Der Kluge's Wilderlands Campaign

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This is one PC's reflections on a series of adventures in Der Kluge's Wilderlands campaign.

If you PLAY in this campaign, you are going to get insights into Stone that you might not want. Stop reading now if you don't want spoilers into my PC's drives and ambitions.

In the spoiler block is the PC background I provided Die Kluge. Following posts are journal entries. If you want to see Stone's story unfold session by session, avoid the spoiler block. If you want to know it all up front, read the block and use that knowledge to filter his internal monologues through his journal.

Up to you.

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Felix “Stone” Stohnrym, human Scout

Felix is the son of Merry Stohnrym, a chambermaid in the manor of Lord Judas Starchilde. He was raised by Merry and her older brother Jackson, the hunter and beastmaster for Lord Starchilde.

Felix is actually the bastard child of Judas and Merry, though the only three people that know this are Merry, Jackson and Judas. Judas has five other legitimate sons and three daughters, all raised as noble scions, with all the benefits and spoils associated with being children of a wealthy and powerful nobleman. Merry was allowed to keep Felix on the condition that she never acknowledged his heredity and birthrights.

Jackson came to be employed by Lord Starchilde after falling in disgrace from his leadership of a militia in a distant land, where he acted as a leader of Rangers and Scouts, teams that roved ahead of the ground troops, scouting out enemy fortifications and encampments. The nature of his fall is only known to him. When he was hired on as Lord Starchilde’s hunt master, he brought his younger sister with him. Judas employed Merry in the house, and soon became obsessed with her. He seduced her and took advantage of her regularly. As Merry was smitten with Judas, Jackson never made much noise about it, though he did discourage the affair. When Merry became pregnant, Judas disavowed all knowledge of the relationship, though he allowed Felix to be raised by Jackson and Merry as another servant to the Starchilde household. Felix was allowed to sit in on tutoring sessions and lessons with the other Starchilde children, though when he skipped out to learn hunting and scouting from Jackson no one complained.

The Starchilde family carries a prophecy of a great destiny. This prophecy physically manifests as a star-shaped birthmark on the Starchilde males. Judas carries this mark, as do his sons, including Felix. Merry of course knows of this Starchilde birthmark, though she has told Felix it is nothing important and he has come to ignore it, having never seen it on Judas or any of the other Starchilde children. He assumes it is just a meaningless birthmark and no longer thinks of it. The ultimate manifestation of the Starchilde prophecy has not come to fruition. The nature of the prophecy is obscure to Judas, who keeps the ancient writings of a crazed seer locked in a safe. All Judas knows for sure is that one of his sons is destined to greatness, to surpass all expectations and leave a permanent mark on the passage of time.

Judas assumes, of course, it is going to be one of his legitimate sons, and has totally forgotten about the potential of Felix…

Jackson is perhaps not the best influence on his young nephew. He has taken him under his wing and taught him how to track, sneak, move swiftly and silently through forests and grasslands, and the many survival skills necessary to be a hunter and stalker. Additionally, Jackson has taught Felix how to use a bow and a shortsword, as well as many skirmisher techniques and strategies. Finally, Jackson encourages Felix’s innate curiosity and mischievousness, and rewards Felix for exploring the “forbidden” areas of the manor. When Felix skulks into one of the Starchilde children’s bedroom, he brings back a small trinket as a sign of his skill, which he presents to Jackson. Jackson laughs and claps Felix on his back, congratulating him on his skill and prowess.

As Felix grows older he takes on more responsibilities about the Starchilde manor. He leads the sons of Judas Starchilde on hunts in the great forest expanse surrounding the mansion. Unfortunately, as they grow into adolescence and then to young men, the Starchilde boys find great fun in teasing and tormenting young Felix, who they see as a worthless servant who exists only to serve them. Felix takes as much as he can, while venting his growing anger to Merry and Jackson. Merry pleads with him to hold back his anger, not to retaliate or seek any vengeance to the ridicule and embarrassment. Jackson, however, encourages the boy to seek his revenge through stealth and sneakiness, encouraging the boy to even further acts of larceny.

It is on one of these “excursions” into the upper levels of the mansion that Felix sneaks into Judas’ room, and observes him having relations with one of his whores. Felix spies the star-shaped birthmark on Judas shoulder, noting that it is remarkably similar to his own birthmark.

The full truth of his birthright doesn’t dawn on Felix until several weeks later. Felix is escorting Saul, one of Judas’ sons, on a hunting trip through the forest. Saul, one of Felix’ most prominent tormentors, lays into Felix, teasing and taunting him as to his parentage, the wholesomeness of his mother Merry, and the truth behind Jackson’s shady history. Finally Felix can take it no longer, and he strikes out at Saul. A fight ensues, and Felix slays Saul. In doing so, Felix uncovers a star-shaped birthmark on Saul’s shoulder, the same as is on Judas’ shoulder… the same is as on Felix’ shoulder.

Suddenly the truth comes roaring down on Felix. He is a son of Judas. Saul was his brother, and he has killed Saul in the heat of an argument. Felix panics and flees, running as far and as fast as he can. He runs from village to city to town to hamlet, eventually ending up here.

In the months of his running from Judas Starchilde, Felix has let his hair grow long and shaggy, and he has grown a thin goatee and gotten piercings and tattoos, trying to mask his appearance. Whether or not this will allow him to evade the bounty hunters he suspects Judas will send after him remains to be seen. Felix moves from place to place, earning his keep as a hunter and tracker, trying to evade Starchilde seekers, and possibly, finally, coming to his destiny.
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Following posts should be session by session journal entries Stone makes during his adventures in the Wilderlands of High Fantasy. I hope. Give me some positive feedback and encourage me to keep up to date

 

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Session 01

The following is writtin in a thin, flowing elvish script. Stone keeps his journals in Elvish, for reason as yet unknown. The journal itself is leather-bound, unmarked with stamps or reliefs. Stone keeps the book in his pack, pulling it out at times of rest...

Its been two weeks since I made a journal entry.

I killed Saul. Saul was my brother. I didn’t know this until after he was dead. I am a son of Judas Starchilde. I killed my own brother. I don’t know what to think about that, yet.

Judas… dad?… will be looking for me. I sold Saul’s sword, knife and hunting bow in Frikka to a dwarf named Finnias. I got a longbow out of the deal, as well as some used armor and beat up old scimitar. The bow is decent… Finnias had it in his shop for a few months. All the dwarves in Frikka use crossbows; this bow is too tall for most of them. Still, it took most of the gold I had. I don’t want to sell the rest of the rings and gems yet, but Saul’s stuff was too recognizable. The seekers Judas has after me would know them. They’ll know I was in Frikka, but I can’t escape that.

From Frikka I moved to Norgood, a tiny hamlet in the middle of nowhere. I used hard-packed trails and roads to get here, and saw nothing more than hungry wolves in the distance. This place is a little… odd. They all rush to the baths when the bell rings, throwing their clothes off as they run. I think I’ll be bathing in the creek from now on.

I paid my respects to Tymora for safe travels, but I met a cleric in the temple. Cyridon… looks pale and sickly. He asked me to accompany him on an exploration of some old graves and temples. Not sure what he’s looking for, and I’m not sure I care. Cyridon is NOT a cleric of Tymora… he smells of death. Hells, he looks dead. Pale and dry.

Still… working here in Norgood might earn me some gold, so I can move on. I agreed to help him for a share of the spoils. I gave him the name “Stone,” which at least still has some connection to my mother. He didn’t inquire further. Either he doesn’t care, or he’s wiser than I give him credit for.

As far as wisdom goes, his next hire was a man named Balderic. A besotted knight from the looks of it, though he has scraped the paint off his shield. So much for Cyridon’s wisdom. Sure, Balderic can swing a sword, but what’s his deal? No lord, no family, no roots. He has even less than I do. I hope his head clears before he has to draw that sword of his.

Cyridon is accompanied by a mage called Theros. I haven’t figured him out yet. Theros seems educated, but a little distracted. I don’t think I’ve seen his full focus on anything yet. Theros and Cyridon are acquainted, and apparently had something to do with the excitement here in Norgood a couple days ago. It seems some traveling salesman lost control of his beasts, and these two had a role in quelling them.

Whatever.

So the four of us are to set out and explore these tombs that Cyridon is so excited about. I did stop by the map-maker to get an idea of the surrounding area. “Russ” is a bit of an idiot. 50gp for a map?!? Cyridon paid him up front… his church must be sponsoring this expedition, which means I should have asked for more gold. Still, after looking over the map I have a better idea of the land. Plains and forest, with plenty of game trails and foot paths. Getting to these ruins should be easy enough, but I’m not sure about what has Cyridon so worked up. What’s he expecting?

The first day of travel brought the four of us to an old cemetery. Bugs. Centipedes. Bigger that I’ve ever seen, though Jackson warned me about carrion-eaters like these at graves and tombs. Balderic and I made short work of them, while Theros and Cryidon cowered behind piles of stone rubble. Bah. Spell casters.

We uncovered a small stash left behind from who knows when. A set of crystal lenses. Placing them to my eye allows me to see distances far beyond my ken. Using them, I spotted a squat stone tower south of us. We approached this tower under the midday sun, Balderic and Cyridon prepare themselves to enter as I write these words. Theros still seems… distracted. Hopefully he’ll snap to once we go in. I have a feeling we’ll all need to be “on” for this. Something about this tower makes me uneasy…

 

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Session II: Assault on the Tower

The tower. It stands tall, perhaps four stories high and fifty feet around. The stone work is old, but not as old as the ruins we passed yesterday. Still… I don’t like it. The two spell casters seem just delighted to explore it, though they follow well behind Balderic and I.

Peering into the shadows I hear and see nothing beyond a stray mouse. The first level is hard-packed earth and it shows no signs of foot traffic, though an ancient stone stairway curves up around the interior wall. I shrug at Balderic and wave him onward.

Cyridon and Theros start poking around the walls, and Balderic stays with them, sword drawn. Bored, I start making my way up the stairs, throwing up the trap door to the second levels. Dust and bird feathers puff up as it slams, and light streams in from the windows above us. Balderic glares at me.

I move up to find piles of feathers, deserted nests, and bird crap so old its crumbled to fine dust. Warped wooden doors hanging from rusted hinges cut off the stairway from rooms beyond. The door on the left leads to a dining room, complete with broken plates, smashed furniture and tarnished copper forks and knives. Beyond the table is another door, though this one is shut tight.

The door leading left from the stairs opens into an office, of sorts. A couple of bookshelves that get the spellcasters excited, and a worn and cracked roll-top desk. Between the two of us, Theros and I work open the drawers, revealing little more than dried ink pots and the remains of rotten feather quills. Cyridon and Theros eventually dig up some legible scrolls and a leather bound journal, all kept by the long-dead lord of this long-deserted keep, a guy named “Pentolus.”

Balderic and I continue to poke around while the casters finger their new scrolls like little girls with new silk bloomers. They turn out to be little more than the military records of this keep, though the journal seems to describe the final days of the men in this keep. Betrayed by one of their own to the Orcs, and trapped in this tower to die of starvation.

While Cyridon and Theros try to piece together the events of Pentolus’ final days, I push open another door, one leading from the office. An explosion of feathers and the cacophonous roar of beating wings and screaming birds erupt into my face. I slap at the birds, trying to keep them from my eyes, but they have little interest in me and soon manage to flee through an open window. I think Balderic laughs at me.

They were nesting in what looks to be an old shrine or altar room. A brittle cloth lays on top of a small stone altar, which is covered in symbols of a long-dead religion. On top of the cloth are some stiff, old leather bags, and when I pick them up I recognize the scent of dried herbs, still potent with healing oils and resins. Quietly, I drop three of these into my satch and replace the altar cloth. Bored again, I decide to go look at the closed door leading from the dining room.

Balderic is in the office, perusing through a series of books he found on smithing and weaponry, and I hear Cyridon and Theros are still debating the fate of Pentolus and his keep. I’m facing a closed door. Looking around, I try the latch and find it unlocked. Cautiously, I push the door open into a dusty kitchen

The kitchen might have been well stocked, if its utensils had not rusted beyond use and hanging herbs and sacks of dried goods had not rotted to powder centuries ago. The light streaming in from the window lights up dust motes, hanging in the still air. I can make out what appears to be two skeletons, men of this keep who had starved to death in their own kitchen, lying in the shadows, crumpled against the pitted iron of an oven.

I take another look behind me, and figure the others are still occupied in “fact finding.” I loosen a chakram from my belt, letting it drop into my hand. Pulling my arm back I let fly at the skeleton, intending to crush it’s skull to fragments. I land a glancing blow, my chakram bouncing off, ringing first against the iron stove then the stone wall. As it bounces and rolls to a clattering stop, the skeleton and its companion both leap to their feet, eyes blazing a hellish red, claws raking the air, and they rush at me…

 

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… the first one reaches me before I can draw my sword and rakes its claws against my chest and neck. Blood spurts out, and I see red drops trailing from the skeleton’s claws, hanging in the air as I tumble backward. My stomach grows cold and my vision goes dim… the pain vanishes as quickly as it came…

… I don’t know that I actually died. I can’t tell you how much time actually passed, unaware of it was I was. I know that I was in the kitchen and dining room alone, and then it went black. When I came back, Cyridon stood above me, gazing down at me and whispering thin, spidery words that made me feel cold and empty, both of which were improvements on feeling dead. His words give me a frigid strength and filled me with a grim resolve that can best be described as not yet. As I regained consciousness, I could hear Balderic bellowing, his sword smashing through brittle bones like dried kindling. I leapt to my feet, shoving Cryidon back against the wall in my fear and confusion…

I snatch another chakram from my belt and jump onto the scarred oak table, flinging the disc at the skeleton still slashing at Balderic with its sharp claws. The chakram passes by only to bury itself deep into the wooden door frame with a meaty thunk. Balderic brings his sword around again and smashes down on the bony frame, cracking through the shoulders and sternum, severing the link to the Realms Beyond and giving the corpse its final rest.

Panting, I lower myself to lay on the table, breathing in great heaving and painful gasps. Frantically, I rummage through my satch to find the pouches of herbs I took from the altar room, crushing them to release their oils and smearing them on my wounds. My hands shake and crushed herbs run through my fingers. Calmly, Cryidon takes the pouch from my quivering hands and gently spreads the paste on my chest, covering the claw marks. Their pungent odor fills my nostrils, and I find Cyridon’s touch strangely… cold.

Satisfied with his work on me, Cryidon turns his attention to the shattered skeletons. He picks up the skull of each, looking them in the eye, then flips the skulls over to look at the back of the heads.

These were not made, he announces calmly. These skeletons arose from their own unrest. There will be more. And with that he drops the skulls to thock hollowly on the wooden floors, rolling against the walls, grinning at us with their white, rotten teeth.

I stomp on one as we leave the kitchen, and it gives a satisfying crunch as fragments scatter across the floor. Wrenching my chakram from the door frame, I curse silently to myself as Balderic leads the way up to the next floor. What, exactly, are we doing here?

The next level presents us with a locked door at the top of the stairs. Theros produces a key, saying he came across it while going through the desk downstairs. The key fits, and the door opens…

Barracks, rows of beds whose straw mattresses and rough canvas sheets have long since rotted together. And skeletons, standing there, waiting for us. They move as one, all raking claws and silent screams and that quick, surreal movement unhampered by muscles or tendons.

Cryidon stands ready for them, raising the medallion on his necklace and shouting deafeningly in a language that leaves cold ripples crawling down my back. The skeletons all stop, lowering their arms, and they seem to gaze blankly at Cryidon’s sigil, swaying slightly on their feet.

Balderic does not wait for instructions. He plows into them, cutting them down two at a time. Seconds later nothing remains but splinters and dust.

Cautiously, I test the doors leading from this “tomb,” but I can hear or sense nothing behind either of them. The first door opens to a room with a single bed, armoire, and another desk. The other, a nursery. An ancient crib made from a white hardwood, and the tattered remains of cotton bedding.

A quick glance is enough to tell me the nursery holds no surprises. The bedroom though… something even now lingers, something hinting at a woman’s touch. Pentolus had a wife. Searching the bed, I find a small hidden compartment built into the wood of the frame. Inside, two pieces of jewelry, a bracelet and a necklace, both of gold and amethyst. Theros is aiding me, unfortunately. I turn the pieces over to Cyridon.

One more flight of stairs, but these lead to the top of the tower and the observation deck. There, hovering and nearly translucent in the midday sun, is a wavering, shadowy figure. Balderic and I draw back, weapons in hand. Cryidon, however, approaches the figure, arms held wide…

 

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… its Petolus, or at least his ghost. Petolus and Cryridon speak for a while, at it appears that the ghostly remains of the lord of this ancient keep is still capable of giving orders. He wants something from us, and Cyridon seems willing to do it.

Petolus was betrayed, and by his own lieutenant at that. His wife and child died as a result. Their remains are below, in a hiding space under the stables. Petolus and his men came back from the Beyond to revenge their betrayal, but were then forced linger in the tower for eternity as a price. Until Balderic cut them down, at any rate. Petolus asks us to put his wife and child to rest, so he can finally go to his reward. He seems to feel no sorrow at the slaying of his skeletal troops.

Balderic and I spend the rest of the afternoon digging a shallow grave and gathering rocks for a cairn. Cyridon spends it muttering his thin, spidery tongue over the remains we find in the basement. Cyridon’s cold gods appeased and the corpses buried, we go back to Petolus and let him know he is free to move on.

The setting sun shining through Petolus makes him glow with a reddish light. He thanks us and then fades from sight, dissipating with a faint, nearly intangible hiss. We spend the night below in the stables, resting and recovering from the assault on the tower.

The following morning I awaken early, eager to get away for a bit and spend some time hunting. Quail and rabbits are plentiful in the fields surrounding the tower and I easily catch four bairns, setting two of them sizzling on hot rocks for breakfast and cut and cook the other two, wrapping them for travel. Rabbit meat and quail eggs fry upon the rocks, their succulent scents mingling with the crisp morning air, and we eat well before breaking camp.

The grasses and fields give way to scrub brush and damp peat as we approach the forest around midday. Twisted trees rise up to the overhead sun, looking unhealthy and cancerous. A dank haze emanates from the dim shadows under the trees, and we can smell swamp rot and decaying muck.

As we cross the tree line, Cyridon seems to be visibly relieved. I seem him throw back the hood of his cloak and take several deep breaths, gaining strength and color with each one. Sometimes I think Cyridon himself is something from the Realms Beyond.

Its past midday when we enter the forest and the thick trees cut off much of our sunlight, bringing an early dusk to our travels. I crouch to inspect the mud, easily spotting large humanoid tracks, though they appear both bare-footed and clawed. Additionally I find the webbed tracks of amphibians, though at least as large as my own hand.

Owlbears riding salamanders. Right now, I’m willing to believe anything.

The thrumming of great bullfrogs is deafening, and the dull bassy rumbling is pierced by the sharp chirps of crickets and cicadas. Its almost as if we are herded along through the perverted trees towards an empty clearing where we find two long forgotten shrines, covered in moss and creeping vines, stonework broken and crumbling.

Both shrines have stone altars and ancient statues in their center. One is to Amantir and the other Torm, two of the eldritch gods only Cyridon and Theros seem to care about.

As we climb the worn stone steps up to the shrine of Amantir, it becomes apparent these holy places have been defiled. Mud, feces, and graffiti in what can only be animal entrails cover every surface, and scrawled, repulsive signs and symbols mar the ancient altars.

Damn my innate curiosity. As Cyridon and I approach Amantir’s alter, I put my foot down on one of the stone cobbles. A cold numbness shoots through my leg and into my gut, sucking strength from my very core. I crumple to the ground, weak and helpless, my bow clattering on the cool stone.

Cryidon and Theros cry out and rush to my side, looking for blood and wounds. They find nothing. I crossed an ancient ward of some sort, and once Theros realizes this he sets about finding others, marking the cobbles with small piles of sticks and stones. Cryidon seems untroubled by these wards, actually setting one off intentionally, deliberately stepping on the pavestone.

It causes him no harm. Indeed, he seems to enjoy it.

I’m not sure I like this death cleric. Helpful enough, but… still…

We uncover a line of celestial runes engraved upon Amantir’s altar, buried under the encrusted muck and grime. It seems to hint at some clue to activating the statue nearby. I remain unconvinced solving this riddle is a good idea. Nonetheless, Theros announces that he understands this cryptic puzzle and needs but to prepare a spell for the morrow. In the meantime, he suggests, we investigate the other shrine, Torm’s altar.

Approaching Torm’s shrine angers the skeletons resting the shadows of the ruined and defiled columns. They rise to attack us en masse.

Again, Cyridon is able to hold them off for a while, but this time neither my nor Balderic’s blows seem to do them much harm. The aura of the defiled temple gives these undead ravagers unholy strength, and they shrug off all but our mightiest blows. Finally Balderic brings his flail to use, and under the pounding force of his blows the skeletons crack and splinter. Just as Cyridon loses his slim control the last of them flies to pieces, smashed through by Balderic’s crushing blows.

I sheath my useless scimitar, cursing under my breath. If this keeps up I’ll need to find a club or mace, and soon. We’re several days from any smithy though, and I despair of finding anything useful before we are set upon again by these ubiquitous skeletons.

After the battle, Cyridon and I take a closer look at these skeletons… their bones are dyed or painted red, and they are covered in muck and filth. I ask Cyridon about their apparent strength. The unholy defiling of these temples empowers them, he explains. And what of you, Cyridon? Do you too feel empowered?

I need to find that mace. Soon.

 

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Session III: Shrines to Eldritch Gods, and a Passage into the Hillside.

We set up camp for the night, the four of us. We bicker about the watches and Balderk and I take the long ones, while Theros takes the dawning hours. Cryidon somehow escapes watch duty. Figures. Death clerics need their beauty rest, I guess.

As we’re pulling bedrolls and blankets from our packs, a scream builds from over the hill. A single, long scream, growing louder and louder as it comes near… I drop my bedroll and leap to the top of the stairs, notching an arrow and looking to the horizon. I am forced to stifle a laugh…

Running towards us, legs and arms pumping in a blur, is a Halfling, his ponytail streaming out behind him and bits and pieces of his backpack flying off him with every third step. His mouth is open in single long, loud, seemingly never ending shriek of terror. Chasing after this Halfling are two of the red skeletons, loping disjointedly on their boney legs with their clawed arms stretched out in front of them, grasping and snatching at their quarry.

It takes us a moment or two to decide to help the Halfling… it appears all of us have had some interactions with his kind before, and none of us are too eager to engage in the thankless task again. Eventually our altruism outweighs our common sense, and we move to cut off the pursing skeletons. Between Cyridon’s sigil and Balderk’s and my weapons, we make short work of them.

The little Halfling introduces himself as Chath. Just moments ago he and his companions entered a tomb somewhere over the hill, and these skeletons poured out of the darkness slaughtering all except him. He ran and two of them followed after, crashing through the forest between trees and the harsh, cold light of moonbeams.

Chath was hired by two others, a dwarf and a fighter, to help explore the same tombs Theros and Cyridon are so eager to see. Chath’s companions apparently met a quick and violent end, though this does little to dissuade the spellcasters. Indeed, Chath’s presense seems to encourage them. He’s seen the entrance and the first fifteen feet or so of the tombs, and he managed to set off all sorts of alarms to the tomb’s skeletal (or worse?) inhabitants. Fantastic.

Even as he tells us his story, Chath makes himself at home in our camp. He takes some of the left-over rabbit for himself, and chooses Theros’ bedroll as the most comfortable to lie down on. He is asleep in moments. Theros seems a bit flustered at the Halfling now under his blankets, but doesn’t know how to offend the little man. I have no such qualms. Grabbing the Halfling by a shoulder and leg, I lift him out of Theros’ bedding and move him to the far end of the camp, dropping him on a tuft of rough, scrubby grass. Chath mumbles incoherently as he turns over, but never really wakens.

Shrugging at our ineffectiveness in forcing any other outcome concerning the Halfling, Balderk and I return to the business of preparing our camp for watches. Together we note the best points for our backs and agree on times for changes. He leans his guisarme against one of the stone columns and his flail across his knees. I lay my bow on one side of me and quiver on the other, and make sure my scimitar is within easy reach before I sleep.

Balderk. He finally corrected me on his name. Took him five days to do it, but he did. He nudged me after about 4 or 5 hours, and I awoke to the oppressive darkness of a swamp at night… you know there are things out there, but you can’t see them. The faint moonlight casts a pale silvery haze on tufts of weeds and hanging moss in the small clearing around the temple, and inky black puddles glisten coldly. Beyond the clearing, deep within the shadows, frogs and toads thrum, crickets sing, and bats flap their leathery wings, chasing crunchy flying bugs.

Balderk lays down, armor and all, with his flail near at hand. Theros mumbles to himself… something about “ethereal manifestations of fractal beings within a quantum planar constant…” I rarely know what he’s talking about. I plant five arrows in front of me, point first into the dirt so they all are within easy reach. The sixth I notch as I hunker down near a broken stone column for my watch. I don’t expect to see anything more than bats crossing the clearing, casting flickering shadows as they flutter across after juicey, flittering moths.

I’ve been wrong before.

 

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About halfway through my watch my companions are snoring restfully and I’m having trouble keeping my attention focused on my job. My eyelids are heavy and I blink away sleep, scrunching my face up and trying to work out the droopiness. I force my attention out into the darkness, trying to feel what might be moving around… toads, water bugs, vermin… I sense a toad coming up out of the water… a rat chewing on a bug near the water… the toad focusing on the rat… focusing, then… targeting… lighting fast, the toad lashes out at the rat, spearing it with a sticky tongue and reeling it in… no sooner that I feel this out there in the shadows, I pick out the flapping of wings… not bats…something… bigger.

Sweet and Gracious Tymora, this not-bat is huge. The toad never stands a chance…. It sits, munching on its rat, when a dragon swoops in through the cool night air, claws extended, flexing, to snatch at the toad and lift it off…. the size of horse! I slide down the side of the column on my haunches, bow and arrow forgotten. It does not see me, does not hear me, does not smell me. Tymora be praised the toad stopped to finish its meal in a patch of moonlight.

The toad is lifted off and carried away without making a noise… the flapping continues over head and to the south, deeper into the forest. For a while all I can hear is the pounding of my heart and the gasping of my breath. As I regain control of myself I snatch up my bow and pull an arrow back, leaping to my feet frantically looking for something, anything, lurking in the darkness… but the coming of the dragon has silenced this portion of the forest. I loosen the bow as the crickets start up again, and normalcy returns to the night sounds.

My companions, all of them, continue to snore, blissfully ignorant of the death they were moments from. Had Balderk snored or Theros mumbled in his sleep, the beast no doubt would have noticed us. Cyridon sleeps like… well… like the dead.

Over the next couple hours of my watch I regain my composure. I toe Theros awake and let him know that “here there be Dragons,” but I’m not sure if he takes me seriously. Its hard to believe myself now, only hours after I saw it.

I sleep restlessly, and awake as the sun pierces through the gloom of the forest.

 

[reddist]

Cyridon and Theros again confer on their course of action for dealing with the inscribed clues on the altars and statues. They spend an hour or so preparing their spells and praying to their gods while Balderk and I break camp. The Halfling sleeps though all this. I finally kick him awake as we prepare deal with the first statue, that of Amantir. He sits upright, blinking in the morning sun, yawns and stretches. Finally he gathers the bits and pieces that have fallen from his pockets in his sleep and stands to join us.

Cyridon approaches the statue, once again checking on the celestial runes emblazoned on the altar, then stands a respectful distance away from the statue and begins muttering in his strange, cold, spidery prayer language. He addresses the statue directly, pointing his finger at it, and as his voice grows in volume, the statue begins to shudder, shaking off dust and debris. It pivots to the side, revealing a spiraling stone staircase descending into darkness, deep under the shrine.

Below we find a single square room with thick heavy tapestries on all four walls. Three of tapestries portray the events in the life of a great man, depicting him as a judge, a warrior, and a favorite of gods and angels. The fourth is a crest, presumably of the man’s family.

It does not take us long to find secret doors hidden behind the three pictorial tapestries, though each comes with another riddle. The runes themselves are interesting; graceful curving celestial runes inlayed in platinum in the smooth white stone. Cyridon and Theros again huddle together to discuss these new clues, while Balderk examines the “warrior” tapestry in some detail. The man, or god?, fights against large, black, wolf-spider hybrids using a sword and shield.

Chath hangs from one of the tapestries, determined to pull it off the wall. All he does is bring dust down upon himself. They are well-made and grommeted to steel hangers embedded in the wall. The tapestries are going nowhere. I don’t bother pointing this out to him though, as his struggles will at least keep him occupied for a while.

Finally, Cyridon and Theros quit their conference and announce they can open these doors in a manner similar to that of moving the statue above. Each door requires another spell prayer from Cyridon.

The first door slides back and into the wall, revealing another large room lined with cots, tables, and chairs. The tables are littered with loose parchment, half-filled journals, and rolled scrolls. Stacked in a corner are four small wooden cases, each with five crystal vials still filled with clear water. The cases are unmarked, but we all recognize them as vials of holy water… a blessing from Tyrmora in this swamp filled with skeletons and worse.

Some of the scrolls describe a series of spell prayers that Cyridon says he can make use of, but little else of any use. Some of the journals are still legible and we put these in a pack for later perusal.

The second room is much like the first, with cots, chairs, and tables. In this one there is also a case with five crystal vials, but the liquid in these a pearlescent sky-blue. Cyridon identifies these as healing potions, and we each take one. I place mine in a pouch on my belt.

Going through the scrolls and papers scattered about turns up another handful Cyridon wants to keep, and soon his pockets and pack are overflowing with rolled-up parchment. Theros seems increasingly frustrated that none of the spells or prayers described on these scrolls is of any use to him. None are of any use to me either, but I’m not getting all worked up about it. Here, I’m more in line with Chath’s thinking… where are the chests and footlockers?

Where are the corpses?

In that sense, I’m very glad there are no skeletons down here. Compared to the filth and desecration above, these rooms seem down-right holy.

The third room holds a few more surprises. Four cots, four suits of chainmail on stands, each with surcoats with symbols that Cyridon has taught us as Torm’s, and four swords hanging from wall racks. A fifth cot and set of gear sets apart, without the layer of dust and verdigris that the other four have… a suit of silvered chainmail and a scabbarded sword lie on top an oaken chest with metal bands.

Balderk reaches for the hilt of the sword, but just as his hand draws near he stiffens and crumples… I rush to him but am unable to keep him from crashing to the floor, his armor crunching and flail bouncing away. Cyridon and Theros come to his aid, and I look for blood on his fingers or a needle in the sword hilt, anything that might explain his sudden collapse.

As I regard the sword hilt, there is a … flicker… suddenly Balderk is wearing the chainmail and grips the sword tightly in his hand, its blade lying across his chest. His own chainmail is in a pile next to him.

Balderk struggles to sit up, looking at Cyridon. Bluntly, he asks Where did these gods go? Amantir and Torm?

They waned as any gods will, should their followers stop worshipping. Gods never truly die, though. They simply, fade.

Balderk then claims I spoke to Torm. Almantir is dead. I found myself on a plain, battling those wolf-spiders with Torm. Almantir lay dead at our feet. This war wages across the planes, and Torm has chosen me to aid in this struggle. We must find a rod, which lies in the tomb of Alaric.

This, of course, elicits a barrage of questions from Theros, Cyridon, and myself. Chath seems more interesting in trying to find a false bottom in the chest. He takes out a small pile of scrolls, cloths, and odds and ends, crawls inside, and starts knocking on the sides. I am tempted to shut it and lock it.

Balderk seems to have taken his geas to heart, and Theros and Cyridon accept it from a more inquisitive, scholarly stance. I’m withholding any commitment to god-saving until I get a decent meal, a bath, and my pay-out from our current job of exploring eldritch tombs. Which, I might pause to point out, has lead to several nearly lethal encounters with numerous skeletons, a shoulder-brush with a hungry dragon, being saddled with an annoying Halfling, and a notable lack of piles of gold and treasure.

 

[reddist]

With this bizarre turn of events still fermenting in the back of our heads we turn to the other temple, which presumably has a similar layout of rooms and secrets underneath it as well.

The riddle of Torm’s altar and statue is not as straightforward as Almantir’s, and requires as much guesswork as spells and prayers. Finally, after consulting the papers and journals we found under Almantir’s temple, we decipher that which is most important to Torm and his champions… Truth, Courage, and Honor. These three virtues, coupled with the proper prayer language, finally open the stairway for us, leading to another square room and another set of tapestries concealing yet another set of hidden rooms.

The tapestries this time depict Torm, first in his formal regalia of robes, sashes, and sigils. The second is of Torm with open arms, welcoming his many followers. The third shows a scene of Torm fighting more of the wolf-spider hybrids, using some sort of black rod or staff. The fouth shows an image of Torm and Amantir facing each other, their armies joined, marching forth to battle. Here though, Amantir has the rod, and Torm the sword.

Again, there are more prayer riddles concealed behind the tapestries, but Theros and Cyridon do not have the energies to open them. We go upstairs and decide what to do with ourselves until Cyridon is once again able to cast the proper prayer spells he needs.

Chath points out that he is hungry. Theros remarks that there are frogs in the nearby pond. I knew that little bastard was going to be trouble.

With Theros, Cyridon, and Chath watching from a safe distance, Balderk and I approach one of the massive frogs, trying to flank it and make a fast, clean kill. I draw back an arrow, but just as I take a step to establish my shot my foot finds a deep puddle and I stumble, the arrow going wide.
The frog croaks at us, its bulging eyes turning to focus on me, and more bubbling and gurgling come from the pound as another responds to its call. Balderk turns his attention to the newcomer, and Chath, eager to be helpful I guess, runs up behind me swinging a sling in circles over his head.

Once we are all engaged the two monstrous frogs succumb quickly, and as I prepare them I remember an old recipe Jackson taught me. I slice the meat into strips and cook them with fresh tubers and herbs I find at the waterside. Theros cracks open a skin of rice wine, and the five of us eat well in the reddening sun.

The next day we again work on the doors under Torm’s temple, and manage to open two of the doors. The third remains beyond us. The two that we do manage to open reveal stores of weapons and armor. The leathers need to be oiled and worked, but all seem useable.

All seem re-sellable…. I search for but do not find a mace or club. Spears, swords, and shortswords. With no way to carry them out yet, we leave them behind.

 

[reddist]

The mysteries of the shrines uncovered, we turn again to the Halfling and his tales of a tomb carved into a hill. This tomb sounds more like the locales Cyridon and Theros are looking for. Chath says he and his party only made in through the entryway before they were attacked, and his companions were brought down fast.

We follow the Halfling’s path deeper in the forest. The tree canopy grows thicker, and the boggy wet ground gives way to rotting leaves and nearly impenetrable underbrush. He leads us to a clearing near a hill, and in the distance we can see a stone archway leading deeper into the hillside. On the ground I notice signs of passage of many humanoids, both to and from the tomb. Chath and his companions have made tracks on top of these marks, so they must be at least a couple days old, but still… there is someone else in this forest. Someone who is not a skeleton or a frog.

As we get closer to the stone entrance, we see more signs of recent defilement. Filth, graffiti, and vandalism to the stonework are evident. Chath marches inside, eager to show us where his friends met their end just two days ago, and crosses the threshold into the tomb. I shrug and nock an arrow, following after him. Behind me, Balderk and then the two spellcasters fall in line.

Theros cries out, clutching his chest as he passes into the tomb. Waves of nausea wrack him and he collapses to his knees, fighting back the urge to vomit. He pants heavily as he regains himself while Cyridon inspects the pavestones. Some sort of selective ward. I too can pick out the thin inscriptions that cover the line of stones marking the border between the outer pavestones and the inner foyer, but messing with them wins me a cold shock of my own. Chath offers to inspect them, but he also is shocked, though neither of us as badly as Theros was. Finally Theros is able to stand, and we move deeper into the tomb.

The midday sun lights up the first 50 or 60 feet, and shadows claim the rest. Chath and I spot blood stains and drag marks, and we find the bodies of his companions piled in a side room. He cries out and runs to them, but I soon see him rifling through their effects and pocketing coins and small jewelries. I ignore him and look at their equipment. The dwarf carried a heavy axe, and the mercenary had a matching set of sword and shortsword. Still no mace. I’ll be dead out here before I find a mace.

We creep further down the main passage to find an intersection. I hold up my hand for silence, and I pick out thin scraping of heel bones on stone cobbles, the clickling of finger bones on stone walls. I am able to shout a warning just as four of the red skeletons lurch at us from the darkness.

Crydidon again lifts his sigil, shouting words of command. He stammers though, and only one of the dripping, blood-red skeletons pauses to consider him. The other three rush at us, bringing their claws to rip into Balderk’s chest and neck. He fights them off as they tear at him, but they leave their mark… Balderk’s armor is darkened with his blood, and his breath comes in painful gasps. Chath and I palm several vials of the holy water, which we smash against the ribcages of the foremost skeletons. Hissing steam sizzles where the blessed water touches the abominable undead. A green streak of acid crackles by my head, and I can smell the acrid, burning odors of chlorine as the emerald blob explodes against the skull of the skeleton nearest me. Theros cackles with glee.

Cyridon pushes forward to touch Balderk and mutter those cold words of healing, which to me sound like metal against stone. Balderk surges with newfound strength though, bringing his flail up to bear. Soon the only skeleton remaining is the one Cyridon froze with his command.

Let him go! Balderk cries out. ?!?! I said. I must fight it honorably! ?!?! I said again, but I backed up to give Balderk his room. As I step back, I feel something smash into the back of my armor, and a cold wet seeps through to my skin underneath. I spin, raising my scimitar, and I spot Theros with a guilty look on his face. Delicate crystal shards lie at my feet, and I realize he hit me with a vial of holy water.

He apologizes profusely as Balderk hammeres blows on the skeleton with his flail. Still… a nagging feeling tells me this was no “accident.” It has something to do with Theros’ inability to pass through the entryway without getting smacked with waves of nausea.

Theros, my friend, if you are concerned about any of your companions, I think I am the LEAST of your worries. Your cleric friend seems to have more in common with the ghosts and skeletons we’ve met so far, Balderk just ordered a captive enemy free so he could fight it “fairly,” and the halfling recently finished looting the bodies of his freshly dead friends.

I think you have enough to worry about.

I stand there, my back against the wall, watching Balderk finish off the skeleton and contemplating what future the rest of this tomb has in store for us. It’s only going to get worse, I know. Suddenly, I note that my wet back is cold. Turning to the wall, I run my hand across the bricks and mortar, and sure enough I find gaps where a slight breeze is coming through… I follow these gaps and trace out what appears to be a secret door.

Lucky, Theros. If my back hadn’t been wet, I might not have found this. I announce it to my companions, and set about finding a way to open it.