suffered MASSIVE Sanity loss.
Two things lurk behind the curtain. The first is a golden-plated goat-skull, inlaid with a few precious gems; the second and exceptionally more hideous item is the rotting skull of Brandis’s younger brother KEL PADRAIG.
The twelve-year old boy’s head has been tattooed with draconic symbols, resting and rotting amidst a ring of fat black burning candles.
Brandis staggers from the small, stinking chamber, a hand to his mouth, stifling vomit. Erevan and the others peek in, likewise disgusted by the scene. But they attempt Arcana and Religion checks regardless, trying to glean clues from this horrible revelation.
It seems to Erevan the Wizard that the kobold shaman has been trying to place a curse on the Padraig family, using the head of Kel Padgraig as a focus. Furthermore, the golden goat skull is a recognized symbol of a particular Lord of Undeath, a demonic entity that Erevan has heard called by the name of “Orcus.” This does not bode well.
They take the items, and then carefully search the rest of the lair. There are no more foes to dispatch, so they check for secret doors or passages in most of the rooms. They find the treasure chamber which contains a locked chest. Irontooth has the key, but they don’t open it quite yet. This would have been an excellent job for their resident rogue, had he not just been killed. But Irontooth has something else on his person that is more interesting than the key:
A letter.
Addressed directly to the goblin leader from someone (or something) named KALAREL, the letter clearly says that there is a spy in Winterhaven, and that a rift is soon to open, and that the forces of Lord Orcus will soon be released upon the citizens of Winterhaven. This news is tucked away for later as the PCs realize that the kobold threat was only the beginning of Winterhaven’s problems.
Still mourning the loss of their companion, the group gathers as much loot as they can find, including the heads of the kobolds and Irontooth’s hands for the Frog Queen, and load much of it Tenser’s Floating Disk for the trip back to Winterhaven. It is a long, sad walk.
On the way they discuss their reentry to town. Should they mention the spy and this person Kalarel? They think that might not be prudent, not yet, as anyone could be a spy and easily observe their comings and goings. They debate whether to return under cover of night, but ultimately decide there is not much to gain from it. They’ll have to pass the locked front gates regardless; there’s no way to fully “sneak” into town, not all of them.
Corby and Rond Kelfern are manning the gates when they arrive at Winterhaven that evening, and the cheerful young Regular hails them from a distance.
“Mr. Brandis! Padraig, Sir, I mean. You’re back! How fares your venture?”
Their answers are a mix of gloom and success. The kobolds are dead, yes, but so is there friend, and there is something worse than kobolds looming in the near future of Winterhaven, but they don’t come out and say that.
The group goes immediately to the estate of Lord Padraig, who is pleased to see them alive and well, although he too is dismayed to hear that one of their own perished in the battle. He pays them the 75 gold coins promised, but the group insists that they need to speak with Lord Padraig in private. They retire to his personal chambers, and the PCs waste no time searching the room for spies, peepholes or magical sensors. Padraig naturally questions their paranoia, and they show him the letter.
His brow furrows. Nodding silently, he lets them continue. When sure that no one is watching, they quietly discuss their options. Padraig is dismayed by this turn of events and thinks that they should speak with Valthrun the Prescient before doing anything else. Brandis tries to detect any change in emotion or personality from his father, if indeed the kobolds placed a blood curse on their family. He senses nothing untoward, and is left with the uncomfortable feeling that his mother Cynthia may well be the recipient of a magical madness. Or worse. Perhaps it is best that the enchanted snailwort has been keeping her in a dreamless slumber.
They’ll still receive a gold piece per kobold head from Lady Padraig, but they want Sister Linora to preserve them first with Gentle Repose, as well as Irontooth’s hands. They go to see her next at the temple just as she is finishing her evening prayers. The group also asks Sister Linora at the small Temple of Sune what she knows about a being called ORCUS, but she is shocked.
“Do not mention that name in this holy place!” she hisses. “It is an abomination of hate and cruelty that I cannot even fathom.”
Sister Linora is otherwise pleased to help them, but very distraught about Kel and the cruelty he suffered. She thinks that the head should be reunited with the body in his grave and then properly blessed. If there IS a curse on the Padraig bloodline, Sister Linora does not know if she is strong enough to remove it. Regardless, Brandis stays with her awhile as she mutters prayers over him, trying to detect any unnatural taint.
Helga, Erevan and Irann head toward Wrafton’s Inn, and by now news is slowly spreading that they have been successful eliminating the kobold threat. By the time they reach the inn they hear a familiar voice singing inside, that of Kelrella Sweetleaft, the elf minstrel performing the first night they arrived. At her feet sits the same plump Halfling strumming a harp.
The inn is full this evening with patrons, leftovers from Market Day. Elian the Old is here sipping a beer; ugly Gobbo Goodnest is at his side likewise getting inebriated; a few Winterhaven Regulars raise their mugs to salute the PCs, and Salvana Wrafton loudly declares a free round of drinks for everyone. Helga the Dwarf isn’t going to argue with that, and she chugs her beer. Their victory is celebrated for a while, until Brandis returns from Sister Linora, but their joy is only a façade. The PCs are not content with Irontooth’s demise; something worse is brewing, and for Brandis Padraig it could very well mean the demise of his family, home, and friends.
Helga requests a dirge from the Halfling harpist for their fallen companion Ash (whose body is at the Temple of Sune, in preparation for burial the next day), but the fat Halfling grunts, “I don’t DO dirges, lady.”
Kelrella Sweetleaf slaps his head. “Idiot! Shut up. Of course we’ll do a dirge for your friend. I sing excellent dirges.”
As the heroes are enjoying drinks with the locals, a male [undetermined race] approaches them.
“My name is [undetermined name] from [undetermined place]. I’ve heard what you did for Winterhaven and the good people here, and I want to help. May I join you?”
[GM Note: This is Adam’s new character to replace Ash, currently with no name, class or race].
Well, of course the group trusts this stranger! He’s surely not a spy, and they can’t think of a better person they’d like guarding them while they sleep. Maybe some of the others can vouch for him later, just to be on the safe side.
Not long afterward, they bid goodbye to the bar patrons as the sun is slipping into a vermillion horizon, and make their way to Valthrun’s tower. They have some business to discuss with the portly sage.
The door is locked, but Valthrun sticks his wide face out a top window and greets them. He comes down, unlocks the door, and leads them up winding steps to the only occupied room in the tower. Hundreds of books like the walls, and the place smells of chemicals, ink and rare spices.
The group doesn’t mention anything about a SPY to Valthrun, not fully trusting the sage himself, although they have no reason not to. As he promised the day before, when they first asked him about an old keep in the area, one that Merple the Moneylender wanted them to map, he has consulted his books and unearthed new arcana.
But Valthrun looks troubled. His words are heavy with angst, and the tale that slowly unfolds from his lips is one of woe…and dire portent.
Valthrun admits to knowing the history of the old keep, known as Shadowfell Keep in days of old, but it is not commonly called that now. In fact, locals consider the place haunted and the name itself an ill omen. It is rarely spoken aloud.
Long ago, he says, perhaps hundreds of years, a mysterious rift opened beneath the surface of the earth for reasons he does not know. This rift led directly to a strange parallel realm known as the Shadowfell, not a wholly evil place, but not a wholly pleasant one either. It was a realm of half-thoughts and insubstantial dreams, and a place where the souls of the dead freely roamed.
This rift caused horrible problems in the lands above it, and eventually a group of priests and wizards, followers of Chauntea, Lathander, Meilikki and others, united their powers to seal this fissure. They used a magical mirror to focus their energy, but even that was not strong enough to destroy the opening. The best they could do was lock the Shadowfell rift underground, and then they commissioned a garrison of warriors and priests to guard the site, to ensure it never opened again and leak its evil back into the mortal world.
The soldiers and paladins built a small keep above the rift, a Keep on the Shadowfell, and this is how it remained for many, many years, manned by warriors brave enough to station themselves in an empty, foreboding land to prevent the darkness from returning.
In time, a new leader of these men came to rule the keep, a brave paladin of Bahamut named Sir Keegan.
He lived at the Keep with his wife and daughters, and all went well for many years…until the one night everything went horribly wrong.
For reasons Valthrun cannot explain (because he doesn’t know), Sir Keegan went mad one evening at the stroke of the midnight. He slew his wife. He butchered his daughters. He attacked his friends and comrades-in-arms, cutting them down in cold blood. A murderous bloodlust was upon him, and none could stop Sir Keegan. He was more skilled with shield and blade than any other warrior at the keep, and he killed many men before they finally overthrew him by sheer numbers. Mortally wounded, Sir Keegan was finally forced to the lower levels, and the remaining soldiers slew their former comrade.
But out of respect for their friend and leader, and maybe a certain amount of love for a man they had trusted so much, they buried him in a holy tomb beneath the keep, maybe in hopes that it would abolish whatever hateful energy had infused his soul.
Keegan’s wife and children were buried elsewhere, but there is no record of where.
Valthrun believes that dark energies from the Shadowfell seeped out and slowly inundated Sir Keegan, attacking piece by piece this stalwart, chivalrous man, etching away at his soul like a black disease. He grew corrupted from within, and finally lashed out in an orgy of death. It is whispered to children that his ghost still haunts the grounds of the old keep, wailing in eternal agony for the atrocities he committed.
As for the mirror originally used to seal the rift, Valthrun says that two adventures have very recently recovered the mirror from a dragon’s tomb outside of town. Their names were Douvan Stahl and Merric Littlefoot. It is Valthrun’s belief that agents of Orcus are trying to reopen this rift permanently, and they wanted to use the mirror to reverse the magical seal. Douvan and Merric have taken the Mirror as far away as possible, back to Silverymoon actually.
The old scholar does not know if the mirror is essential for the dark ritual, but it certainly won’t be around to aid them. He does not know the name Kalarel at all, but Valthrun is aware of ORCUS: a demonic god of Undeath that is not worshipped among the normal Realmsian pantheon.
It is the sage’s suggestion, and this coincides with Lord Padraig’s wishes, that this rift must not be allowed to open again. Malevolent energy would flow unbridled across the region, and Winterhaven’s remote location would make help from outside very difficult, not until it was too late.
His story weighs heavily on their hearts as they head back to the Inn.
***
[GM Note: The group was close to leveling up, so I added a final impromptu encounter to boost everyone to 2nd before next time.]
The next morning they all wake up refreshed. There are preparations needed before they go to Shadowfell Keep, but they decide to make one final perimeter search around Winterhaven and its environs, to ensure that no lingering kobolds are in the area.
The dawn is cool, the grass damp with dew. Pink sunlight filters through rising mists and green trees as they hike outside of town and detour through the fields and farms. All is quiet for a while until they suddenly hear a man shouting. It’s Old Elian! He staggers toward them, utter terror etched on his face.
“It’s ‘orrible!” he sputters. “Somethun huge in me cornfield! Help!”
Sure enough, the stalks are waving ferociously as something tromps around inside.
Erevan, Helga, Irann and Brandis are alone, but they feel confident that they can handle the threat. Erevan scorches the corn with a blast of fire while Helga begins shouting insults and stomping her feet. A geyser of corn and dirt suddenly shoots into the air, and they realize that whatever was there has just burrowed down, and is heading straight for them!
They Ready Actions, and seconds later a large insectoid beast sprays up from the dirt road, its mandibles clacking. Multiple blows rain down on the creature, cracking through its hard carapace. It squeals in pain, but is a relentless foe. Arching its back, it sends a poisonous barb flying at Helga, piercing her neck. It annoys her more than anything, the weak poison.
The creature is soon killed, but their battle has drawn the attention of two more ankhegs that burst forth from the ground beside Erevan the wizard.
There must be a nest of these things somewhere, and the fight that started out simple suddenly grows substantially more difficult.
Poisoned barbs fly from the ankhegs as they assault their breakfast, but the PCs aren’t going down without a fight. Until, actually, Brandis DOES go down, bitten mercilessly by the insect’s massive jaws and whittled down by poison coursing through his veins. The ankheg isn’t smart enough to finish the warlord off, and it leaps to the next target: Helga.
Erevan has been backing off as far as possible though and nailing the beasts with magic missiles. Helga growls, butchering the animals with broad, crushing strikes, and finally bashes the brainpan of one into messy pulp. The fight is much harder than anticipated, but they finally vanquish the third beast, even as Elian the Old is cheering them on from the sidelines. “Kill dem bugs!”
They help Brandis to his feet, shaken but alive, and the group slowly limps back toward Winterhaven, glad that these ill-tempered critters didn’t get the best of them.
And there we stopped.
[GM Note: I used adult kruthik stats for the ankhegs]
It is the day after the battle with the bugs in the field. The group has rested and recuperated, as they suspect dangerous times in the days to come and they’ll need their strength. According to what they gleaned from Irontooth at the waterfall lair, there is a spy working for someone named KALAREL. Furthermore, the kobolds and Kalarel were in allegiance with a demonic god of undeath, the malevolent Orcus, who does not even rank among the normal Faerunian pantheon.
Lord Padraig is informed of the Orcus threat and a spy in Winterhaven. The warlord is displeased by this news, and insists that this particular detail should be kept from the general populace. It seems that darker days may be in store for the denizens of Winterhaven. Now, mapping some old keep has taken on new importance, for it may very well be the lair of someone (or something) named Kalarel and a dire scheme to reopen the Shadowfell of old, spilling evil and undeath across the region once again.
In light of this new development, Lord Padraig thinks he should prepare the family heirloom for Brandis: an enchanted longsword named WOLFTOOTH. Lord Padraig will polish and sharpen the blade and have it ready for Brandis upon his return.
[It’s a +2 magic weapon]
The group gears up: Irann the half-elf warlock; Erevan the Eladrin Wizard; Helga the Dwarf Fighter; Brandis Padraig the Warlord, and…a new companion. They met him the night before, and this tall, stalwart, armor-clad PALADIN of KELEMVOR is ready to join the group in the battle against undeath, evil and corruption. He has been sent by the church in Neverwinter to investigate possible cult activity in this region.
[EDIT: Seems like the new 4e campaign book as demolished Neverwinter; so the paladin might be from elsewhere].
The paladin Kerric is quiet and prone to wearing dark armor that reflects his deity’s somber mood, but he seems amicable enough himself. The group does not really think that he is the spy, and the fact that he is a devout follower of Kelemvor, a God of Righteous Death diametrically opposed to a demonic lord of undeath, they couldn’t imagine a better ally.
They see peculiar scars on his forearms as Kerric attaches his greaves and gloves; a notch for each foe sent to the afterlife, the paladin tells them. One day, his body may very well be covered by these tiny scars, a woeful tapestry recounting his crusade against the demonic and the undead.
News has somehow already spread of their expedition to the Old Keep (which the citizens of Winterhaven do not even refer to as Shadowfell Keep; the name seems to invoke bad luck]. Still, as the group gathers outside of Wrafton’s Inn, they are seen off by a small contingent of familiar faces:
Lord Ernest Padraig and his wife Cynthia, who hugs and kisses Brandis (“Mom…stop, you’re embarrassing me!”);
Salvana Wrafton the busty and lusty innkeeper who offers them a cold ale upon their return; Elian the Old the Pig Farmer, who has his pig taken from him once again; the snooty Bairwain Wildarson, who furtively takes the PC’s aside and tells them that if they find any magic items in the ruins, they should tell him. He might be able to trade them with…friends of his at a place called Thunderspire, far to the north. No one has ever heard of a place called Thunderspire, and Bairwain does not elaborate.
[Although Erevam suspects it’s bound to a labyrinth]
Kelrella Sweetleaf the elf minstrel and her Halfling harpist see them off too, nodding quietly but saying nothing. The halfling Shuck plucks a few mournful strings.
Thair Coalstriker, gimp-leg dwarf smithy, pounds a hand into a meaty fist and asks them to bash some goblin noggins for him, all the ones he’ll never have the chance to bash himself. Yes, they can oblige him that.
Delphina Moongem is there, the flighty elf wanderer, and she cheerfully sticks flowers in their hair and behind their ears, wishing them luck on their picnic.
Valthrun the Prescient, portly resident Sage and Scholar, folds his hands and nods gravely to the group, conveying that the information they have shared is secret; the rest of Winterhaven must not know about the Shadowfell threat, not yet. It could cause panic and widespread paranoia.
Rond Kelfern, Corby, and other members of the Winterhaven Regulars nod their respects as the group departs the south gate (and the only gate) heading out into crisp morning dawn on the 4th of Mirtul, Year of the (?). Dunno know yet.
But one last person runs up to them as they’re leaving: the half-elf Ninaran.
“Where’s Ash?” she asks. “Where is he? WHERE?”
Maybe she knows already, but when the group tells her that he died at the hands of Irontooth, her face crumbles, replaced instantly by black anger. She storms off without another word.
[GM Note: And although I forgot to mention it, Ash’s burial in the woods probably happened at dawn, in a quiet glade by a brook, as the elves would prefer it].
Black clouds roll across the horizon as the group heads north along the old road. Thunder rumbles in the distance. Broken cobblestones crack beneath their boots. Weeds and roots burrow through the stone, and thick vegetation encroaches on all sides. It is obvious that this route has not been used in a long, long time, and they’re traveling even further north than when they went to Dorsail Falls.
After awhile they pass a dilapidated shack. Pausing, they peek in through the shattered door. The interior is mostly empty, covered by dirt and twigs and vines, but the paladin does notice a faint outline in the floor, possibly the door to a cellar. They check for traps, and finding none, finally pry the door open. A dank musty smell wafts forth, and they see the remains of an old wine cellar. The barrels have fermented to vinegar, but some of the wine bottles are intact. They take a dozen, and can probably sell or exchange them in Winterhaven.
Onward to the keep. An hour later after struggling across this cracked, broken road, they see the keep looming atop a distant knoll.
It is a lonely looking place, with hardly a tower still standing. Crushed boulders and debris litter the trail that they clamber up, and soon they’re standing at the summit. Nothing moves up here except weeds waving in a faint wind. A peal of thunder gently rumbles around them. It’s ominous.
They soon find a cleared area in the middle of the ruins where bushes and small trees have been hacked apart and pushed aside. A stairwell is revealed leading down. Natural sunlight illuminates the stairs, but artificial light emanates from the bottom. Footprints are near the entrance, from as small as a child to as large as a man, although they’re not quite as recent as today.
Everyone glances at each other. Someone or something is down there. The paladin descends first, bastard sword out. The others try to quietly skitter down too, but this group is not the stealthiest. Buckles jingle and metal scrapes on stone. Someone hears the faint chatter of rats, but the sound soon disappears. At the bottom of the steep steps is a thirty-foot by thirty-foot stone room supported by four pillars. There is an exit to the east and west and north, the latter of which is another set of shallow steps rising up. Oil lanterns on the walls look about half full and definitely non-magical, so something is down here refilling them.
Kerric skirts around the pillars and glimpses a shadow passing across the stairwell. He moves closer. The wizard follows, and the warlock goes the other direction. It is the dwarf Helga who steps between the pillars, and she encounters the first (and far from the last) trap of Shadowfell Keep.
The section of floor between the pillars is just canvas disguised as stone, and Helga plunges feet first through it! The fall would have hurt more than it did if not for the cushion of ravenous RATS. The filthy beasts immediately begin crawling over her, their shrill voices splitting the air. If anyone else is down here, they definitely know that they have company. Helga starts screaming for someone to throw her a rope as she swats the rodents away. Irann the warlock tosses one end of her rope and braces her leg on a pillar.
“Grab it!”
And then Kerric sees a yellow-skinned goblin. It’s sticking its head out from the top of the stairwell, a tiny bow clutched in its hands. Erevan sees it too and tosses a glimmering magic missile that pierces the creature’s arm. Hissing in anger, it retaliates with an arrow at the paladin, who is mounting the shallow steps two at a time. A second goblin appears, likewise armed with a shortbow.
“INTRUDERS!” it screams in goblin, even as it notches an arrow to fire at the human paladin.
Helga clambers up the rope, miraculously unhurt by the rats, but the little beasts can’t get out of the pit and pose no more threat to anyone. Irann is the only person who speaks goblin, and she hears more voices:
“Open it!” a goblin is screaming. “HURRY!”
“I’m trying!” another answers. “It’s stuck!”
The paladin quickly engages the goblin archers and decapitates one. Within seconds the warlock has cursed the other, and then seconds after that the dwarf is at the top, broadax sweeping through them, but the warlock’s curse devours the goblin in a plume of purple flames. There’s an open door to her left, and a closed door the right, but through the open door Helga sees two gaunt goblins manically trying to open a large chest.
A chest suspiciously labeled “GOBLIN TRAP.”
A goblin glances back and sees the gleam of doom in the dwarf’s eye as she charges them. “SHITS! Open it NOW!” He’s fumbling with a large iron key, but can’t open the lock before the dwarf is on top of them. She swings, missing, and they scatter two different directions…
…just as the chest thumps and quivers and hops an inch or two off the ground.
Something is inside.
The goblins pull out wicked shortswords, but they aren’t a match for an angry dwarf, a warlord with a polearm, and a holy paladin. The wizard Erevan runs into the other chamber, scoping it out, but only sees a single door exiting. The goblins are quickly annihilated, and the warlock bouncing across the room per usual in a puff of purple sulfurous smoke.
But the box. That damn box. Something inside is SLAMMING against the lid. Something wants out.
This causes a few moments of consternation among the players. Do they really want to let out whatever is inside? Magical and mundane probing doesn’t reveal much…
…and then they hear the voice.
A little girl. “I’M COLD,” she says. “IT’S DARK. PLEASE LET ME OUT…”
That is definitely creepy, and Helga rolls a 22 Insight check to confirm that it’s creepy. The little girl doesn’t answer questions and seems to repeat herself a lot. The group wavers back and forth, open or leave it, open or leave it, and at one point they even have it stacked in the corner under a barrel of lamp oil. But curiosity gets the best of them and they vote to open it.
Weapons and magic readied, they begin to carefully unlock it. Tension is high as Brandis Padraig turns the key with sweaty hands…
…and the lid flies open!
Cold gray mist froths out, spilling around them, and they all swipe blades or discharge flashes of magic. The mist is fast though and it harmlessly ripples around them like water in a stream and streaks for the door, vanishing under the gap. It’s probably hurt, and Erevan and Kerric the paladin of Kelemvor suspect that it is some kind of vampire or wraith, and silver lining inside the trunk reinforces their suspicions.
It must be trying to reach its coffin!
Religious knowledge indicates that a true vampire could regenerate if it finds the dirt of its grave, so they unanimously elect to hunt this thing down before it escapes. In fact, Kerric insists that this must be done! He LIVES for stamping out the foul progeny of Orcus.
Helga slams a shoulder into the heavy wooden door under which the mist fled. The door is stuck, and she rams into it again. It bursts open on swollen hinges, revealing a steep stairwell descending into inky darkness. The smell of must and dust and a more unpleasant stink rises to their nostrils.
But no sign of the fleeing vamp-mist-girl-thing.
A junction at the bottom bears east, west and north, and Erevan’s light spell adequately illuminates their options…
…and the west option just barely reveals a dark figure standing motionless in the corner of another room.
Kerric tosses a sunrod into the room, shedding a nova of light on the thing. It is a hideously rotten abomination that whirls around and begins shuffling toward him, followed at once by several more that shamble from the corners. In the room beyond these zombies, the sunrod just barely allows them a glimpse of two upright black iron sarcophagi.
Helga the fighter and Brandis the warlord plug the hole and confront the zombies head on. The minions drop fast, but a few of the dead things are horrible brutes, and their claws rip through flesh and armor with ease. Regardless, the PCs have an excellent position and the zombies cannot break their defensive wall. They’re hacked down one at a time, rotting flesh and syrupy guts spewing across the floor in a wide berth. The paladin steps in to help, but is painfully mauled by one of the things, and he’s forced to reconsider.
[GM Note: This was hilarious; the paladin jumped in to do what he does best, and the zombie bloodies him in one hit. The paladin started screaming, “Undead are horrible! I didn’t know!”]
Eventually they prevail, and wiping the gore and rot from their blades, the group presses on toward the sarcophagi room, assuming that this is where the vampiric mist fled to heal itself. The ceiling is high and arched, and there are actually TEN black iron tombs standing upright all the way down to the end, where large doors are set into the wall, with a dim light shining down from the ceiling.
They approach the first coffin, gathering around it and readying their weapons to impale whatever is inside. Brandis grabs the cold handle and flings it open…and a bleached white skeleton reaches out a fleshless hand! Swords and halberds thrust into the thing’s ribcage, and within seconds it has been torn down to a brittle pile of dry bones.
That was easy enough, but it was no vampire. They move to the next coffin, using the same tactic, and there is another skeleton warrior inside, but this one is wearing a suit of tattered chainmail…and their hail of blows doesn’t immediately kill it. In fact, he pulls forth a notched longsword and deftly blocks an attack, its lipless jaws clacking.
Here is where things get scary.
Down the long hallway, from every closed sarcophagi, the group hears bony fingers scratching on metal, and then with a resounding series of loud BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOMS! The lids simultaneously fly open, disgorging more foes into the hall, all of them armed with bows and swords. But Helga loves a good fight, and Kerric the Paladin wants more notches on his arm, so this is not an unwelcome surprise (That comes next round).
The warlock finds herself quickly surrounded, but manages to teleport away and run down the hall toward the entrance. Helga engages her foes with a furious charge, bellowing a war cry, and cleaves two of them in half, a cloud of bones splintering around her. She crushes a skull under the boot of her heel and spits on it.
Brandis’s polearm makes short work of another skeletal foe as well and they’re feeling pretty good about the situation…
…until they hear bony claws scratching the inside of the upright iron coffins AGAIN, whose lids have mysteriously closed, and the ten sarcophagi clang open the next round and vomit ten MORE skeletons into the brawl. Within seconds they’re outnumbered and in danger of being surrounded.
“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.
Take what you want from here!
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