The Age of Worms - Morrus' Campaign - Finished 6th August!!

SPOILER WARNING: As if being called an “Age of Worms” Story Hour wasn’t obvious enough, this is likely to give away a few bits of the ‘Age of Worms’ campaign. I don’t know what those bits are yet. I’m just playing in the campaign…

The Campaign makes its start in Diamond Lake, a two-bit mining town filled with lowlife scum, competing mining overseers, corrupt officials and guardsmen, pollution and scummy taverns. I think we fit into the ‘lowlife scum’ category at the moment. We’re a group of likely lads from the town out for ourselves, and looking to get out of the town itself.

I’m Evan the Raconteur (Brd1). I’ve lived in Diamond Lake for as long as I can remember, and there’s little to say about that. I’ve traded stories with all the passers-by and traders who’ve come through the town, and now make a living by touring the bars, living off my tales and my wits. The rapier’s really just an affectation – people think twice about attacking an armed man.

People think twice about attacking Morgan Sevestarian (Wiz1 – Necromancy Specialist). Not because he’s armed, but because he’s spooky. You remember the creepy kid that you hung out with because you were always a bit scared of his parents? That’s Morgan. He’s taken after his mother now and is working towards being a really weird piece of work. He carries a crossbow; every time I’ve ever seen him use it in the past he’s managed to hit his target, which is strange, as I’ve never ever seen him practice. He must just be lucky. Or it could be magic, I suppose.

My other magical companion is Torvig (Clr1 - Fharlanghn). Besides being a Dwarf, he’s one of the town’s few healers, prepared to heal anybody who comes to him, which is more than you can say for other clerics in town, who only heal their own followers. He came to town a few years ago in the company of another dwarf, and since then the two have left their armour to rust – Torvig’s armour through lack of use, and his mate's has been pawned to raise ale money.

Then there’s Flynn the Elf (Rog1). What can you say about Flynn? He’s quite the stereotype of what you know about elves in some respects – he’s tall, quick and nimble, and a superb shot with the bow. What you don’t often get to say about elves is that he doesn’t hang out in a forest, and really likes gold. A lot. Though we’ve argued about this in the past, we stick together, mostly ‘cause he’s inquisitive, and his instincts have gotten us out of nearly as many scrapes as his impulses have gotten us into.

Finally, there’s the most recent addition to our little drinking group; Niccoli the warrior (Ftr1), strong and athletic, skilled with the bastard sword and bow. A handy guy to have by your side in a fight, which I guess is why Niccoli was hired some time ago by the Diamond Lake garrison to help do whatever it is they do right the way out of town.

Our story starts, in the way of so many tales before it, in the tavern. In our case, this was the Dog – we try to meet up every week to hang out and down a few jars. I tell a few tales and earn a couple of pennies, the others play darts, and we all talk about what we’re going to do when we get out of town and head for the big city.
This week, we had something else to talk about. Adventure! Or rather, the trio of honest to Gods adventurers who’d come to town, asking about the Cairn, clearly seeking to do some adventuring there, and go treasure hunting. The place they were asking about was close to town, and we all figured they meant the Whispering Cairn, across the lake which we all visited as kids – never daring to go beyond the entrance.

The bar was packed with beery miners, and my few tales netted me a few coppers and a beer. Whilst I had my back turned, Flynn managed to insult one of the visiting adventurers and challenged her in the same sentence to a knife-throwing match for money he didn’t even have.

He did well, to be honest. Managed to hold his own until the last blade went off-target and earned back a little grudging respect from the warrior-woman. She then started asking questions about the Cairn. Morgan and I did our best to warn them of the series of “hidden doors” lying around what we knew well to be an empty and long-abandoned mine-shaft, then we all left the bar, a little the worse for wear, and hugely entertained by our story to the adventurer in the bar.

It was about then that Torvig made the suggestion that would change everything.

“Why don’t we do it? We know where we’re going, it’s just out of town”.
“Do what?” Morgan was still finishing his beer and wasn’t completely paying attention.
“Raid the Whispering Cairn. We’ve even been there a few years ago. To the door, anyway”.
“Yeah,” agreed Flynn. “And any loot that those guys would be looking for should stay with Diamond Lake folk. Like us”.

It didn’t take long for 5 young men after a few cups to become the greatest adventuring party that ever lived – at least in our own minds.

We separated for a while, returning to meet once we’d gathered as much kit as possible. I managed to belt on a sword and grab the small bow I used when I was younger; but I was thoroughly outclassed by Torvig’s heavy armour, Flynn’s masses of kit, and Niccoli’s full military kit including scale armour. I’m sure I would’ve got nervous but for the ale still running through my system. It seems like the same could be said for the others, as we ran, grinning, towards the docks and the promise of riches beyond…

The local boatman was quickly paid (and offered the last of our beer) to row us across the lake, so keen were we to get started, and it was very soon that we stood listening to the strange whistling of the breeze blowing out of the dark cave-mouth.

Inside, the whistling condensed to the same spooky whispering noise which we remembered from visiting the cave as children, trying to dare one another to enter beyond the merest lip of the cavern. This time, as grown men, fuelled by the weapons at our belts and the alcohol warming our bellies, we were ready to step further inside.

In a few short paces, we were past the first chamber, names scratched on the walls by generations long forgotten fell behind us. Almost immediately we entered a corridor which was almost entirely untouched, marked as unusual only by the black glass of a broken mirror to our left. We stopped to scrutinise this, listen to the almost voice-like qualities of the wind as it rushed past us, and to sniff the air and recognise the smell of damp fur.

The mirror was marked with a glyph which I recognised from the epic tale “Icosiel’s Urn”, which in turn gave made me realise that the other marks around the edge of the mirror were other Wind Dukes; the original makers of the legendary “Rod of 7 Parts”. Meanwhile, Morgan paused to listen to the wind, swearing blind that is was singing to him in Auran, although the only words he could make out were “hopeless… sacrilege… enemies…” – hardly an auspicious start to our dungeon delving!

Further down the tunnel, we realised that it was not as dark as could be expected – there was an eery green twinkling of light, which we began to edge towards again, moving into a large well-painted chamber. We all clustered around a raised dais, inspecting the first throne we had ever seen before, before we heard the clicking of talons on stone, and turned to see three large, damp, shaggy wolves coming out from behind a pile of rubble, snarling at us.

The fight was short and bloody. Arrows flew, hammer and bastard sword flashed, and dark miasmatic energies lanced at the enemies. The weaker 2 wolves were swiftly brought low, whilst the third (under the baleful influence of Morgan’s spell of terror) ran and cowered in one corner. The group clustered around it, and the snarling, snapping beast was slain.

Searching the now bloodstained wolf-lair revealed a few coins and a strange item – an indigo gem-like lantern. We moved on down the steps towards the green glow, chill seeping into our bones as the alcohol slowly wore off. Wolves had tried to kill us; this was serious, and we were real adventurers now!

Down the stairs, we found ourselves in a large room with 7 short passages leading to dark lanterns hanging from chains, each a different colour. The indigo and red lanterns both missing, whilst a flame in the green lantern lit the entire room in a ghastly green flickering light. In the centre of the chamber was a large stone sarcophagus, balanced to allow it to turn. The statue (of the air Duke Zosiel) on the top of the sarcophagus (missing a finger) pointed towards the orange lantern.

Gleefully, we realised that the torch in the green lantern was covered in dust, and wasn’t actually burned down. Somehow, someone had abandoned a fantastic magical torch down here!

After a short discussion, fuel oil and torches were used to light the other coloured lanterns. Nothing whatsoever happened. We clambered all around the chamber, trying to find what we may have missed (apart from the still-absent red lantern), and Flynn noticed a small tunnel high up on one of the walls.

Owing to armour and lack of natural climbing talent, we spent a long time knotting ropes before scaling the 40 feet up into a tiny cramped tunnel. Flynn scaled up smartly, and the others of us struggled our way up. No sooner had we arrived, and registered the short tunnel ending in a large face-shaped wall, than Flynn had rushed towards it – an ominous ‘click’ coming from the floor when he was halfway up. The stone face twisted, pursed its lips, and began to blow…

We fled – most of us for the rope, Flynn ran past the face and hugged the wall away from the breath, which grew in force as we were flung out of the narrow tunnel, grabbing for the rope and scrambling down. Niccoli, then Torvig, then I in turn all grabbed at the rope and clung just below the lip. We hung there as the wind overhead grew to gale-force before, like a cork from a bottle, Morgan the dark wizard came flying, screaming, out over our heads and began to hurtle downwards.

Staring, aghast, the three of us on the rope grabbed at him, hands gripping at the flying cloak or hood. I gripped at his outstretched hands, and his fingers slipped through mine. Below me, Torvig grabbed out at the tumbling wizard, grabbing him by the heel of one boot. The boot fell off, and plunged 40 feet to the floor.

Finally, Niccoli managed to grab Morgan by the belt and swing him to the rope, which Morgan was able to grab onto before it was all too late. Breathing heavily, we gingerly climbed down to the floor, and watched the tunnel mouth for Flynn.

Over the course of several minutes, Flynn’s cloak and other items hurtled out, testament to Flynn’s efforts to ‘cork’ the blast of wind, before the wind faded and Flynn walked out – setting off the same trap. He ran, growing wind at his back, leapt out of the tunnel and grabbed at the lantern chain, snatched it, and scrambled down nimbly.

We returned to the sarcophagus and decided to have a sit down. It was then, leaning against the heavy stone box, that we noticed it rocking… It was designed to move on its base!

We leant swiftly to the task, and the huge stone box was moved around to point at the yellow lantern. A grinding noise filled the room, and a stone pillar rose out from below the yellow light. More grinding as a door opened in the pillar, revealing a space large enough for a single man. We looked at it, and one another, for a while, before Niccoli stepped into the pillar. The door snapped shut, and the whole thing, Niccoli and all, vanished into the floor.

“What do we do?” Panic set in immediately. “Turn the sarcophagus?”
“No! We could lock him wherever he is!”
“But it might be the only way to get him out!”
“We wait,” declared Torvig. “If he can’t get back in 5 minutes, we turn the sarcophagus and try to get him out.”

5 minutes passed, and then another 5. Still no Niccoli, or stone pillar. Reluctantly, we turned the sarcophagus again, this time to the green light. Another grinding noise, which became a grating, shaking noise followed by an ominous “CRUNCH”, and then silence.

The blue lantern came next – and another stone pillar slid open. This one stank, and was coated with a thin layer of crushed flesh. We looked at one another, and said nothing, thinking of Niccoli. Nobody stepped into the pillar, and we went back to the sarcophagus.

Just as we were pushing the sarcophagus on to Indigo, the pillar under the yellow light rose again, and out stepped Niccoli, completely unscathed.

Before he could answer any of our questions, the floor under the green lantern gave out another grinding noise, and bulged, before splitting open. Before our terrified eyes, a swarm of tiny beetles surged out trailing a burning acrid acid, followed by a strange multi-limbed monstrosity. Bows sang, flames and oil arced through the air, hammer and sword swang. I began an encouraging chant of victory, whilst Morgan’s chant sent a terrifying eldritch ray of heinous-looking, rank-smelling evil straight into the largest monster, sapping its strength before it could bring down Torvig – the stout dwarf was brought to his knees by a vicious series of attacks from the 4 armed creature. Life spilling from his many wounds, he prayed briefly before stumbling backwards as Morgan’s crossbow twanged once again, spelling an end to the combat.

Exhausted, we fled to the small ruined building a short distance to rest.

The next morning, cold and slightly hung over, we returned to the Whispering Cairn. It looked gloomier and far less inviting than it had the previous night, and there was a bit of an argument over whether we should go back in. Treasure won out, and we decided to go through the hole under the green lantern and see where the bugs had come from.

There was indeed another network of caves and rooms below. In one room lay a corpse atop a stone bier in a room whose central feature was a statue which gave out waves of a strange, sapping energy. Morgan muttered something about gaining ‘spirit sight’, and it then surprised none of us when he announced that the statue was magical.

Having fought off a giant bug, Flynn insisted on stripping the dessicated corpse of its red leather armour. The armour itself was salvageable, and was marked with the crest of the ‘Seekers’, a group of tomb robbers who operated out of Greyhawk about 50 years ago.

The next room contained a gunge-covered fountain. And bugs. Lots and lots of creeping, crawling, acid-secreting bugs. Thousands of the little swines rushed us, whilst a single massive bug lumbered towards us vomiting forth fire. We pulled back, laying down a hail of stones, arrows and fiery oil-flasks before it was safe to approach and let Torvig finish off the swarm.

The last room at the end of the corridor was down a set of steps. And was totally immersed in water. This caused us a considerable problem, which Flynn circumnavigated by tying a rope around his waist and diving into the pitch-black water. Whilst most of us stood there aghast at his impulsiveness, Morgan was quick to follow him. He dropped his pack and dived into the water at the foot of the steps.

Whilst we spooled out the rope to allow Flynn safe transit through the water, we were treated to the sight of a splashing, spluttering Morgan trying to make any headway at all through the water. It quickly became apparent that he simply didn’t know how to swim – by the time Flynn had gone 30 feet, Morgan was still figuring out basic doggy-paddle.

Then the rope jerked once, twice, and went still. We hauled in fast, 3 of us running back up the corridor towing the rope and dragging a soaked and heavily bloodstained Flynn out of the water. Initial fears that his skull had been crushed were false, as Torvig cast his almost his entire day’s allotment of spells on the elf, restoring him to an almost fully-healthy state.

Once healed, Flynn made every sign of jumping back in immediately, a plan which Torvig and I thought was foolhardy to say the least, but we clearly lost the argument when he dived back into the water, swam 25 feet before pulling frantically on the rope to get back out again. We towed him out (still conscious this time), and then had a brief argument as to how foolish it would be to go back into the water a third time.

“But we can beat it,” stated Flynn confidently. “It’s not a very big thing.”
“Not a very big WHAT?” Torvig and I demanded in duet. “What does it look like, apart from being able to stave your skull in?”
“I don’t know – I couldn’t really see anything in there. It just looked like the water was trying to hit me.”
“An elemental?” Morgan spoke briefly. “Fascinating. I’ve never seen one in its natural state. Mind you, mother and I tend to study rather more… mortal concerns.”
“Wait – a water elemental, which can breath underwater and swim properly? Forget it.” – I was liking this plan less and less.
“Yeah, but there’s bound to be something pretty tasty down there.” Flynn must have seen something during his conscious periods. “Maybe if we just held our breath and all went in…”
“Not safe. I’m wearing full armour, and so’s Niccoli. Neither of us can swim, and who’d pull us back out if something went wrong?”
“Who’s talking about swimming? I reckon if we all just go in and walk along the bottom…”

It took a while to experiment, but the plan seemed to work, somehow. Carrying heavy armour or with pockets filled with stones, the others went back into the water and slugged their way along the bottom of the water-filled room. I stayed at the top to light a fire and hold the four ropes which they were trailing. I gave them a brief encouraging speech, and then they slipped into the water, taking the ever-lasting torch with them. From my end, the ropes payed out for a little while, then there was some twitching, then the four returned unscathed.

Dozens of other trips were necessary to properly scout out the water-filled room, apparently Torvig dispatching some form of undead with only the assistance of his God’s might and Niccoli’s sword-arm whilst they were down there. On the last trip, Flynn resurfaced clutching his prize – the red lantern.

We returned to the room above, and lit the red lantern. Once in place, there was a whooshing noise from above the indigo lantern, where the wind-blowing head had nearly killed several of us the previous day. Emboldened by our successes, we climbed back up, and looked around, to see that the face at the end of the corridor had disappeared. The corridor now led into a strange room.

The room itself was part-filled with a massive number of iron balls, each about the size of an apple. Above them was a 3 foot wide walkway, from where we stood to a door on the other side. The walls on either side were covered in a strange honeycomb pattern. Flynn was the first to leap into action and dash across the walkway for the temptation of the door opposite.

He was no more than halfway across when a rumbling noise came from the wall to our right, and a hail of metal globes hurtled out of the hexagonal shapes, hurtling past him and slamming into the opposite wall before falling to join their fellows beneath us. Flynn stopped moving and looked around, muttering something about ‘trigger plates’ and ‘ratchet-switches’, before fishing out a small set of tools and using them to… well, to set the trap off a second time.

This time, the hail of metal balls slammed straight into him, breaking several ribs and re-opening the head wound from the water room. The last of Torvig’s spells were poured into him to set him properly back onto his feet, before he and Niccoli (shielding both of them with the large steel shield he carries) returned to the walkway.

His misadventures from earlier had clearly taught him something, as he was able to disarm the trap swiftly and efficiently. His triumphant announcement was drowned out by a giggling noise, before a spectral voice announced to the room,

“I thought you’d be goners there.”
“Who’s there?” Flynn’s hand shot to his weapons as he looked around him trying to spot the source of the voice.
To all of our horror, a ghostly and translucent young boy materialised, hanging in the air. His head lolled to one side, neck clearly snapped – he looked like he was hanging from an invisible rope.

Morgan and I recognised the boy from his description at the same time – Alastor Land, lost some 60 years ago whilst entering the Whispering Cairn on a dare like so many other children before us. Bravely, Morgan spoke to the spirit,

“Alastor?”
“You… You know my name?”
“Of course. You went missing years ago. What happened?”
“It’s my punishment. The trap kills people. Adventurers mostly. I fell here.”
“Lad,” Torvig spoke up. “Would you wish us to give your remains a proper burial?”

Alastor gazed at us in longing at this suggestion. “Yes! Please bury my remains. You see this door? I can go through it.” He demonstrated, passing his whole arm through the solid door surface in a way which made my spine crawl. “I’ll open the door if you bury my bones with my family.”

As Alastor directed us to the place under the metal globes where his body lay, he had one more helpful word for us. “There’s a creature there. Longer than you are tall. It’s greeny yellow, and has tentacles for a face. Oh, and it kills adventurers and drags the bodies to its lair to eat them.”

Niccoli and Flynn, who’d jumped down and started digging, suddenly went pale. Their colour didn’t improve when the huge green slug-like body of a grick pushed its way clear of the metal globes and attacked. And none of us were smiling when our blows simply bounced off it, it lashed Niccoli brutally with its tentacles, nearly bringing him to his knees, and finally Morgan chanted and pointed at the monster, sending a torrent of smoky spirits hurtling at the monster. Once clustered around it, they latched onto cuts and abrasions and tried to worsen its wounds by pulling them open.

His second spell was just as disconcerting, the same dark eldritch ray which seemed to pull something out of the monster-slug; still, practically all our blows seemed to simply bounce off the thing, leaving only the tiniest few scratches in its thick slimy skin.

Starting a chant of encouragement, I leapt down to join the others, standing behind Niccoli and infusing him with a spell of health, mimicking actions I had seen Torvig doing when healing the others. I then drew my sword reluctantly and stepped forward.

Spear, sword and rapiers flew, and finally… finally, only when Morgan unlimbered and fired his crossbow, the slimy beast fell. The tiny bones were recovered (along with a few handfuls of gold we found whilst digging), and we clambered back onto the walkway. Carrying the body, we left the complex and headed for Town, bickering amongst ourselves as to whether Morgan was a necromancer, or merely (as he maintained) an extremely spooky and sinister mage.

After actually managing to lift a few ales with our tired arms, we rested for the night, and headed to Alastor’s family farm, where he had told us the bodies were buried. To our absolute horror, we found the gravestones, only to see that they had been dug up recently. All 4 of the bodies were missing. Wheelbarrow marks could be seen petering out in the packed dirt, whilst footprints led both to and from the dilapidated farmhouse.

We moved over there, noticing that the entrance was littered with fleshy chunks, and heard the growling of a large beast inside. Careful glances through the broken windows showed a massive sleeping bear-owl, scarred from a recent battle. Thinking that the body of its latest kill might have some form of clue on it, we made preparations to combat it, taking positions to fire every weapon we had available at the beast when it awoke.

Flynn crept into place, raised his sword aloft, and simply killed it in a single blow, stabbing through the eye and into the brain of the creature. We all breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

We then turned to the grizzly duty of searching through the farmhouse for a clue. It came in the unpleasant form of a piece of arm-flesh with a tattoo on it; a gang tattoo of some of Smenck’s most loyal mine-workers.

We buried Alastor’s small body in his mother’s empty grave. Torvig carried out the service, I gave a short eulogy, and Flynn performed what he called the “elven death prance”. We then returned to town carrying the massive owl-bear’s body – Morgan insisted on this “as a gift for my mum”. Carrying the huge body through the town, I couldn’t resist telling the tale of our ‘heroic fight’ with the monster to the people we passed. I’m confident that they were impressed.

.oOo.

We had decided that we should re-unite the family before returning to Alastor – more through some feeling that he might know if we hadn’t buried him as he wished, than any real sense of obligation. We therefore headed into the Feral Dog bar, where the others immediately started a noisy game of knife throwing whilst I headed to the bar; I had noticed a clutch of Smenck’s cronies.

A few drinks and a willing ear was all it needed for them to open up. They were clearly uncomfortable with their recent orders, including grave-robbing and making deliveries to a necromancer on the edge of their own home town. This ‘Filge’ already had at least two skeletons with him up at the town Observatory.

I managed to get these thuggish men well and truly on board, and I left the bar seriously concerned about Smenck’s plan to possibly create undead miners, and his encouragement of the evil arts in our town.

-----

These summaries cover the first three sessions of our campaign, seeing us discover our first quest and subquest, and reaching level two. Our to do list consists of:

- Go through the door Alastor’s sitting in front of waiting for us.
- Defeat the necromancer and recover Alastor’s family
- Go back through the yellow ‘lift’ and see what there is there – if there’s time before the professional adventurers catch up with us.

Top story hour. I'm looking forward to the next installments.

Well done. I'm excited to be in on the ground floor of your story hour, and look forward to hearing about your full twenty levels of adventures!

Well I'm hooked. Well done. I also look forward to more.