Adventures in Eberron> Chapter 32 posted 08-08-05>

[skullsmurfer]

thanx ragboy, I'm 31 and I just finished my first semester of college. My writing teacher recomended I get some practice. Business writing is a little dry for me so I decided that fantasy is my thing. I wrote chapters 1 through 12 already and I am posting them as I correct and revise them. According to the last three books I've read I need to kill somebody important soon, got any suggestions?

 

[Spider_Jerusalem]

Hi skullsmurfer,

I'm currently reading through the posts of this so far (about mid way - just met big rat & orc in the sewers) and I really like this.

I was a little thrown by the shifting conversation at the beginning(spider means he was confused, but remains complimentary), but as I got used to it it worked well. Fantastic bunch of characters also. The bard-harp is one of those why-didn't-i-think-of-that creations. Oh, and the city details and dialogue are really well handled.

I have never played Eberron (and know jack all about it), but this has made me interested.

Looking forward to reading the rest of this...

Spider J

 

[skullsmurfer]

Casing the Scribe's Guild and other Problems, Chapter 8

►Casing the Scribe's Guild, Chapter 8

The Scribe's Guild Library is a nondescript building on an anonymous Sharn street. House Sivis and the Scribe's Guild may or may not be one and the same. It depends who one asks and where one looks. Only a long and exhaustive paper search will reveal the truth, however, Sivis never seems to grant permission. The Guild is so very boring than few would make the link. A Guild stamp never calls as much attention as a House of Sivis sigil.

Moro Taller hurried to make the first bell. Since his wife was taken he's had to depend on a private nurse. Even with her help, he has trouble getting his kids ready for school. He is trying very hard to keep up appearances, but the strain is starting to show. He can't live without his wife. He must get her back before the House acts. The gnome adjusted his cap and hurried up the stairs. Tardiness will draw attention to him, he can't have that.

“Moro Taller, Librarian, 2nd class, 1st shift.” He announced as he crossed over the threshold. He's never seen whatever guards the doors. The waves of heat and the dark, oily stain in front of the doors attests to it's never ending vigilance.

Siff watched the gnome enter the building. He did not think it would be so hard. The security is ridiculous. He thought he had run into a local gang until he saw they were watching the street not the people. He made his rounds hawking his wares and counting the watchers. The real hawker is still sleeping at his dingy room three levels down. The pretty girl he brought home last night slipped him a potion. He won't complain on either count. There are three pieces of gold, and a jeweled pearl earing under his rose scented pillow. In the absence of a clear memory he will imagine whatever is most convenient.

Ivor and Patter are waiting in the sewers below. Siff has no way of warning them, not for at least a half-hour. He can't give his act away by doing something the hawker wouldn't normally do. Siff pulled off his dingy leather cap and wiped his sweating forehead within a greasy handkerchief. He replaced the cap and smiled stupidly. He grunted as he lifted and pushed the cart in front of him. There are 15 bags of charcoal that he has to sell. He moved on to the next house and did his best to play a low-born idiot. The customers expect it.

Patter made a warding gesture as he stepped over the bony remains of a human. It is surprising that the sewers aren't choked with bones. Ivor watched his partner and shook his head. This is the third passage they try. It seems that all of the underground approaches to the Scribe's Guild Library are warded. He can barely understand the squiggly lines of magical script cut into the walls, but the danger is obvious. They are both experienced in dealing with traps magical or otherwise. This however is beyond their expertise. There are two more places they can try. Siff is on the surface scouting the front and only entrance. They hope he has better luck.

Elsewhere in the Sewers...........

Paragon 152 to 3 hollered down the sewer tunnel. The war-forged is angry. A great stony tentacle is holding his body aloft, resisting all the warrior's efforts to escape. Theodyl slid beneath the tentacle and touched it with a large colorless gem. The tentacle promptly dropped its captive and shrank back into the featureless tunnel. Theodyl looked to see if his companion was injured. Paragon made a growling sound and punched the wall. The half-elf decided to move on.

“Did you know that would happen!?” Demanded the war-forged.

“My master's map indicated a trap and how to deactivate it, but he didn't explain what exactly it was. He liked to keep me on my toes. I did tell you he liked to play games.” Theodyl answered while looking for another trap. “It occurs to me that he counted on testing me even after his death.”

“Are ye sure he liked you at all, Lad?” The beer stein asked sarcastically.

Theodyl ignored the dwarven spirit. Deciphering his master's maps had been easier than finding the place. Stargazer purposedly garbled his directions. Paragon is losing patience. The traps, hidden doors, illusions, and riddles are driving him to violence. He felt the tug of magic. Good news at last. The iron bound door in front of him was entirely too clean, it looked almost new. He lifted his bow harp and strummed the strings in a complicated sequence. His eyes filled with color as the magical aura surrounding the entryway was revealed. He continued to play the harp adding his voice to the magical spell and slowly coaxing information from the portal.

“What are you doing? This is no time to sing.” Paragon spoke as he approached.

The half-elf put his body between Paragon and the iron-bound door. He won't waste the spell by letting his companion interrupt. It seems that the door isn't just trapped and sealed. According to the shining sigils revealed by his song, it isn't a door at all. His master must have been paranoid indeed. Theodyl reached out with his hand and tapped a series of letters spelling out is master's True name. The door detached from the wall and traveled down to the mouth of the tunnel from which they entered. He heard a hard clicking sound as it came to rest. The spot where the door had been, turned out to be an unpleasant, tightly compacted, bone filled niche. The map indicates there should be a long corridor behind the door. It is quite a graveyard now.

“Come on Sergeant, our door awaits.” Theodyl beckoned the war-forged.

“Harrumph! I don't like any of this!” Paragon complained. “Did you see? Our footsteps are gone! The dust just swallowed them up.”

The door awaited them at the mouth of the tunnel. They have to use it, they can't leave otherwise. Paragon cursed every step he took back the way he came. It opened at Theodyl's touch to reveal a polished marvel hallway. The two strode in ready for anything. The door shut and locked itself. Theodyl expected this. He had to stand in front of Paragon's mace to convince him, though. The door to his master's tower often did the same. He sat on the cool floor and re-examined the map his master had given him. The various places on the map were not individual hide-outs, they were doors leading to the same place. The coded numbers on the map are dates and astrological calculations. Each door functions only at certain times of the month or year. He picked the right door in, yet he doesn't know how to get out. He can't tell whether or not he is in Sharn anymore. The magic is beyond anything he has ever read about. Theodyl cursed, and threw the map down. He looked around, counted the doors and noted that most of them had ornate wax seals on them. His master used seals like that to keep him out of dangerous places in his tower. It seems that he expected him to find this hallway.

“Paragon, I will need you to keep alert. I am supposed to be here but I don't know why.” He said. “The other doors are sealed, please don't touch.”

Theodyl retrieved the map and suddenly noticed that instead of depicting Sharn and his master's hide-outs it now seemed to show the plans to a large mansion. Theodyl cursed again. He recognized many of its features. It is an amalgamation of all the different places his master had lived in. They never moved at all and his master magicked his senses to think he did. He found his bearings, identified his entry at the Hall of Ways, and quickly found a route to a room labeled Master's Study. His master proved trickier than he had ever suspected.

“Seneschal!” Theodyl shouted he set out with a very paranoid Paragon in tow. “Seneschal, where are you?”

<What do you want?> A voice demanded seemingly out of thin air. Paragon 152 to 3 started to poke his cutlass about, looking for invisible lurkers. The beer stein announced that there is no one about. Paragon ignored the cup.

“I want to know if Master Stargazer left me a message!”

<No need to be cross, there's a note in the study for you.>

“Fine, get me some biscuits and tea. My companions will require beer and Cannith Oil.”

“Beer!” the beer stein cheered.

“Harrumph!” Paragon said as he followed Theodyl.

<Very well, young Master.>

They traveled in silence. Theodyl could feel Paragon's eyes boring angrily into his back. He is very annoyed. The halls sprang to life as they walked. Torches lit and cool clean air stirred and refreshed the environment. There is art and treasure expertly and tastefully decorating every inch of space they can see. Stargazer's Hoard, the old man had taste, he never stopped at a few tonnes of gold. Theodyl wants explore. Maybe he will later. For now, he has to read his master's note. Then, he needs to find out what the hell is bothering Paragon. The war-forged can't expect an explanation every two steps they take. It would be silly.

<Welcome, sirs, I must apologize. I really was not expecting you so soon.>

The short gleaming figure bowed and led them into the finely appointed study. It is an autognome constructed of mithril and gold. Theodyl looked at it's familiar features and wondered if the thing had even missed him. His master had constructed the thing to serve him and take care of his various lodgings. For a short time the autognome was his ever watchful task master. Theodyl frowned, he never pictured returning home under these circumstances. Home isn't home at all.

The desk lay directly across from a massive fireplace. There is a scroll atop three very large books. Theodyl asked for the fireplace to be lit and took a seat. The scroll unrolled itself at his touch. He recognized his masters neat cursive script. He sighed and started to read. Forgotten, Paragon struck up a conversation with the autognome. The beer stein joined in. Theodyl didn't even hear them.

An hour later, Theodyl cut their animated conversation off. His face is caught somewhere between a frown and a bitter scowl. He thanked the Seneschal and asked Paragon to shoulder the heavy books. They made their way to the Hall of Ways and waited while the autognome found a safe exit. Paragon was in Wait and See mode. Theodyl could feel the war-forged looking at him again. He can't explain anything just yet. The gnome at the Scribe's Guild is due to disappear in just under 2 hours.

“This place isn't for us, Paragon.” Theodyl told his friend.

“I could have told you that! You just don't listen. I tell you.....”

“Paragon, we must see to your Lads,” Theodyl interrupted as he stepped onto an obscure section of the sewers, “we will talk on the way. There's a couple of things you should know.”

“Harrumph, its about time.”

“Whatever, just givme some more beer.” The beer stein piped in.

The two had a very long conversation. The beer stein served as a sort of referee. By the time they reached their meeting place, Paragon had a good idea of what was going on. Theodyl felt his head spinning from what Paragon had to say. Either way, they are a team again. He doesn't look forward to hanging from his companion's fist again.

Siff, Ivar, and Patter waited nervously at the rusty, abandoned pump house. It is as close as they want to get to the trapped tunnels leading to the Scribe's Guild. They found a way in. It is just too unpleasant.

“Well, boys, what's new?” Theodyl asked as he made his entry and struck a dashing pose.

The changelings drew their weapons and spread out. The bard pouted, he was expecting awe, not blades. The changelings don't care. Theodyl and Paragon are not usually this quiet, they are very paranoid. The war-forged spoke the password. The changelings relaxed, but only for a bit. They barricaded the doors like experts. Theodyl set a minor ward and the group sat down to talk. When they drew back their hoods, the changelings all wore Theodyl's face. Paragon started to laugh. Theodyl made a face and quickly avenged his pride with a fake mustache and a set of wax teeth. While they spoke the changelings each tried their hand at making Theodyl's borrowed face look as stupid and ill-bred as possible.

 

[skullsmurfer]

►To Gnome or not to Gnome, Chapter 9

►To Gnome or not to Gnome, Chapter 9

Foe Crusher heard a muted splashing sound. It has been stationed here since the Scribe's Guild purchased his contract from House Cannith at the beginning of the war. It all that time it has methodically categorized its work environment. The thick water sound came from the pool of sewage that flows from above. He detected no other sound, but it is likely that there is an intrusion. It killed a chuul last week, maybe it will be something smarter. Smart things fight much better than over sized vermin. The massive war-forged juggernaut turned, loudly cocking the mechanisms built into its arms.

Theodyl and the changelings watched the over sized guardian turn to face Paragon 152 to 3. They are trapped in the bottle hanging from his waist. Theodyl realized the maniac isn't going to let them out. If Paragon wants a big fight, he's found it.

“Unit identify yer self!” Paragon snapped in perfect military fashion.

“J-442-Breland-267412, Foe Crusher.” The war-forged juggernaut responded after a short pause. The sound of it's fist striking it's chest echoed mightily though the chamber.

“State yer Orders!”

“Sir, this unit is to guard this entry. Units bearing the command Sigil may pass..” the juggernaut stated, then paused again, “Please present your Sigil. You have only moments to comply.”

“At ease soldier!” Paragon 152 to 3 commanded. “This is Unit P-001-Command-Cyre-Prime.” The iron band around his head started to glow. Foe Crusher took a step backwards and waited for further orders like a proper soldier. “I have news for you. Foe Crusher, the war is over and there is a treaty that gives every war-forged the right to be free. Acknowledge!”

“Sir, I understand, what are my new orders, Sir?” Foe Crusher asked, his mind is already sluggish to begin with, the news are overwhelming.

“Go to House Cannith, Sharn Depot 10346 for decommission. You can also collect your pay and file a complaint over this breach of contract. I order you to forget my description and my unit number. You are dismissed!” The iron band flashed brightly as if to emphasize Paragon's commands. If questioned, Foe Crusher will not be able to tell anyone anything of use.

Foe Crusher turned and pulled his fist back again. A snap-hiss and a loud click sounded from the spring and piston installed within its arm. He took a running start and charged the entrance he's been protecting for so long. His fist drove into the doors, the mechanism tripped and an explosive discharge added power to the impact. The heavy armored portals buckled inward. The juggernaut's other fist came around. The impact shattered the doors sending flying debris in all directions. After that the Guild Library experienced a disaster. In its zeal to obey its orders, Foe Crusher took the quickest, most destructive route to the surface. The chaos provided the perfect cover. Paragon 152 to 3 pulled the cork on the magical bottle, letting his friends out.

“Now you let us out! What the hell did you say to that monster?”

Paragon looked at Theodyl and started laughing. “I can talk to a soldier better than you can sing.” He said. Theodyl sensed the truth of his words and scowled at his own tricks being used against him. The war-forged lied by telling a truth, he's learning.

The changelings pulled up their hoods and readied themselves for a fight. Theodyl is frustrated, the war-forged is no slouch, but Theodyl considers himself the resident word twister in this gang. Pouting, the half-elf acknowledged the war-forged's point and promised to even the score later. Paragon, dripping with raw sewage, harrumphed and jogged into the Guild Library. The changelings followed close behind. Missing a sense of smell is a blessing at this point.

Everyone knows where to go. Theodyl found up-to-date building plans at the Sharn City Records Office. It is a sure sign of how a well-organized organization can cut it's own throat. Theodyl thought he could hear Paragon singing amidst the panic caused by the juggernaut. He decided to find the gnome and bring the operation to a close before the war-forged exercised more of his improvisational skills. He was smiling again, the war-forged is a maniac.

“You there, where is the copy room?” Theodyl asked a gnome cringing under his desk. The gnome looked up and opened his mouth protest. When he made eye contact with Theodyl, however, he just answered the question promptly forgot it ever happened. Theodyl finished his spell and cursed. His gnome is 2 floors away.

Paragon led his Lads to the rooms designated for arcane research. The changelings each carried a specially designed sack. Magical items placed in those sacks are rendered safe for transport. They came in very handy during the magical arms race that dominated the war. You can't get traced, dominated, or cursed if the magic can't get to you. Though available only in small numbers, it is no surprise that so many were lost. Paragon will watch the door while the changelings steal everything that they can carry. Magic is almost better than money.

“Remember, scrolls are lighter. Rings and baubles come next. Careful with signet rings and seals they are usually trapped. I will take the heavy stuff, avoid flasks and bottles, they break and we might have to fight our way out. Oh, wands, get every one you can reach, Theodyl likes wands.”

Theodyl struggled to breathe as he ducked behind a door. The wet rag on his face is barely working. An iron golem is patrolling hall leading to the copy rooms. It is breathing poison gas. The half-elf surveyed the room until he saw a tell-tale sign of illusion. The shadows don't match and the colors vary slightly according to the amount of light available.

“Moro Taller, we have 7 minutes to leave here.” Theodyl announced.

The empty space beneath the third desk on the left made a yelping sound. An unseen head bumped the bottom of the desk, followed by a whimper. A gnome crawled out from behind a rapidly fading illusory hide-out. Theodyl raised an eyebrow at his nervous client.

“Grab everything you want to take with you. Oh, and I need a drop of your blood on this here scroll.” Theodyl handed the gnome a scroll and a stylus with a kind of talon attached to the end.

“W-what's this?”

“Ever hear of a Murder Doll?” Theodyl asked. “Hurry up, time is limited.” The gnome gulped.

As the gnome's blood touched the scroll it's purpose became suddenly evident. A cold breeze tore through the room followed by an uncomfortable rise in humidity. The scroll began to swell and grow. Before Moro Taller's eyes, a gnomish body took shape. It grew a set of clothes. Then, it stood up and screamed at it's creator. Moro Taller yelped as he looked at what could only be his double. It growled and sprung up, reaching for the gnome. Theodyl stepped behind it and cut its throat.

“Those things only live for an hour or so. They are animated by a weak animal spirit, very vicious. The Blood of Vol used to sell them to nobles who feared assassination. The uses are obvious.” Theodyl spoke as the terrified gnome rifled through the numerous shelves and stole for the very first time in his life. “We should leave before it reanimates and tries to eat us.”

“The golem won't obey me,” Moro whined and then froze as Theodyl's words sunk in, “I have a solution.” the gnome said quickly. Fear of being eaten, the primal motivator. He climbed up a shelf and dropped down holding up a battered scroll case.

Theodyl and his client squeezed past the iron golem. The scroll disabled it, but only for a moment. The gnome actually felt bad about using the item. There is no time for that, they have to run. Theodyl pulled a tiny lead and gold lined box from his many pockets. He used a wad of sticky goo to attach a shiny stone to the golem. The gnome asked a question, but his voice was drowned out by the sphere of silence projected by the stone. The House Sivis guard will not be able to order their golem to stop. More chaos.

Moro tried to snatch at the stone. Theodyl put a stop to him and reminded the gnome that he was dead. Dead scribes don't care about their jobs anymore. He half dragged the gnome down the hall and down an empty set of stairs reserved for servants and private exits. Theodyl used an invisibility spell to sneak through the first floor and back down to the basement. They met Paragon and his Lads and escaped the same way they came. They all had heavy sacks in tow. The war-forged had an armored cabinet strapped to its back. They shared banter as they traveled.

Apparently the juggernaut released a fire salamander that was bound to the entry arch when it smashed its way out. Paragon told the story like it is a joke. The angry outsider decided to incinerate the Guild Library after one of the changelings tossed a bucket of sand at it. Patter, Siff and Ivor broke into laughter. Every magic user in the building is busy. It will be a long time before anyone does a head count.

Moro Taller scowled at the sheer destruction. He wondered if this was what he wanted when he went to see the Inquisitive. He thought of his wife and his children. A moment later he shrugged his shoulders and hoped for the best. He's dead, it isn't his fault.

 

[ragboy]

Murder Doll? Where the heck did you come up with that? There's at least one thing to steal in every post. I really like the relationship between the three changelings and Theodyl. Very well put together.

And I don't know if you meant to make a pun, but I got a good chuckle out of it:

Forgotten, Paragon struck up a conversation with the autognome. The beer stein joined in. Theodyl didn't even hear them.

An hour later, Theodyl cut their animated conversation off.

I was confused with the location/details of his dead master's home. Was it some extra-dimensional space or a portal to another place? I really liked the trapped/secret door, as well, but that whole sequence got disjointed by the lack of clear description/location.

Keep it up!

 

[skullsmurfer]

The Sharn Anonymous is pleased to introduce our new sponsor. Mooneye 'the Necrognome' Rocco is a Khorvair University Alumni. His Flesh to Provender Spell rocked both the magical and international communities. He became the youngest student ever to gain a degree, face 16 different death sentences and personal visit by a deity. The Nation of Breland drafted now infamous Statutes of Law, Magic, and Morality to prevent just such a thing from ever happening again. In his column, Immortal Whims, he will share his unique outlook on life while answering reader letters about the world of magic. This week Mooneye answers an anonymous letter from a New Cyre Noble.--Editor

Text removed by writer request

​

"Well, young noble, I am very pleased you asked about Murder Dolls. I happen to have invented the process. At the time, I was running from various forms of death. I was still mortal so, in a sense, I was inspired by base primal fear. My disertation on recycling flesh was not well received at the University, my spell, Flesh to Provender did not have the desired effect at the Alumni Fundraiser, either. I graduated, but only because a blood sucker from Karrnath promised to add a new wing to the Magical Research Building."

"I was young and I ended up enslaving a few demons to complete the transformational formulae. The Scroll of Murder Doll proved a godsend whenever I needed to confuse the Inquisitors and other zealots crying for my still mortal blood. There was no shortage of raw materials. Once I started selling it, I made enough gold to finance my first experiments with immortality. I can honestly say that the Scroll of Murder Doll doesn't top the genius of my Flesh to Provender Spell, but it remains dear to my cold stony heart. I would like to send you a copy of my autobiography and Scroll of Murder Doll for your very own. I also would like to wish you the best of luck with that inheritance. You should never let anything stand in the way of your happiness. Don't worry, I know where you live."---

Sincerely,
Mooneye 'the Necrognome' Rocco

P.S. Here's a quick recipe for all of those aspiring Necromancers out there. Send in your recipe, the closest to the original gets a prize, and a personal visit from me. Good Luck!

Scroll of Murder Doll:

Take one mid-level necromancer. Add a freshly murdered corpse, neither touched by the sun, nor blessed by any priest. Paint ingeniusly complex incantation onto corpse with a mixture of grave butter and the blood of a small freshly killed predator. I like cats personallly, though my first success came with a ferret. Under the light of the full moon perform a ritual whereby the true name of the donor body is ritually disassembled. Repeat three times. The resulting parchment scroll requires a drop of blood to create an untraceable duplicate. The creature is a mindless savage, kill it and it makes a fine corpse. Just remember that it only lives for one hour, but regardless of how it dies, it reanimates as the hungry dead. Enjoy.

Editor's Note:

We don't know what Mooneye is talking about, do not, I repeat do not, draw his attention. There is evidence that he eats competitors, so don't tempt fate. Further, we are not giving out prizes, I don't care how many times he resurrects my mother. No prizes, don't ask.

 

[skullsmurfer]

The Underground, Chapter 10

The crowd rose up and cheered. The gladiators in the pit growled and charged at one another. The troll has the advantage, but the hobgoblin is the crowd favorite. The fight is on and after the bets, the blood lust drives the crowd. Moro Taller sank deep into his cloak. He is terrified, but the fight is strangely fascinating. The changelings are guarding his private spectator box and the war-forged named Paragon promised him that his wife will join him soon. The Private Inquisitive he hired is everything he hoped for. His assistant Theodyl has been very helpful. He's always liked bards.

The troll is bashing on the hobgoblin non-stop. Moro Taller moved to the edge of his seat and screamed. The hobgoblin smashed his spiked shield into the troll's face and lopped off a chunk of the monster's ear. The troll ripped the shield from his opponent's arm and sent it flying out onto the audience. The hobgoblin chopped into the troll's thigh and ran to the wall. Moro stood on his chair and whooped. The hobgoblin is no coward, he grabbed a torch with his shield hand. Fire and trolls don't mix. The troll is nearly recovered from his wounds, the hobgoblin is waiting. The fight is getting much better. The gnome is having the time of his life. He is holding on to his betting slips and waving them with every ounce of his scared little being. That hobgoblin better win. The odds would make him rich.

Far below the arena, Theodyl waited patiently within the catacombs. He would rather have Paragon to keep him company, but neither of them deals well with undead. Karrnath left a lot of scars in their minds. Theodyl took a moment to reinforce his will and take a firm hold of his emotions. He can't hear anything, but he can feel magic flowing near by. The necromancer approaches.

“Well, well, well, I see you have returned. How long has it been, ten, twenty years? I can't tell anymore!” The floating skull of Mooneye the Necromancer drifted towards Theodyl. “I heard rumors that you were sitting in a dungeon. In fact, I happen to have seen you in that very dungeon just a few hours ago. Very tricky, I decided to see to you personally. I like tricks.”

“I am pleased to see you are well.” Theodyl spoke as he placed one hand over his heart and bowed. Pigs on wings! There will be no tricks around the lich, not ever. “I have brought you a gift, though, I doubt anything would impress one such as yourself.”

“Let me see...” the lich whispered as the heavy lead lined box cracked open and its contents lifted up towards the floating skull. “My former master's phylactery! Hahahahahaha!”

The phylactery lit up with a menacing red light. Theodyl took a step back and readied a scroll. The necromancer was much faster, though, a painfully twisting spell struck the dangerous relic. The phylactery lost it's glow as the undead spirit within was entrapped once more. Mooneye the Necromancer was more than pleased. It laughed hideously and flitted about while six pairs of disembodied arms escorted Theodyl and carried his bags. The half-elf smiled, Paragon would have gotten them both killed. The underground Bazaar has an elite clientèle and the rules are very strict. A mistake now will be his last.

“So, Theodyl, where did you get it?” The lich asked.

“The Scribe's Guild Library, it caught fire. I was trying to rescue a few valuable items when my associate ran into it. He thought the box was full of gold.” Theodyl answered carefully. The absolute truth is Paragon had wanted to crush it. The knowledge that he would be releasing a lich in a sewer full of anonymous bones, was the only thing that stopped the war-forged.

“House Sivis had my very worst enemy in storage? Very well labeled, no doubt. Ha! I sold him to a very enterprising devil years ago. I am not too surprised. Sooner or later the gnomes get their hands on everything and endeavor to file it properly. I used to be one, you know.” The blazing red pinpricks in Mooneye's sockets winked. “You have earned yourself free passage for life, do not disappoint me.”

The lich laughed, rolling it's skull in the air. A golden coin pierced by a purplish black stone appeared just in front of Theodyl. He caught it deftly and slipped it into his belt. As long as he keeps it in his person, the guardians of the catacomb are not allowed to eat him or molest him in any other fashion. The for life part is a joke and a threat. Mooneye has a lethal sense of humor. Theodyl took it in stride, if he took every threat to his life seriously he would go mad.

The lich led him through a crowded underground market place to a large tent that seemed to ripple under a non-existent wind. When he got close enough, he realized that the tent was stitched together from cured humanoid skins. They are animated, their low moaning made him queasy, but Theodyl showed no weakness. Mooneye watched him closely.

“Find a seat, Theodyl,” the lich said as they entered the gruesome construct. The floating arms all gestured towards a comfortable pile of cushions, “I want to make you into a return customer.”

The skull hovered over to a large throne-like sculpture made of bones and golden wire. A small, headless rune carved skeleton stood up and the lich skull made itself comfortable upon its neck. Theodyl marked the anatomy of a gnomish skeleton. A snaky mass of cloth and jewelery leaped onto the skeleton and arranged itself into a fashionable, if macabre ensemble. Mooneye the Necromancer has a sense of style that even undeath couldn't take away. The transformation from floating skull to well-dressed skeleton made him, somehow, more approachable. Theodyl smiled, he appreciates style.

“Now, tell me what I can do for you.” Mooneye commanded as he sat upon his throne and crossed his legs. The Bazaar is a wonder in itself, but Mooneye offers services beyond the norm.

“I need to speak to my former master, but first I need to know where he died.”

“Oh Really? Why? Sounds expensive, dear boy, very expensive. Do you have a sample or a prized heirloom? Did he like you? There are risks. Dead wizards can be err, rather emotional, you know?”

“He raised me like a son. I want to know who killed him so that I might balance the scales.”

“Vengeance, passion, and mayhem! I knew that letting you live would be a good idea.” Mooneye chortled then grew suddenly serious. “You killed my apprentice in the sewers the other day. He wandered away from his chores, not very wise.”

“Who...?” Theodyl tried to ask. The image of the fat goblin with clawed hands and horns on it's head came to mind. He is guilty.

“Don't worry about that now, have something to eat, then we will talk price.”

A table stalked over to Theodyl's seat. He often likes to shake up a client in order to gain the upper hand in a negotiation. The lich has just fed him his own medicine and Theodyl is going to have to take it. Mooneye is sitting on a throne, it makes sense that he will want to establish the pecking order at the beginning of a transaction. The table is overkill, though. It is piled with body parts and a pitcher of what could only be blood wine. The half-elf caught the scent of raw, but relatively fresh meat. The table's bony legs clicked and clacked together as it settled before him.

The necromancer spoke a magical phrase and the contents of the table rearranged themselves into a veritable feast. Flesh to Provender, the spell that got Mooneye expelled from Morgrave University and drove Sharn City Council to draft the Statutes of Magic and Morality. Theodyl felt his blood turn to ice. A Sharn City Watchman wouldn't eat human flesh, neither would any of the church types. The hold on his emotions is starting to slip, but he concentrated on his goal. The flesh is gone, spent to feed the magic which creates the food. Theodyl held on that idea and strove to believe it as the truth. He reached out, poured a goblet of dark red wine and then filled his plate. Vengeance, passion, and mayhem, indeed! He ate under the watchful eye of the lich.

Fate tested him as he stood and breathed the smoke rising from the whorehouse that had sheltered him and his mother. The streets tested him when he made his home in the rat infested alleys. He was tested again when Stargazer found him and then again when he was sent out into the world. The war almost broke him, but he survived. The war tribunal put a black hood over his head and he came away with his life. Mooneye's test is nothing compared to what he has lived. Theodyl smiled and made proper thanks to his host. He wonders if he would be able to face his long dead mother as he is now. The plate is empty. He took a sip of wine and waited for his host to begin negotiations.

 

[skullsmurfer]

►The Crusaders, Chapter 11

Sister Dalia Niabelis of the Silver Flame marched through the City Council chambers with one hand on the mace at her belt and the other clenching a sheaf of papers. Behind her, six grim faced Inquisitors matched her pace. It cost her to drag them out of the temple grounds. She had to promise the Bishop a victory over evil. Even with a council seat, the Silver Flame is loath to delve into city politics. It is a mistake she aims to correct. With the end of the war and the Purge of Lycanthropes now a mere distraction , the Flame must do something to keep a firm hold in the hearts and minds of the city. When word of these renegade war-forged reached her ears, she knew she had her chance. It meant nothing to pull every available string to take charge of the situation. She lost some friends on the council, but her success will win them back. The Silver Flame will gain much prestige, so will she.

The Inquisitive, Thersyl has been found. He is in a City Watch dungeon just within her grasp. He owes her for his mocking words and she aims to collect. He will lead her to the war-forged and then he will be cleansed. She was just about to make his real name public when the news arrived at her desk. It is just as well, she doesn't have to lie about her sources now. Sister Niablelis immediately set the wheels of justice rolling. The ink on the warrant is barely dry.

Paragon 152 to 3 strode into Captain Rolland Sevin's office and stood at attention until his presence was acknowledged. He wore House Cannith regalia and his tabard marked him as a house retainer. Captain Sevin read the perfumed letter first. Lady Eunice Nigma's heady rose perfume made him blush. He smiled at the war-forged and requested the other items he carried. Paragon harrumphed and handed over a diplomatic packet, a tastefully wrapped gift and a heavy purse.

Lady Nigma gifted the Captain with a silver flecked Stone of Sharpness, an item priced by soldiers and collectors for its ability to not only magically hone a weapon's edge
but to shine and preserve the steel as well. Captain Sevin ignored the purse, looking to his precious sword collection meticulously arrayed upon the walls. His Lady friend truly knows his heart. The Captain signed a release for the prisoner named Thersyl and agreed to hold the packet for an Inquisitor named Niabelis. As far as he is concerned, he has earned a powerful new patron. His independent style has long been a hindrance to promotion. With this new advantage he can allow himself to think about a district or even a council seat. As for the Inquisitor, he's been dealing with one kind of stiff or another his entire career. A religious stiff will not make too much of a difference.

“Thank you, Sir. House Cannith will remember your kind service.” The war-forged said as it bowed. Captain Sevin puffed out his chest proudly as he heard these words.

The Private Coach had already turned the corner when Sister Niabelis arrived. The door guards were expecting her. She was disarmed and escorted to Captain Rolland Sevin's office. He handed her the House Cannith packet and threw her warrant into his fireplace. Despite her protests, the guards forced her to sit an read through the packet while Captain Sevin coddled and polished one sword after another.

“This is ridiculous!” complained the Sister. “How did you get this?”

The packet is an interrogation report citing Theodyl's consultations with first, the gnome and then, the Sister. Everything pertinent that Thersyl experienced during his investigation in the sewers is listed as well. She smiled grimly, it must have hurt to get all of this out of the half-elf. There is a map and a description of the pumping rooms the war-forged and suspected goblins have occupied. The number of stray beast sightings and description of their normal habitats also suggest that the war-forged are responsible for the recent attacks. There is a reference to the disaster at the Scribe's Guild. The gnome's death was supposed to be a secret. House Cannith must have a spy within House Sivis. She is explicitly warned against embarrassing the House. The paper, script, language, and seals are all genuine. So is the threat. House Cannith has out maneuvered her. They stand to gain credit with the City Council, but she may benefit as well. The packet states that she can have Thersyl when she recovers the Cyre manuscript. It is a good start.

“I don't know what you are talking about.” the Capt said in answer to her previous question. Her Brooch of Truth-telling went into conniptions. “There are 20 watchmen awaiting your arrival at the sewer gate number 57. I am honored to serve House Cannith and the Silver Flame in this most important endeavor.” The bit about the Silver Flame is also a lie. “I will be waiting with my reserves to catch any strays you send my way. Do you require an escort?”

“With your men and my Inquisitors, these renegade war-forged will not stand a chance. House Cannith will be very happy that this matter will be handled discretely. The elimination of rampaging sewer beasts will bring credit to your office as well. I am sorry if I seemed rude, this matter has weighed on me of late. I would very much appreciate an escort.” Sister Niabelis did not have the strength to smile. No one should lie to an Inquisitor without due punishment. She scowled instead. It would have been worse if her fellow Inquisitors had witnessed this. The official escort will assuage her pride, only big people get escorts.

“Think nothing of it good Sister.” The Captain said. “I am just here to help.” The officer smiled weakly. The sister felt her Brooch register yet another lie.

Captain Sevin picked out the more sensitive parts of the packet and threw them into the fireplace. Lady Nigma's instructions were very thorough, she must hold an important office within the House. It seems also that Lady Nigma bears a healthy dislike for the Inquisitor. The Sister Inquisitor collected her map and ignored the man's salute as she left. The Captain called her a stiff and went back to polishing a very large and heavy falchion he called Lucy. It was his grand-sire's weapon. The scent of roses carried up from the open drawer next to him. He thought of love, money, and grand hall to fill with gleaming blades. Lucy will come in very handy in the sewers.

Paragon 152 to 3 escorted Pook to the underground arena. The changeling is dressed as foreign merchant and the war-forged is serving as a hired sword. They will look like every other blood thirsty, but slightly paranoid, spectator. Theodyl should be there by the time they arrive. The catacombs are dangerous, but his friend did not want company. He worries for the half-elf, though not as much as before. Paragon played his role, he is sure Theodyl will hold up his end. After the talk they had, the war-forged has no doubts about the plan. If the Inquisitor follows the map they gave her she will reach the enemy about an hour behind them. The war-forged can't wait for the fight to come. His boys from the war gaming club will be meeting them as well. Talking about fighting is one thing, real war is what they were built for.

 

[skullsmurfer]

►Time for War, Chapter 12

Theodyl ran, his movement enhanced by a spell. Mooneye the Necromancer has earned every bit of his reputation. The lich is a mad genius. The ritual circle alone made his head spin. It had gears and pistons driving within it. Dead things run inside the wheels built into the walls to make it all move. It took everything he had to speak the words and ignore the crying coming from the shadows. The entire room was a machine to empower the circle.

A thing appeared, it was blindingly bright and colder than anything he's ever felt in his life. It was angry. His master's ghost wanted to fry him. It breathed a gout of ghostly flames that hissed to the very edge of the magical circle. Theodyl sang to it, he didn't know what else to do. Stargazer's favorite song came to mind. A song from the Gnomish play, Tartuffe. The ghost cursed at him, and then it laughed. The ghost was the essence of Stargazer, the man he knew and esteemed and the primal dragon that lurked at the edge of his smile and the glint in his eyes. Theodyl felt at once ashamed and elated to face his master for one last time. He remembered hearing that the young gnomish mage, Mooneye Rocco first sought out necromancy to speak to his dead mother's spirit. Theodyl wondered if he had gone too far.

“Well, young one, are ye going to just stare at me?” Stargazer now ghost teased. “You are too old to stare like a peasant at a pageant.”

Theodyl shook the doubts out of head and hurried to have his say before the magic faded. His master was cooperative, though his eyes glimmered with mischief. He answered some questions without reservation, argued about others and gave the rest in riddles. It was almost as if he were alive. Theodyl tried to apologize in the end. The ghost dragon merely shushed him and faded away.

The lich was gone when it was over. The wheels stopped moving, the gears and pistons slowed to a halt, the shadows grew silent. Theodyl threw his cloak over his shoulders and made his way out. He wasn't sure if he was happy, but he had what he came for. Paragon had been right, he was doing too much, he should have waited for later.

“You are running late,” Paragon 152 to 3 hollered, “I was going to leave without you!”

The war-forged were lined up along the walls as he arrived. He released the Runner's Song as he slowed to meet Paragon. He expected 10 or so of Paragon's friends, there appear to be just about 20. The war-forged started to talk, not caring that Theodyl was trying to catch his breath.

“Any news?” Theodyl sputtered as he struggled to change out of his sweaty bardic trappings.

“Pook is back, very much alive, and Sister Niabelis is leaving from the sewer gate in an estimated twenty seven minutes.” Paragon answered flatly. He is very annoyed.

“Paragon, not only do I apologize, but I also concede that you were right about my trip to the catacombs. You were right. Can we move on now, Sergeant?” Theodyl begged.

“Harrumph, the Sergeant is always right.” Paragon replied. The war-forged broke into laughter. His friends from the war gaming club joined him. The gnome, Moro strolled up to them with a silly look on his face. He's wearing a studded leather apron, thick leather gloves, a tool belt and a ridiculously bulging knapsack. Paragon has made him the equivalent of a camp water boy. He's laughing too.

“What?” Theodyl asked.

“You are out of uniform.” Paragon replied. There is a bundle in his arms.

Theodyl climbed into his supple new leathers and tried not to smile. After the war, Theodyl had burned his clothing and armor. It was supposed to cleanse him. He couldn't begin to count how many times he actually missed them in the last 10 years. Paragon went out and got him a new set. As he fiddled around with the straps, he was pleased to discover a few hidden sheaths and pockets. There is extra protection in all the important places and all the joints are sturdy, but flexible. It is a quality set of armor, he is very pleased.

“Satisfied?” Paragon asked.

“Yeah, you have been surprising me of late,” Theodyl replied.

“So have you,” the war-forged retorted, “You are very complicated.”

“I try.” Theodyl said with a shrug.

Paragon harrumphed and moved towards the front of the line. The war-forged are lining up. They are surprisingly quiet for their type. Theodyl decided to look into Paragon's little club after his troubles are over. Even with a city charter, an active group of veteran war-forged is going to draw attention. Maybe he can get some of them to come along when he and Paragon leave Sharn. Adventure and government just don't mix.

The half-elf found a place for all of his tools, he sheathed his sword and then threw his cloak over his shoulders. He breathed and tried not to think too much. It was how the scouts prepared during the war. Damn the war. How many times has he thought of the war in the last few days? Once would have been one time too many a few months ago. Did the war ever leave him behind?

“Hag Spit!” Theodyl cursed. They are leaving without him. Theodyl threw a House Cannith tabard over his head and struggled to get into cadence. His fingers played over the the strings of the harp bow. The song came slowly, he struggled to match the words to the rhythm of their steps.

“Oh the road is long and the ground is hard....the sun is hot and the pace is harsh....A battle calls from across the land....Lift up yer boots....It's not too far....Pick up the pace!....Leave the sun behind!.....Lift up yer boots.....Hold that banner high!....Pick up yer pace!....The battle's nigh!.....” Paragon 152 to 3 was the first to join the refrain. His friends joined in right after. The gnome was an enthusiastic last. With the power of over twice a dozen voices, Theodyl fell heart and soul into the song. The walls, arches and tunnels began to blur past. The song feeds on sound, the joy of those who sing along, and the innate spark of a bard's magic. The sound of their armored feet striking the floor will never travel far enough for anyone else to notice. If Theodyl can keep it up, they will beat Sister Niabelis by much more than an hour.

 

[skullsmurfer]

►Gate 57: Now with Veterans, Chapter 13

Sgt. Mogrin Ironson and his men waited at attention until the madwoman and her inquisitor pets came close enough to smell their pretty church-clean cloaks. Captain Rolland told him everything he needed to hear about the pompous cow. He fought alongside priests and chaplains during the war. He can respect them. Inquisitors get good men killed. They are zealots. This Niabelis woman is not killing any of his men.

“Sir! The Dog Soldiers salute you!” Sweet Lips, the new squad spokesman greeted Sister Niabelis. Rumors abound that he is supposed to be charming. He nearly tripped over his own banner. If he had stepped on it, he would have fainted, the Sergeant promised to skin him for such an infraction. Sgt. Ironson took three steps forward, saluted. The squad followed through with silent, professional precision.

“Well met...” the Sister started.

“Save it Lady, I don't care. We follow you, we kill the bastards. You and the good Captain get the credit. Me and the men get a bonus and a week's leave. It's good enough as long as we avenge our crews. And don't bother with the Look. If I was a bad seed, my mother would have dropped me in the well as a babe or my own men would've run me through in the battlefield as a man. My squad is ready to march, let's get going.” The Sergeant's Wrath of the Gods stare made the Sister Inquisitor blanch. Her mouth hung open.

“I won't forget this, mark my words. Let's go.” Sister Niabelis finally said. The Inquisitors behind her didn't even stick up to defend her. She will fix them later. All of them.

The squad broke into an easy march. Sister Niabelis and her men fell into step right behind. She handed the Sergeant the map as soon as she ripped the Brooch of Truth Telling from her breast. The Sister has had too much truth of late. What does an Inquisitor have to do to gain some respect?

Fifteen minutes into the excursion the Dog Soldiers ran into a choker ambush. The veterans barely slowed down enough to spit on their corpses. The Sergeant killed one all by himself. Sweet Lips pinned the other to the wall with the banner pole while the crossbow men snuffed it. The gilded spear tip came off. Sgt. Ironson made him tuck the banner away, it is stained, but he allowed the young man to live. The Sergeant gave the boy the evil eye. He went to war with the boy's paw, he was a part of the jail house levy, a criminal. He would drink too much, get into fights, and wipe out a tavern when he went into a rage. A berserker in the city is a hazard, in the field of battle, he is a godsend. Sgt. Ironson made a soldier and a church man out of that jailbird. There is a military grade bastard somewhere inside this young idiot, Sgt. Ironson means to find him.

Elsewhere.....

Theodyl passed out fifteen minutes from the enemy. Paragon 152 to 3 fed him a restorative. Moro stayed with the bard, he's a fan. The war-forged is impressed, Theodyl cut their travel time in half. He half-wondered if his war hymns could possibly hold such power. They always make him feel good. Paragon ordered the changelings to scout ahead, he drew out his chapbook and looked for a something he hasn't sung lately.

Siff slipped on his fancy new ring and faded from sight. Patter cinched his new cloak and took to the air, borne on batwings. Ivor spent precious moments looking for his new toy. He found, instead, a note from Pook, calling him an idiot. He turned, Pook jabbed a Wand of Polymorph Other at his face. A heart beat later, a rat sped down the tunnel chased by a leopard wearing Ivor's lost Collar of the Cat. Paragon only let them pick one toy each out of the House Sivis swag. Pook is ahead of the game.

Moro Taller talked non-stop as Theodyl tried to ready his weapons. It seems the gnome spent all of his free time reading through the Guild library. He's never heard of the Bardic Song Theodyl used to speed their march. He wants to see his sources. The gnome doesn't get it. It wasn't a secret before Moro asked, now Theodyl would rather bed a spine fish than share.

There are six different tunnels leading to the Black Hand Tribe's new village. The pump rooms proved to be the perfect spawning grounds for the illicit mushroom beds. The sightless sludge crabs they love to eat literally spring out of the flood gates. Their blood maybe a little diluted since their forefathers came to Sharn, but goblins are very hardy. An enterprising group of goblins can go far with just the right location. Gronit Longheels sniffed at the sludge pit. There is something he needs to remember, but it keeps slipping away. He squatted down to see if he can catch a nice juicy crab.

“What are you doing slave?” The war-forged demanded as he stalked up to the goblin.

“Slave?” Gronit asked as he turned.

The war-forged mage caught the goblin's gaze and used a spell to suck away its will. The meat-bag blinked stupidly as the mage gave it a strict set of instructions. Somehow the words didn't stick. The war-forged made a fist, but then paused. Killing slaves will just make more work for his team mates.

“Slave, go to there. Stand guard. Watch tunnel. Outsiders come, slave ring bell.” The war-forged stated slowly. The goblin did as instructed and got to live another day.

Skullstaff released the short crooked staff that is his name sake. Once, it was a lich who tried the Lord of Blades' patience, now it serves the cause. It stood there and waited for it's master's will. The war-forged touched an odd necklace about it's neck. It is a skeletal hand, human, clutching a dragonshard. Watch, and call me if anything else goes wrong, the mage commanded through it. The red jewels set into the skull's eye sockets flashed, it isn't allowed to speak without orders.

Siff slipped behind the war-forged mage and followed invisibly in it's footsteps. In the shadows, a leopard and a rat are watching. A changeling with bat wings is sitting on a pipe overhead, he's got a bow.

The lich-staff didn't say a thing. It had called the master as instructed when the changelings walked past the stupid goblins. The master didn't bother to ask for details, the lich-staff didn't offer any. The war-forged saw the stupid goblin by the sewage pond and drew it's own conclusions. The mage should have been more specific with the last set of instructions it forced upon it's will. Though trapped, the essence of the lich can make use of the arrogant idiocy of it's masters. It may not remember it's own name, but it will soon be free. It is too damned crazy to lose hope.

Pook stalked off to find out as much as he possibly can about the battlefield. Ivor shook off the multitude of rat thoughts plaguing his mind. He sighted the alarm system. He stole the bell clapper, then the bell, and finally the rope. The bell and the clapper went into the sludge. Ivor then used the rope to make a snare. A few long minutes later Pook returned. Ivor greeted him with a rude gesture, Pook ignored him. He shook off his cat form and signaled Patter to sit and watch. Ivor found a neat hiding space and did the same. Pook pulled out a scroll and a stylus. He drew a map of the goblin chambers, jotted down important details, and marked off all the empty dwellings. Pook then shifted to Leopard form and sprinted towards Paragon. The goblin guards stared at the big cat and did nothing. It is just a cat, they will know an outsider when they see one, they are not stupid. If they bothered to look behind them, they would have noticed the changelings at work. They are supposed to watch the tunnels though, not the village.

The lich-staff watched the changelings go about their business. It's orders include watching the slaves to make sure they do their job and don't wander off. There is nothing about intruders other than to signal the master whenever something gets past the guardian meat bags. There are no orders about other creatures leaving so it doesn't have to report the leopard's exit. The part of it's mind not bound by the master's commands collected as much information as possible. In a pinch, it is convinced that it will be able to take advantage of the situation. The goblins are useless as pawns, but these other creatures might be useful. Thankfully, the changelings didn't touch the crates. It would have had to report them.