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!
They feature fairly heavily in the high-level story hour (To War Against Felenga) and its predecessor (Agents of Chaos).
Trumps allow a person to make mental contact with the person or place on the trump. If you get a strong enough contact, you can actually physically touch the person or place or even step through to them. They're stolen directly from Roger Zelazny's Chronicles of Amber- excellent reading, especially the first series.
As Galador and Bleak each started trying to pull Dexter’s strings in one way or another, Farenth, a lowly cleric of Darkness, sailed with him for a time, then was kicked off the vessel. During this time, he grew to hate Dexter with a burning passion. He hated Malford. He hated Lyr, and Chanti, and Galliger; and by the time he was put ashore, he swore revenge against them all.
Farenth was dark-haired, with a trimmed beard and moustache. His eyes held the kind of crazy light that usually means you should get the hell away from this guy right now. When the party first met him, he was of average build; but as his obsession with his former shipmates grew, he ate less and less and became more and more gaunt and ruined. A heavy diet of narcotics, spicy fermented drinks and psychedelic grubs began to twist the already-twisted man further and further from anything like conventional thought.
Farenth spent a number of months in planning. The darkness carried him away on wings of evil; as the place he stayed in spun around his hallucinating eyes, he realized that Dexter was his antithesis- where Farenth had come from a life of good and privilege only to sink into the depths of depravity, Dexter had risen from the abysmal state he was in when Galliger was influencing him to a state of grace. So what if Bleak got his soul when he died, so long as he lived?
Farenth began styling himself the Son of Darkness- the Child of Bleak. It started as a metaphor, but spiraled quickly out of control in his crazed mind, and one night soon he believed that he had been visited by Bleak. Perhaps he had; who can say what a visitation by one’s god will look like? Regardless, Farenth somehow emerged from this terrible night, during which various objects had been destroyed and cast about the room violently (perhaps in his raving psychotic state he’d done it himself- again, who knows), and Farenth somehow had garnered a great deal of information concerning our heroes.
He realized now that the only way to truly do justice to his hatred for Malford, Dexter, Chant, Lyr, and the rest would be to get them to kill one another.
He began to move the pieces into place.
Chanti, Lyr and the rest of the pirates (those were the two he really hated) could be lured in if they thought they could kill Dexter. Farenth was sure of that. Chanticleer could be counted on to see to it; she wanted his blood, even if the others might not. Make it look easy and they will come.
As to luring Dexter and Malford- that would be a little more difficult. But Farenth put his evil mind to work on it and soon came up with a plan.
He would kidnap the confessor.
Next Time: Again, who knows which thread I’ll follow next time... but now you start to see the big picture!
Vosh- centaur druid 3; N
Lyr- cleric 5; LE
Chanticleer Gildar-Ynarlslaand- fighter 5; CN
Akakathan- merellin bard 2/priest 2; NG
“Land ho!”
The Twikwakikikak comes alive with activity. Captain Lyr ascends to the crow’s nest, using Chanti’s spyglass to gaze at the huge continent coming into view.
Strogass.
If Forinthia is the center of the worship of Galador, Strogass is its negative image, its opposite pole. That is the legendary home of all chaos and evil, of all darkness; there is the wellspring of Bleak’s power on Cydra.
And it’s damn far from Dexter.
***
Sailing along the coast the pirates spot a series of small towns, then what must be termed a city. This, it turns out, is Bratamond.
The people are pale of skin, with dark hair that tends to thin stringy strands. Their eyes are dark and their clothes tend to dark colors and reds. When the pirates disembark and wander about, they quickly realize that Strogass is a place where the strong rule through their fists. They pass several beatings as they wander the city, listening to the odd local language. It’s easy enough to find a merchant that speaks Forinthian, but speaking it draws attention.
“Strangers,” an obsequious little halfling says to them in thick Forinthian. “Could you spare a moment?”
Lyr nods imperiously. “Speak!” she barks. “And we already have a cook!”
“Oh, I have a job too- I am a manservant for a great and powerful wizard. But, ah, that job has left me somewhat unprepared for my current dilemma.”
Akakathan snickers. “Manservant,” he guffaws.
It develops that Weevil (the halfling) had lost a spellbook of his master’s while gambling on a sure hand of cards. “Now he’s going to flay me if I don’t get it back!” Weevil whines.
“Well, that’s what you get for gambling with someone else’s spellbooks,” Vosh comments dryly.
“Please, I’ll pay you! And I’ll help you talk to the local merchants and such!”
After some discussion, the group agrees. Beating up the sailor who won the book is a difficult task for a halfling manservant, but less than nothing to an experienced band of adventurers. A few broken ribs and loosened teeth are enough to persuade the sailor (a swarthy fellow with a massive tattoo of a serpent across his left shoulder) to give the book up, and then our heroes have a translator for a few hours.
The ship is outfitted with new material and goods to replace the supplies expended on the long journey. New sailcloth, new rope, new timber. More food, fresh water, whiskey. Paint, sand, fishing line... the list goes on and on. Weevil shows signs of regret for his offer to serve as an intermediary with the merchants after only an hour, but Lyr keeps him doggedly at it til sunset.
Finally, before they release him, they ask him about local areas of adventure.
“Well,” he responds, “there’s an old abandoned monastery that was home to an order of monks of Galador a long time ago...”
“A monastery of Galador?” Lyr exclaims. “What a perfect Strogassian dungeon!” With a smile, she asks, “Where is it?”
Now we see a reverse dungeon delve. This should be interesting.
The halflings in my Of Sound Mind SH are also on Strogass, though in the northeast rather than the south; but still! You might see something like this again- or even, perhaps, this very place, should that party ever go this direction!
Of course, the halflings are almost 300 years after Lyr, Vosh, et. al.
Six centuries before, a sect of Strogassian Galadorian monks sought to establish a monastery in service to the Light. They acted quietly, turned all would-be visitors away, and carefully kept up the appearance that they were nonreligious. But after a century and a half, they were found out. The provincial governor of the time dispatched a large troop of undead and men and slaughtered the monks, despoiling the serenity of the area forever. He then cursed the grounds in the name of Bleak.
Now a certain villainous party approached the plateau on which the ruins sat. In the lead were Chanticleer Gilder-Ynarlslend, hero of Bleak, the centaur druid Vosh, and Lyr, harpoon-wielding priestess of the Sea, Sky and Land. Straggling behind them came Akakathan, grumbling about the harsh dry air. The merellin would stop occasionally to dribble a little water from his waterskin onto his forehead and neck.
The party stopped a few hundred yards away. “Vosh, go take a look for entrances. Don’t get too close,” commanded Lyr. The green-haired centaur nodded and galloped off, circumnavigated the outer wall at a distance of some forty yards, then returned.
“Looks like the wall’s crumbled in two places,” he reported. “Two easy entrances- one of them looks to be the remains of the old gate.”
“Let’s take the back way,” said Lyr, and the group approached carefully. The wall was made of hewn stone blocks fitted together carefully and mortared into place. The entrance the captain chose was along the north wall, near one corner, and a small hole showed clear signs of assault from a catapult. Clambering over a pile of rubble, the pirates made their way down into the corner of a weed-choked yard. All around them were headstones.
“Careful,” Lyr murmured. “We don’t want to wake any restless dead.”
“Galador’s too weak to use the undead,” scoffed Chanti, kicking over a headstone.
Almost immediately the ground began convulsing. Forms started clawing their way out of the bushes, some up from under the dirt of the graves. In moments the adventurers were surrounded and battling for their lives! The stinking, putrid undead were covered in filth and grime, and as they dug at their living foes with dirty claws they infected the wounds with terrible disease (although the party would not realize this until the morning). Most wore the remains of priestly robes and Galadorian holy symbols. More and more rose up, shambling forward to quickly engage the party.
But the pirates were quite capable of defending themselves. After an initial moment of panic, Lyr rallied her troops. “Form up!” she cried, thrusting mightily with her harpoon. It crashed into the ribcage of the undead priest and she released it as she cast flame blade. The brilliant shaft of divine fire flashed all around her as she hacked left and right. Vosh’s terrible hooves crashed down on first one heucuva, then another. He knocked them back like toys. Akakathan sang out, hoping he could help his friends, and Chanti’s blade was a veritable blur as she chopped mercilessly, grinning at the soiled holy symbols. As she chopped one down, she exulted, “These were priests!”
Soon the battle was over, and though wounded, the pirates were intact. Counting skulls, they determined that they’d faced fifteen opponents- not too bad, for a group of four!
“Still, we’re pretty beat up,” Lyr acknowledged, “so we’d best rest and heal before we try going back in.”
The others agreed, and the party withdrew about a half mile. Chanti nervously set up a perimeter and kept glancing in the direction of the ruin as if expecting something to come after them.
Occasionally, though, instead of looking north towards the monastery, she would look long and hard to the west, towards Dexter, and her heart would burn with hate.
Somehow, she knew, Strogass would bring them back together. And she would kill him.
Sore joints, aching muscles, rebellious stomachs. Akakathan, Chanti and Lyr groaned as disease set in.
The battle with the heucuva had its aftereffects.
This isn’t good, worried Vosh. He glanced at Lyr. She was so beautiful- and dying! Clearly, this disease was beyond his limited powers, and his natural passions rose to the forefront. Centaurs are creatures of hot blood. He would not allow his friends to die! He would not!
Especially not Lyr.
Thundering off, Vosh rode to find help. If he couldn’t save them, he would find someone else who could. He rode hard to the south, towards the city of Bratamond, where the Twikwakikikak lies at anchor. Nobody on board will be able to help, but it’s a city. Vosh was sure there would be someone.
‘Someone’ there was. Vosh returned to his companions, nearly a full day later, exhausted and without having slept, carrying an apothecary on his broad back. The old gnome dismounted and swiftly set to work, using potions and herbs to aid the others, whose illness was beginning to cause them delirium.
Vosh let out a ragged breath as he bit into an apple, brushing a lock of green hair from before his eyes. I’ve done all I can, he thinks dully. Now it’s up to him. Another ragged sigh, and he wandered into the shade of a nearby tree to get some rest.
The apothecary was successful; and Vosh, once it became clear that the others were on their way to a full recovery, carried the gnome home with many heartfelt thanks. When he returned again to the others, they were nearly ready to get back to work.
When the sun rose the following morning, it was time to return to the Monestary.
Vosh was filled with joy. He had saved his love! He smiled happily to himself. He had fallen head over heels in love with his captain; and whether she cared for him or not, he would do anything to protect and serve her.
***
The group moved cautiously through the tumbled stones of the graveyard. The corpses of the heucuva moldered all around them. Chanti gave a head a kick as she walked by, sneering. They passed a well and approached the main building of the monastery. From their vantage, they could see choked fields of weeds overgrowing grain and vegetable lines both north and south of the building. Behind it- to the west, opposite the cemetery- was some sort of pond.
Chanticleer approached the front doors boldly, her sword naked in one hand. She threw the door open with the other. Immediately a brilliant light spilled out at them, as bright as the light of the sun. Squinting, frowning, Chanti took a step forward.
To either side of the doors were two stone pillars carved with sun symbols. Each glowed with continual light. A hole in the ceiling of the place had created a pile of rubble in one area; the rest of the room, though fairly intact, was empty.
The group moved into the chamber. There were a number of different possible routes from the entry chamber- a wide passage, an archway and two doors. Lyr moved to one of the doors and threw it wide. A hallway, with a room immediately to the left as well; she stepped up and glanced into the room. It was some sort of kitchen, with more exits, including what looked like a trap door leading down.
Lyr turned and gestured for Chanti to take the lead. “Let’s explore the rest of the hallway first,” she commanded, and Chanti moved down the hall. The others fell in behind her- Lyr, then Vosh, then Akakathan.
The hallway zigged and zagged, and soon there were many doors, most to empty meditation cells, to either side. Occasionally, a room would be partially collapsed, but the monastery was surprisingly intact.
Then, as the pirates hit a T intersection, turning right, Akakathan cocked his head. “Do you hear something?” he asked, hesitantly. “Squeaking?”
“Probably bats,” Chanti said dismissively, just as she stepped into what was obviously once a training room. Two corpses lay on the floor. Chanti’s eyes widened for an instant.
And then the stirges came, like a cloud of flying knives, descending from their roosts on the ceiling. The party was unprepared for the huge swarm of bloodsuckers. Chanti screamed as she cut left and right, ahead and behind, and stirges stuck to her like burrs. Lyr screamed as half a dozen landed on her and sunk their proboscises into her, sucking her life and starting to bloat like cat-sized mosquitoes. Akakathan stabbed wildly with his harpoon, desperately dodging the disgusting little parasites, while Vosh rushed forward, kicking out with his hooves and slashing with his scimitar.
They fought like heroes while the filthy creatures buzzed around, alighting and draining them. The stirges fell in droves, but there were nearly two dozen of them. It seemed that for every one Vosh squished under his hooves, another two were flying around. And Lyr!
She fell, four stirges still attached to her.
Vosh whinnied in consternation, screamed in fear, and dashed to her aid.
Chanti was weakening too, but still on her feet. She saw Lyr’s predicament and tried to stagger over to her aid, but started to sink down herself. Shaking her head, she stopped and mustered her will. She tore another stirge from her own breast and crushed it, then rushed the rest of the way to Lyr’s side.
Akakathan speared the last two from the air with his harpoon, grimacing as he shook their corpses from his harpoon. Then he, too, rushed towards Lyr. Vosh began to wail.
They were too late. Once again, their Captain was dead.
“Bleak has spoken,” the priest intoned solemnly. Somewhere, someone rang a low bell. Chanti shuddered involuntarily, in an erotic mix of fear and pleasure.
She was in the fane of the main temple to the Black Sun in the town of Endros. The group, demoralized after their foray into the monastery and subsequent loss of their leader, had retreated to this town; and here, Drakar the high priest, a foul-smelling dwarf with dirty fingernails laid a great honor on Chanti.
She had told him everything; of Galiger’s valiant efforts to overthrow the Light everywhere he went, of his betrayal and murder (from her perspective) by Dexter, of their ensuing flight to Strogass, of Lyr’s death.
“Your Captain Lyr was a heathen,” Drakar grunted. “Bleak brought her here to bring you here. So that we could hear your story, and hear of this Dexter from one who has met him.” The dwarf snarled. “The Church of Bleak will aid you, child, as He has guided you all along. It is He who struck down your Captain, for He has no further need of a cowardly pagan.” The dwarf’s eyes bored in on her. “Who is Captain now?”
“I am,” she replied, “as I am the only remaining original crewman.”
He nods. “Good. We will aid you,” he repeated. Then he turned and called to a back room, “Urdor!”
After a moment a squat, dark dwarf with an axe across his back and the Black Sun of Bleak emblazoned upon the breast of his vestments emerged. “Master?” he grated.
“You will be accompanying our friends here,” commanded Drakar. “We will be investing some significant efforts in your success,” he turned to Chanti. “It seems advisable to attempt to aid you in what ways we can. This is Urdor Darkwind. He is a warrior, and a priest; he will assist you.” Drakar rubbed his grubby paws together. “And act as a moral and spiritual advisor.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Chanti responded, bowing low.
“More, we will send Delilah with you. Urdor, fetch her; tell her to be ready to leave in four hours.”
Urdor hurried out.
After a moment’s hesitation, Chanti asked, “Do you know of any way that we could protect ourselves against Dexter’s mind tricks?”
Drakar stroked his long full beard. “Perhaps,” he said. “Though it is nothing I can provide you, I can point you in the right direction. There is an amulet that will protect an area from psionics. But it was lost by its previous owner, a scholar of some note, when he was on an expedition to the Undersea beneath the Precipice.”
“The Precipice?”
Drakar smiled. “The Eastern Precipice, more properly- an area where there is a cliff several miles high.”
“And this Undersea...”
“Is in the Underdark, beneath the Precipice.”
“And this amulet is there?”
“Perhaps.” Drakar shrugs. “It is a lead. Perhaps investigation will turn it up. In any event, that is the aid I can give you on that subject.”
At just that moment, Urdor returned, followed by a tall pale beauty of an elven woman. She wore a violet dress whose color perfectly complemented her red hair and green eyes. She bore neither weapons nor armor.
“Ah,” said Drakar, “Good. This is the other assistance I can offer you- a conjurer of some skill. Meet Delilah.”
Chanti nodded, dumbfounded. A cleric and a mage! she thought exultantly. Things were looking up. But why?
“Clearly,” said Drakar, “you have some idea as to your next move?”
“Dexter,” Chanti replied without hesitation. “He must die.” She sighed. “But first we have to get this amulet.” She paused. “Unless Bleak needs something else more...?”
“Not at all,” Drakar demurred.
***
The journey would take the group north and east. The Church happily outfitted the group with a significant amount of gear to see them on their way; and so it was that they set forth, journeying northwards.
Their new companions were very different. Urdor maintained a laconic presence, barely speaking except when spoken to except to conduct the daily obsequies to Bleak. He was a steady, stable figure, always in the same place- behind and slightly to the right of Chanti. Delilah, on the other hand, was very dramatic, sultry, seductive, and mercurial. She referred to herself by many titles- Delilah the Dead, Delilah the Damned, Delilah the Delicious, Delilah the Delightful. She had a quick wit and a tendency to laugh at odd, sometimes inappropriate moments.
Chanticleer was full of righteous energy. She had been blessed in her quest to destroy Dexter by the priests of the Black Sun! Food, ale, weapons, even a magic ring- she had been well equipped by them!
If she knew what correspondence Drakar had seen, come from Farenth, she might have been able to puzzle out the trap he was setting, but she did not.
The journey was about two weeks long; along the way they were ambushed by an ankheg, which they easily dispatched (though Akakathan took a nasty burn when it spat acid upon him) and a family of four weird monsters with strange, badger-like heads; but instead of teeth, they had jagged bony ridges. Their bodies were a strange mix of stag and lion, with cloven hooves on its feet. Again, Chanticleer’s group of pirates managed to destroy them without too much trouble. During these battles, it became clear that Urdor was able to hold his own in a battle, and that Delilah- standing far back- could use her conjuration magic to good effect. In fact, she summoned a thumb-sized spider that poisoned one of their foes handily.
Their journey took them up hill, but instead of rising and then falling again, the incline remained at a gentle rise for many days. Many rills and small brooks ran down the slope. Green grass and trees were abundant. Soon enough the group reached the town of Kerm, which- according to Drakar- was near an entrance to the Underdark. Not quite a city, the town was big enough to allow them their choice of inns, so they chose one where a bunch of scurrilous characters such as themselves could fit right in.
We can hardly call these folks heroes. They were villains, pirates, scoundrels and blackguards. There was not a moral person among them, with the possible exception of the merellin Akakathan, who- by the present time in our narrative- was increasingly uneasy about his association with them.
Of course, it was too late to leave by this point; Akakathan already knew that he was with them for the duration. But as his kind are naturally kind-hearted and generous, his own heart was growing heavier by the week.
Six days in the town of Kerm, staying at a very good inn called the Dragon Turtle Soup Kettle, left a local gnomish illusionist murdered and Delilah in possession of his staff, which was topped by a severed human hand. She affected this proudly, along with the gnome’s gold ring and purse of fifty Imperials (the main Strogassian coin). Then the group left town, heading for the fissure that led to the Underdark (according to the priest Drakar).
Chanticleer felt a strong, vicious sense of satisfaction at the fact that her pirates- hers, now- were going to at last seek vengeance for Galiger. Dexter, you will pay for what you did, she vowed. I will kill you.
A journey of about ten days ensued, and near the end of it Delilah felt a sudden shifting in her perceptions.* Suddenly she could sense the top of the staff, as if it were her own hand atop it. Some experimentation revealed that she could use the hand to perform her spells’ somatic components. Intriguing, the quick-minded conjurer thought. And it took a week for me to become attuned to it. I’d best make sure that I stay attuned, else my staff will be useless for nine days.
The final stretch of their march led them across a ravine and through a rock badlands. The great Western Precipice that they were climbing thrust into the air, the ground broken and jagged. Cliffs abounded. The geography was astonishing. Vosh shook his head. Clearly, no natural process could achieve this. The group continued to clamber upwards along a wide sharp trail that switched back and forth, sometimes at a severe slope.
Suddenly there was a clatter of rocks to the group’s left. They glanced in that direction and, to their horror, saw a tremendous monster emerging from behind a jagged pinnacle of rock. It was easily 20’ long, with a reptilian body and a great fanged mouth. Its scales gleamed bronze in the sun, and its dull eyes were focused on them. Great wings spread from its back and it came winging towards them, hissing violently.
“Drake!” growled Urdor Darkwind, pulling out his battle axe.
The monster flapped in among them and began tearing at them. The villains scattered, spreading out to avoid presenting an easy target, and began fighting back with all their might.
Chanticleer engaged it in melee, her sword slipping beneath the beast’s scales and punctuating her intent to drive it off. Urdor sliced into it with his axe, and the monster spat a blast of flame at Chanti, who weathered it with gritted teeth and kept hacking. Delilah’s conjured spiders were skittering on the monster, biting at it, and Akakathan sang to motivate the group. For indeed, a strong motivation was required to stand against such a horrible monster! The drake bit and tore at Chanti and Urdor, but it was weakening; and Vosh’s smashing hooves confused and dazed it. The party pressed the advantage, and in another minute it was over.
Breathing hard, Chanti wiped the blood from her sword. “I consecrate this victory to Bleak,” she declared loudly. Urdor nodded approvingly.
The group followed the drake’s trail back, hoping they would find its lair and, if it had any, treasure. They were quite successful. A shallow cave filled with the monster’s shed scales and bones was also quite full of scattered treasure. After about four hours of gathering stuff, they made a count. In addition to roughly 4,000 gp in coins, they found three potions, a scroll, a longsword and a pair of spectacles that radiated magic, as well as a number of other items that didn’t.
“Wow, we hit the jackpot,” Vosh commented. The others murmured an assent.
“I can identify these, given time and a pearl,” Delilah offered.
Chanti glanced at the sun. “Let’s get to where we’re going first. We still have a couple of hours before the sun goes down; with luck we can reach the entrance to the Underdark.” She consulted her map. “It looks like we’re almost there.”
And indeed, an hour later, they found themselves approaching a gash in the ground ahead, a deep rift of unknown depth and reasonable width. At least the first portion looked to be a vertical descent.
The sun was going down. “Let’s make camp,” Chanti commanded. “At first light, we’ll go down.”
Little did they know that their quest was to take them to the very Abyss itself.
Next Time: Hmm, I think it’s time we got back to Dexter and co... just in time for Dex to become a cleric!
Dexter, Malford, Lochenvare and Ingen Jagar continued their adventures together. Ed, for reasons of his own, decided to quit the group for a quieter life. “Risking my life just about every day is fun for a while,” he told them, “but sooner or later my luck will come up. I’m ducking out now, before that happens, and after I’ve made a few gold.”
Wishing him well, the others prepared to move on from the Isle of Gloom.
Dexter spent a good deal of time by himself, thinking. The scar on his forehead itched or burned sometimes; it was never long without a reminder of its presence. He thought of his soul, consigned to the darkness of Bleak, and of the terrible torments he was bound to face once he died. He contemplated his young life, and what he had so far done with it- not much good, that’s for sure. Not much at all.
I’m only seventeen, he thought miserably.
The snake demon lunging for him returned to his thoughts. Son of the Light, he called me. And he was after me, specifically- not Malford, not anyone else, me, Dexter Nadly. He shuddered.
Heaving a sigh, Dexter raised his face to the setting sun. The sky was filled with orange and pink clouds- a gorgeous example of the beauty the sun can bring forth. All right, he said silently. All right. I’ve turned from Bleak to You, and he knows it and he’s pissed. He’s coming for me, and eventually- in the end- unless I can come up with something awfully tricky- he’s going to get me. Galiger, some other priest, Bleak himself- somehow he’ll get me. But not without a fight.
Dexter, for the first time in his young life, stood with his back completely straight and his head held high. The warmth of the sun was invigorating him in ways he’d never been invigorated before. He could feel it spreading through his limbs like the warmth from a stiff drink. But instead of drunkenness, it brought him a strange lucidity.
“Galador,” he said aloud, “if this is how it’s going to be, then this is how it’s going to be. If I have turned from Bleak to you, let me do it completely.
“I want to be your cleric.”
And bowing his head, Dexter prayed- really prayed- for the first time.
***
The change in Dexter was not immediately obvious. He wore the same simple garb, and he still wielded the staff of combat in battle. But philosophically, he had turned a corner. No longer would Dexter be morally wishy-washy, easily pulled from one position to another or persuaded to a new belief. He declined requests for the use of his psionic powers, stating that he had to remain focused on other things. Slowly, haltingly, Dexter started to speak about peace, and to declare that not all other religions were deceived followers of Bleak. It was only a start, and he had not yet discovered that he was possessed of the Voice of God.
The group sailed to Forinthia, where Dexter would for the first time meet High Priest Spadron, the Voice of Galador on Cydra.
It was a combination of his reputation- nobody had forgotten his telepathic deception and murder of the clerics a year and a half earlier- and the heresies that he was preaching that brought him to the attention of High Priest Spadron, but it was not until he showed signs of telepathically deceiving others again that Spadron called for Dexter to be brought before him.
***
Upon disembarking in Port Lofrax, the group sought lodging, but everywhere they went Dexter protested the price. Finally, they settled for renting rooms in a drafty, ramshackle place in the slums.
While they were in the common room, a priest of the Light was haranguing the crowd, trying to convince them to give up whatever heathen, idolatrous or backsliding ways they might have. He ranted on for quite some time, first arguing against Bleak, then against moral lassitude, then against druids, as they were agents of Bleak. It was then that Dexter first spoke up on Forinthia, arguing with the other cleric, who eyed him askance. And then Dex became aware of the Voice when he spoke.
”Not all things that are not Galador are Bleak.”
A gasp arose from all around him, including his own throat. The other cleric’s jaw dropped.
It was the Voice of Galador.
Everyone present knew, without a doubt, that the voice that had issued from Dexter’s mouth was far more than merely his voice- it was voice of their God. The crushing weight of the voice’s nature was inescapable. It could not be denied. Galador spoke through Dexter.
Lochenvare shrugged and took a drink. “Never took much with religion,” he muttered, but he was clearly shaken.
Malford gaped at the young friend he’d taken it upon himself to protect. What have I gotten myself into? he wondered dizzily.
***
Upon hearing of the incident in the slums, the High Priest called for the immediate arrest of Dexter Nadly. Psionic trickery, he thought grimly. Well, we’ll see how tricky he is faced with me.
Next Time: Dexter and High Priest Spadron meet for the first time!
(I'm cross-posting this to all my current and recent story hour threads.)
Well, gang, Lester's player is having a baby so he's not gonna be able to game with us nearly as often as he previously has.
Since neither of us are made happy by this, we've been discussing playing a game by email, but it occurs to me that there's a great place to play a game via the messageboards, so I've proposed this to him. I like the idea- even if he's not big on it, I think that before too long I'm going to start a Cydra play by post for people who can't come over to my house to play.
Any of my readers interested in getting involved with this? Especially if you can post once per day or more. I'll probably be posting a recruiting thread soon, but I'll give you guys first chance to jump on the Cydra wagon.
I've been a huge fan of your stuff for ages, and I'd love to have the chance to play in one of your games. In fact, I think with the assent of randomling, we could offer you a personal forum on randomlingshouse.com in which to store house rules, feats, classes etc etc. And the game itself, of course!
But seriously, yes, please let me create a character and go for it.
__________________ DM of Adventure Path Story Hour (now in Thunderspire Labyrinth!): Ryam Plays Dice - updated 8th June 09 (campaign on indefinite hiatus).
Player in Swordlands Story Hour: Interview with a Fey - updated 15th June 09. News just in - this campaign may be restarting in the near future! Watch this space!
I also have the singular honour of being Rouseketeer #20.
Check it out, Tallarn. Looks like there are 2 other people who want to play at this point. I look forward to playing with you. Any idea of what story threads you may want to pursue?
Dexter was on the street when he was accosted by the Imperial Guard.
“High Priest Spadron requests your presence,” the commander of the squadron said.
There was a moment of silence. Dexter’s body went cold. What was happening? What did the High Priest want of him?
He thought on the incident with the Voice and gulped inwardly. Aloud, he answered the Imperial soldiers with a simple, “All right.”
Our heroes were relieved of their weapons and escorted along the wide Main Road of the city. They wound their way among wooden houses crowded together, with an occasional stone front; many small shops, bars and churches were stuffed in with the homes. The cobbled street led up the subtle rise that led to the great Cathedral of Port Lofrax. Dexter’s breath caught in his throat as the rays of the sun scintillated off the stained glass windows depicting the saints, the sun, Galador’s radiant power in victory over Bleak.
Into the Cathedral of Port Lofrax the heroes went; and Dexter was led, alone, into a large ostentatious office, well-appointed with comfortable chairs and a large shelf of religious tracts and books of philosophy. A fire crackled in the fireplace; the windows were flung wide to allow the sun in and the smoke out.
“Your Eminence, this is the boy,” one of the guards declared in an emotionless voice.
A dwarf rose from his seat. He wore the white, red and gold vestments of the High Priest of Galador, and his beard was so long that he wore it as a belt. Gold rings were upon his fingers and a holy symbol of purest gold, centered with a great sunstone that glowed from within with a continual light. High Priest Spadron.
“Dexter Nadly,” Spadron said flatly.
Nervously, Dexter bowed his head. “Uh, yeah, that’s me.” He winced; his voice sounded arrogant, but when he tried to modulate it- adding “I’m Dexter”- he sounded whiny and frightened. He groaned inwardly.
Rage filled the High Priest’s face. “You have admitted your previous crimes, and repented of them,” he growled. “You have sworn to serve the Light and to follow His ways. And yet you are returning to your ways of trickery and mental deception!”
“What? No!” exclaimed Dexter. “I’m not- I haven’t-“
“Do you think we do not hear what happens in our own cities, Nadly?” cried Spadron. “We have heard of your cruel taunting of one of our priests in the tavern! Interfering with him as he tried to spread the word of the Light!” His face contorted with passion. “And you dare to stand before me and tell me that you still walk in the Light?!”
For a moment all Dexter can think of is being back in the tender grasp of the Inquisition. “Yes,” he says at last, mastering himself. “I haven’t lied to anyone, I haven’t tricked anyone, I haven’t even used my psionics since I returned to Forinthia! I swear to you, I am a good man now- I’ve repented and changed my ways!”
“Then how do you explain your deception of Father Zakariah? No, Nadly; your honeyed words do not sway me! You were warned when you were allowed to leave before- if you returned to your evil ways, you will be punished. Well-“
Taking a deep breath, Dexter prayed to Galador. Please, Galador, he begged, if ever you favored me, favor me now. If- if I can speak in Your Voice, let me do it now. Save me from Your own Church!
And he spoke, in the Voice of Galador. Behind him he heard the Imperial Guards gasp. ”I did not lie, nor did I use my psionics; the Lord truly spoke through me.” He let out a long, deep breath, barely believing it himself. It worked, he thought in a daze. I really can speak in the Voice of Galador. It worked! Now Spadron has to believe me!
Spadron glared at Dexter, his face purpling. “How... how dare you!” he spluttered.
And then he, too, spoke in the Voice. ”You are a heretic and a murderer!”
I've been a huge fan of your stuff for ages, and I'd love to have the chance to play in one of your games. In fact, I think with the assent of randomling, we could offer you a personal forum on randomlingshouse.com in which to store house rules, feats, classes etc etc. And the game itself, of course!
But seriously, yes, please let me create a character and go for it.
High Priest Spadron could not believe his ears. The Voice- coming from him, from the Nadly boy! How is it possible?
And yet- Spadron’s denouncement of him, spoken in the Voice as well, was clear and unequivocal. One could not lie in the Voice. It was infallible. Dexter was, indeed a heretic and murderer.
And that was his answer, as well.
”Yes,” Dexter answered Spadron’s accusation heavily. “I have practiced heresy and even Bleakism. I have murdered, even priests of the Light.” Eyes blazing, he raised a shaking hand to the terrible scars on his forehead. “That is why I wear this! The mark of Bleak, branded on me by the Inquisition- and later crossed out with hot metal as well. I have committed terrible crimes- but I have repented. I have come into the Light. And now-“ Dex glared at Spadron “-now I even act as His cleric.”
Spadron glowered from behind his beard. He considered for a long moment.
“You will be watched,” he snapped at last. Then, to one of the guards, he barked, “Summon Lady Keen.”
***
Dexter’s first warden was Lady Charlotte Keen, an ugly paladin whose shield bore a sword above a kocho before the sun, rising over the mountains. Though not too clever, she was very wise, and warned of Dexter’s wiles. She was to keep a close eye on him; to report back to Spadron by letter; and to ensure that Dexter did not perpetrate any crimes against the people of Forinthia or the Church of Galador. A tall order, but a paladin of House Keen was certainly capable of fulfilling the task.
Reluctantly, she left her lands and friends to join the party. Reluctantly, they let her.
***
“Thule, that’s the key,” Malford insisted. “The king of Thule is without an heir. I can make him a potion that will help.”
“Then let’s go,” Lochenvare answered. “I can’t stand Forinthia. The Imperials are everywhere, gettin’ into everyone’s business.” He snorted. “I’m not going to church on Godsday. Darken that.”
“Right,” Malford said. “The capitol is called Fuzia.”
***
The Kingdom of Thule was far to the west of Forinthia. It was on the western side of the westernmost continent in the region, Dorhaus. The passage our heroes bought took them to the south coast, from whence they continued overland. They traveled through heavily forested areas, thick groves of maple and oak spreading branches above thick undergrowth. Eventually they came out on a path and followed it west and somewhat north; this lasted them for a week, including several stops in small communities, and by the end of it the forest had thinned and the ground had taken on a rolling character. Little rills and brooks burbled between the hills and occasional frog-filled ponds dotted the landscape, yet after a few more days the party had come into a dryer area. They crossed over a small hump of mountains, skirting the edge of a great wall that separated the open fields of two great adversarial nations (Thule and Wotan).
On the day they passed the wall, about five miles north of it, they met an interesting sight. A pale little gnome with greasy black hair was puzzling over an artificial-looking block of stone. Halting, the party inquired as to what was going on.
“I’m trying to move this block,” he explained, and went on to tell our heroes that there were goblins beneath. “They raided my people,” the gnome went on, “and I wish to exact an agonizing revenge upon them.” He gave an evil grin.
“I can understand that,” Lochenvare nodded approvingly.
Lady Charlotte glared at him. “He’s evil,” she said. Lochenvare smirked, out of her detection’s area.
“Nonetheless, there are goblins down there,” Malford replied.
“Right,” said Dexter. “And I’m sure that we can be a good influence on both this fellow and the goblins.”
Charlotte made a mental note: consorting with evil.
***
The block was very difficult to move, but with the burly Lochenvare there to throw his back into it, as well as Lady Charlotte (who seemed possessed of nearly superhuman strength), our heroes managed. A stinking hole was revealed, and our heroes dropped in, Lochenvare and Charlotte in the lead.
They fell right into a goblin ambush, unfortunately for the goblins. Moments later, cleaning their weapons off, our heroes glanced around the chamber they were in. There were two exits.
“I’ll check this one out,” Ingen Jager offered, and crept off to the left.
“He’s brave,” murmured Dexter.
Lochenvare snorted. “Yeah, but he should try using weapons instead of his hands.”
There was a noise down the hall Ingen had gone into- a sort of ‘thump- splash.’
“What was that?” wondered Lady Charlotte, drawing forth her rapier.
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