It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time

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This is some background information for the post which will follow, in which the interesting storyline begins. The DM and players are all first-year undergrads at Carleton U in Ottawa.
Check it.

History:

In the hundredth year of the Era of Dominion, the dissolute towns of the human lands were invaded by the Empire. Impassable mountains had separated the two regions for thousands of years, but recent earthquakes provided two mountain passes for the invading elves. The entirety of the human provinces were subjugated within one hundred years.

Eight and a half centuries later, a nameless hero arose who freed the human lands. He disappeared after the Barrier was created to shut the mountain passes. His last commands were that the Kingdoms must agree on permanent unification, and to prepare for the Empire's return.

The campaign takes place 325 after this event, in the 275th year of the Era of Freedom.

Dramatis Personae:

Astor Hawkwing: A young, naive half elf, skilled in the art of snipery, Astor is short and small even for his race. While his hair is the red common amongst the peasants of his home town, his eyes are the unmistakable green of an elf. It is this dual nature which causes much of his anxiety: as the by-product of war, Astor knows nothing of his father, other than "he was an officer." Astor's conflict manifests through his extreme hatred of elves.

Pendric Uthelienn: The educated heir of a powerful noble family who left his decadent life behind to pursue paladinhood. As the consequence of his nervous demeanour and red bowl-cut hair, Pendric (or "Pensy" as Astor calls him behind his back) is widely and incorrectly believed to be celibate.

Festrell: A halfling bard from parts unknown, capricious and androgynous. Festrell is not entirely trusted by the group, partly out of racial stereotyping.

Andria and Sorceror were originally played by newcomers interested in trying D&D. They failed to pay enough attention to the game to follow events and didn't show up for the next game. Consequently, Sorceror became the figurine of wondrous sorceror and Andria spends her time as a small box, with legs, which heals party members occasionally. She also features a 'Translate' button. As inanimate objects, Andria and Sorceror no longer possess remarkable personalities.

Introduction:

Our campaign began with the party agreeing to kill a number of giant ants in exchange for 1000 gold and five mules. The heroes traveled to a homestead and expediently killed several ants. They also found two farmers in the farmhouse, who were killed presumably by ants. They proceeded to exterminate the remaining ants and their queen in the tunnels of the nearby ant hill. Curiously, the group found 220 gold pieces' worth of mixed coins in a pile. The farmers wouldn't have had the money, the ants wouldn't have taken it, and it wouldn't have been in a pile. Sweet mother of mystery, what's going on here?

While resting in the farmhouse, some sort of feral creature made off with Festrell. Pendric rode away on his significantly-faster-than-a-mule warhorse to the tower of Loren Fox, a well-known mage. He had an awkward exchange with a gregarious goblin who lacked a meaningful understanding of the Common tongue. Unfortunately, he will be making additional appearances.

After a series of awkward explanatory gestures, Pendric met with Fox. Fox concluded that the beast Pendric described was likely vampire spawn and gave advice on how to fight it. He also asked for any books found in the temple, supposedly for research purposes. Pendric stopped off in a nearby town, rented a silvered scythe from a shifty peasant, and met up with the party back at the dungeon.

 

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Bad vibes

The rest of the party was camped out in the newly emptied ant tunnels in front of a large and highly out-of-place stone door, engraved with runes. It had no handle or knocker, and could not be budged with any degree of force. The paladin detected no evil, but both he and the cleric Andria sensed negative energy within it. Together they channeled positive energy into the door. Its negative energy was overcome, and it shattered.

The inside was walled with masonry. Cursory exploration revealed two very rotted doors. One led to a defunct dormitory containing two metal boxes.

"I'll detect magic," offered the nameless sorceror. "It's abjuration." Astor impetuously opened it and was rewarded with a clear spindle ioun stone and a fire trap.* The other box held 120 platinum pieces.

The other door opened to an armoury full of 75 matching sets of profane armour, shields, and longswords, all rusted and useless. A sword was mounted to the back wall, immediately inspected by Sorceror. Pendric was slightly disturbed by its presence. It didn't detect evil as such, but was black, seemed to contain blood, looked vaguely insane, and rippled impossibly with the heartbeat of its wielder.

"That's curious," said the sorceror after detecting its magic. "Its magic is somehow at less than its full potential."

"May I see that for a moment?" asked Pendric.

"Sure. Here you are."

Pendric took the sword from him. He shivered and immediately dashed it against the wall as hard as he could. It vibrated intensely, along with the hapless paladin, but didn't break. Clearly, this item was crucial to the plotline.

"I don't trust this thing. I think I had better hang onto it, just in case," he said, still literally shaken.

Having nowhere else to go, the party went down the staircase in the middle of the room and found that a vicious mass of palpably evil darkness blocked their descent. Pendric entered it and screamed.

"What? What happened?" Astor demanded.

"It felt as though it were sucking the life from me." Pendric shuddered. On a hunch, he channeled positive energy directly in front of him, and found that the darkness parted enough for the group to continue down the staircase. The effect was aesthetically pleasing, like a fan on water, but menacing. They descended nervously, enveloped by a malicious mass of black.

Finding the bottom took a very long time. Finally they reached the bottom, and gladly found that the darkness subsided ten feet above the floor.

A chitter was heard, and then a yelp from the sorceror. The others turned their heads to see the same vampire spawn that abducted Festrell scamper up the side of the stairs into the darkness. Sorceror hit the ground, unconscious.

Weapons were drawn. Nervous minutes passed as the group stared into the darkness, waiting for another attack. None came. Andria healed the sorceror.

The party walked up to an enormous set of double stone doors. Its engravings depicted a sort of cosmogony, definitely not in agreement with our heroes' beliefs. It featured two figures, one dark and one light, in constant battle. The light prevailed and cast down the dark figure, only to be cast down itself by four entities with elemental connotations.

The door swung open easily, perfectly balanced, and the company proceeded down three miles of gradual stairs. At the bottom stood a man, alert, in front of another set of large double doors, one white, one black.


* Pendric has always suspected that Sorceror knew that this would happen. He's a shifty one...

 

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Seemed Like a Good Idea #1 -OR- A Change Intense

Pendric calls out, "Who are you?" The man moves from his stance and bows to the paladin. Dust shakes from his seven-foot body. Pendric tries again. "What is your purpose?" The figure bows again.

The cleric asks in the Ancient tongue, "Who are you?"

The man responds in a strange dialect of Ancient. "I am set to guard the door."

Pendric whispers to Andria, "Ask him from what."

"From what?"

"The living cannot pass without sacrifice. I am here to test the worthy and provide sacrifice."

Pendric asks vicariously through the cleric, "Who are the worthy?" The man gestures at the ominous sword in Pendric's possession. "The worthy are those with martial skill?"

"Single combat."

"All right," Pendric asks with masked annoyance, "What sacrifice?"

"I am the sacrifice." He pauses. "This job sucks." Astor suppresses a titter. "Three thousand years I have guarded here. Those behind the door are not to be trifled with.

"Which door?" Pendric asks. The Sacrifice gestures at the large and obvious double doors behind him. "Yes, but which one?"

"It does not matter." Pendric, unsure of what to do, readies his sword and shield. "You would test me, child? Three thousand years I have guarded this door, and only Ipscom the Betrayer has passed." At the name, the black sword pulses in Pendric's pack. Pendric, with a somewhat confused look, drew it. "Oh! You fight for the Betrayer? This may be more interesting than I thought." The black sword beat faster in Pendric's hands, and his heartbeat kept pace, drawing energy from elsewhere than him. The sword seemed eager to him.

The Sacrifice drew his sword. "You will put the blood of the sacrifice on your hands for the Betrayer?"

"I have one question before we begin." Pendric was becoming more confused and lost with every beat. "Who is this Betrayer?"

"Marusic Ipscom Condaes."

"Alright. That's his name; what's his function?"

"He is the Betrayer."

"Yes, I gathered that. The Betrayer of what?"

"He betrayed his people; he betrayed his life; he betrayed his gods."

"You should know, for the record and all, that I just found this. I do not serve the Betrayer." He bit his lip and looked upward for an instant in consideration. "To my knowledge."

At this point, Pendric begins to realise that he has been speaking the Sacrifice's dialect. "I am only here to recover my ally."

The singer that passed by with Vargul?"

"Yes."

"Fah."

"Hold on. Who is Vargul?"

"The vampire child, who seeks to curry favour with the ones beyond.

"And who is beyond?"

"I fear that I have told you more than I should." His voice adopts a tone of finality. "The living cannot enter without sacrifice."

"Why is that?"

"It is all about blood. That is what brought the vampires here."

Pendric feels as though the black sword in his hand is offering him something, as though he could receive something through the hilt if he chose to.

"Come, then. You wield the Betrayer." More quietly, as if to himself, he adds, "You're not enough to beat me." Pendric let go. Power flooded up his arm and into his body. He hefted the greatsword easily with one hand. He felt the presence of another self within him, twining around his soul, but not yet entirely present; something was still held back. "Well, paladin, servant of your child gods, do you fight as well as you talk?" Pendric advances.

The Sacrifice sidesteps the attack with ridiculous ease. He fights in some primal dance, easily batting aside the Betrayer-sword, sundering Pendric's shield entirely, and breaking his shield arm with the flat of his sword.

"What do they teach the servants of the gods these days? ... if they can be called gods. The slaves from my youth could defeat your deities." He attacked again, and Pendric barely manages to ward off one blow. The next shatters his kneecap.

All of the Sacrifice's strikes were very precisely made with the flat of his sword. None had drawn blood. Something clicks in Pendric's mind.* He slashes his broken left arm with the sword. His blood runs up the blade with purpose. As it reaches the grip, the Betrayer's soul merges with his.

Pendric laughs in a voice not his. His wounds heal. He begins to fight in a style completely alien to him. He can anticipate the Sacrifice's strikes and penetrate his defense. Flustered and lost, Pendric prays to Lirus for aid, but finds the connection to his deity entirely severed.

The Sacrifice parries the next incoming strike just enough that it strikes his arm. The wound heals. "We dance again, Betrayer." He is the best fighter any of them had ever seen, but one in ten strikes gets through. He barely fails to hold Pendric at bay.

After nearly an hour of combat, the Sacrifice is bleeding, clothes shredded. Pendric finally knocks his sword away and holds his own sword at the man's throat. He stares down the man seven inches taller than he.

"Three thousand years I've been here, and still you bring me down."

"Explain... all of it."

"It's the end, child. I created that thing you carry by driving it through the Betrayer's heart. Now the circle will be complete. I am the sacrifice. You will drive the blade through my heart."

"And if I don't?"

"You cannot keep brothers apart." The sacrifice lunges up and forward, impaling himself on the sword. It penetrates his flesh as though it were butter. His blood matches that of the dark blade, crawling further and further upward toward the hilt, and beyond, coating Pendric's hands up to the wrists. The sacrifice collapses.

Pendric feels as though the sword explodes in his hand. Instead of offering, it takes. He felt himself walking forward. His hands, continually dripping with the black blood, place themselves on the doors, one on the white door and one on the black. He pushes them open effortlessly. His companions watch, confused.

Pendric steps through, the others following at a careful distance. A man the size of the Sacrifice, but with hair a flaming red, sits completely naked and chained to the floor. His back is covered in whip scars. He meets Pendric's eyes, stands, and hisses.

"No, Betrayer. This one is not yours." The presence holding Pendric is forced back into the sword. It clangs to the ground. With renewed authority over his body, Pendric stares horrified at his bleeding hands.

The chained figures sits down again and speaks in Common: "Agh. I've always hated that ****er."

The party takes stock of its surroundings and finds itself in a huge room with doors covering the walls, not all at ground level, with hatches in the ceiling and trap doors in the floor. Doors appeared to lead back to the room outside where there were no matching ones. The chained figure watches the bewildered group in amusement. They note for the first time that his chains are made of apparently unworked stone, and flow up from the floor. Links pass right around his wrists, and there is no lock.

Pendric desperately attempts to reach his deity again. He fails. His hands continue to drip blood. He kneels down to wipe them clean on the wooden floor. Blood comes off, but his hands continue to drip.

He looks to the chained man. "What has happened to me?" he asks.
"The blood is a mark. As for the rest, you were possessed by Sir Condaes."

"Sir?"

"It doesn't translate very well. What term would you use for the supreme paladin? He was supposed to be the utmost champion of his deities. A vain man, that Marusic. He always did it for the attention. If he weren't so talented, he would have died young. It was mostly sad for his brother. He chased him his whole life." He chuckles in a quiet baritone. "You'll find that the blood won't generally endear you to the ladies. Those who are endeared -- you'll probably be wanting to avoid them."

There is a pause as Pendric contemplates how big a mess he is in. The chained one speaks again. "May I ask you a question, sir?"

Pendric manages some dry humour. "I believe that you just did," he replies with a weak smirk.

"Cute. What possibly possessed you, pardon the pun, to kill the Guardian, open the door, and release the Betrayer? I expected a degeneration in the servants, but that level of blatant stupidity was more than I expected."

"It wasn't so much a choice." Pendric's voice is sardonic, not offended or petulant.

"What, the Guardian caused you to bind yourself to the sword?"

"As everyone has been so kindly pointing out," Pendric snaps, "I'm an ignorant child, and I didn't know what was going on at the time."

"Ignorance is rarely an acceptable excuse. Tell me, though, if you're willing to humour me a while longer," the naked man continued, "What are you, exactly? You're so short."

Pendric narrows his eyes slightly. "It must be obvious to you by now that I don't have the background knowledge necessary to answer that question in a way that might be meaningful to you."

The chained man hmms. Pendric notices, oddly, that the sword on the floor points toward him, and is significantly closer to him than where he dropped it. "You'll want to watch that," advises the chained figure. "He wasn't called the Lifestealer for nothing."

"Lifestealer?" Astor asks.

"Soul Thief, Essence Devourer, Eater of Names."

"Eater of Names?" Astor is incredulous.

"It doesn't translate very well."

Pendric feels as though he is losing his grip on reality. He screams and strikes the floor. Blood spatters from his hands as if to mock his distress.

"If it's any consolation," offers the naked man, "I think you're handling this quite well."

Pendric wants to shout back an answer, but has nothing to say. He splutters instead. The figure looks at him and says a word totally unrecognisable to the heroes. A shiver of power passes through the paladin. Catharsised, he asks, "What now?"

"What is now?" the chained figures responds. "Now is no different from any other time. You can open any door you choose." Remembering his purpose in the dungeon, Pendric follows the trail of Festrell's red blood to a trap door. A sigil appears in the air as he draws near. "I wouldn't recommend opening that if I were you."

Pendric answers, "My ally has been taken by vampire spawn. She's in there."

"I know, I watched. Vampire are tedious, really."

"So what is it that will happen if I open the door?"

"What's inside will come out," the man says obviously.

"It's hard to imagine things getting any worse than they are," Pendric says with a slightly petulant tone.

"What is so bad for you here? What is stopping you from leaving me here with Marusic, closing the doors, and walking away? You've never fought in true" and here, he speaks another verbal assault in one syllable. Pendric cannot understand, but yet he does. The word means war, not as a representative utterance, but as the very concept of war given sound, along with everything it entails. "You have no idea of how bad things can get."

"My personal code does not allow me to leave her."

"I must suggest," the man insists, "that you do just that."

"What do you have to lose if I open the door, anyway?" inquires the paladin.

"You are the first living creature to come through that door in nearly three and a half thousand years. You have opened the doors. This implies possibilities far beyond what you can understand right now. These chains are not eternally inviolate, but I consider it quite likely that if you open that door, or most any of these doors, your life will be rudely and abruptly ended. I cannot die as long as I wear these chains. If they are removed, however, I have ways of defending myself."

Pendric asks for a moment to confer with his allies. "I'll be right here," the man says with a smile.

The group passes back outside. Pendric shuts the doors behind him, leaving more bloody handprints. "We should remove his chains," he suggests. "He should be able to protect us from whatever comes out."

Astor asks, "Can the chains be removed?"

Pendric responds, "We'll have to see."

"Sounds good, but can he fight?"

"He did say 'I have ways of defending myself.'"

"Okay. Let's do it."

Pendric pushes the doors open again with an uneasy déjà vu. "What would you say to removing those chains, erm -- I'm sorry, we haven't introduced ourselves, have we?" He bows. "Pendric Uthelienn, knight of Lirus."

"I am Michael. You're a paladin?" Pendric nods. "And what races are all of you?"

Astor brandishes his bow. "Astor. Isn't the race obvious?"

Michael guesses, "Elf?"

"Half-elf!" Astor shouts indignantly.

"Festrell, halfling."

Astor adds, "We also have a box and a figurine among our number."

"As to removing my chains. . . I think I'd prefer to stay here for a while longer. Of course I want the chains removed, you idiots!"

"Excellent." Pendric walks up to Michael and seems not to know what to do.

"Do you have a hammer?" Michael offers.

"Pendric, I'm hanging on to Andria's mace. It should do."

Pendric places the chains on the ground and gives them his mightiest smite. The mace bounces off and his arm becomes subject to massive reverberations for the second time that day.

Michael donates a hint. "Paladin, you may be forgetting something." He nods at the paladin's perpetually bleeding hands. Pendric wises up and coats the length of the chains by smearing his hands all over them and once again smites the chain. They shatter easily.


* This realisation took me, as a player, an embarrassingly large number of blatant DM hints. I felt really, really dumb about it afterward, but as you may gather from the thread title, it's a common occurrence for us players.

 

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Revelation and burnination

The next several minutes pass with the three adventurers observing Michael as he cracks every joint in his body.

He notices the prying eyes. "What? It's been a few thousand years." Everyone looks at each other. Shrugs and nods are exchanged. Then Michael looks down. "Anyone have some spare pants?" Everyone looks at each other. Shrugs. "A rag?"

Astor offers, "I have a tarp? ?"

Michael grabs it and wraps it awkwardly around himself. He then begins to wander about the room, cursing profusely. Sigils appear in the air as he pass by the doors. Cursing, he reads them all until he finds a certain sigil. Still cursing, he disappears inside of it. The party follows him to the door. All look at one another.

"Should we follow him in?"

"I don't know."

"What the hell."

Pendric opens the door to see a short ladder leading down to a small five by five room with a door. He shrugs and climbs in, followed by the others. They open the door and see Michael trying door after door, opening one and then slamming it.

"Erm? are you looking for something?"

"Yes. My clothes."

In a few minutes of help from the party, Michael has his dignity back, along with armour, a ruby circlet which glows with fire when worn, a bow and quiver, and an empty scabbard which he straps to his back.

Pendric is confused. "Stupid question, but shouldn't there be a sword too?"

Michael extends his hands in front of himself, palms up. He places them together and a red flame appears between them. He spreads them slowly, and the flame spreads with them. Soon a sword made of flame reaches from one open hand to the other. Lightning quick, he snaps his hands into fists. The flames congeal into hot steel. He spins the sword with a flick of the wrist and slides it into the back-mounted scabbard. All are impressed. Scattered applause.

Michael climbs back out of the room, followed by the hapless adventuring party.

Pendric says, "Hold on a moment, Michael. We still need to recover our ally."

"Oh, the singer? I suppose." He walks over to the door indicated by the conspicuous red blood, easily distinguished from the black blood still dripping from Pendric's hands. The sigil appears again. Michael opens the trapdoor a crack and viscous black smoke begins to emerge. He slams it back shut again. He gestures the party to stay and forms flame in his free hard. Jerking the door open, he lets loose a torrent of divine fire into the opening. Demonic screams pour back out. He closes the door again and listens closely. He seems satisfied and jumps in headfirst. The party waits.

A moment passes and Michael emerges with the unconscious minstrel. There was much rejoicing.

After Festrell is brought back to consciousness, the archer asks, "So Michael, what exactly is behind that door?"

"Things that were put away a while back. Like me. I know you're going to ask, so I might as well explain why: I disagreed with a rather important person."

"Yes, but what is this place?" Astor asks.

"It's a storage room, of sorts. Your friend was behind the death door." There is a collective uneasiness. Festrell looks at Michael with one eyebrow raised.

"The death door?"

"Yes, the death door. With dead things behind it, you know. The Seneschals put them there." Pendric inhales to ask a question, but Michael interrupts. "Servants of my masters, my arrogant masters. They decided they'd run a little game."

"Game?" Festrell asks.

"Your deities. My masters took their things and stuck themselves in here. They're giving the new gods a head start."

Pendric ventures, "By 'game,' do you mean? oh, I don't know? epic warfare?"

Michael ponders for a moment. "No, I don't think that the warfare will be so epic. Your deities have changed the rules. You don't use words as power, for one thing. And you're all so very short." The adventurers look increasingly confused as their entire foundation narrative begins to slide like a rug Michael is slowly pulling out from underneath their feet. He yanks it out all at once. "Your gods, the new gods, were the servants of the old gods."

"So where are these old gods now?" asks Astor. Michael points to a very large door in the ceiling.

"In my bardic college," begins Festrell, "I was taught that the ancient gods were elementals whose worship died out almost overnight around 3000 years ago. The Barrens in the north are believed to be the result of their war at that time."

"I served Ignis, god of fire," says Michael, nodding. "Now that the door has been opened, his legions will soon come pouring forth. Although I doubt that it will happen immediately -- they should not be very cooperative. Aqua is more interested in healing; Aura chaos; Terra order. Ignis would like to wipe everything out and begin again. Terra will definitely try to go back to the old ways."

"Hey, if this is a storage room, do any of the doors have gold behind them?" Festrell has a hungry look on her face. Michael taps his chin for a moment, looking around, and opens a door in one of the walls. Gold coins of an ancient mintage come pouring forth. Festrell screams and disappears inside for a moment, emerging with seams almost bursting full of gold.

"I don't suppose that they will really miss a little bit of their store," Michael suggests.

Pendric thinks for a moment. "You're quite sure, Michael, that these gods antagonize and intend to kill our gods?" Michael nods. Pendric draws a circle in front of himself with his holy symbol, glances east, and begins to load his pack with gold.

As the party is gleefully packing up the treasure, something begins to slam on the death door. Its sigil pulses. Michael appears very concerned. "We should leave."

Everyone heads for the exit. As Michael leaves, part of him is blocked as if there were an invisible wall. He hits the ground on the other side, screaming. A flame outline of him oscillates inside the room for a moment, and then evanesces. His ruby circlet's former bright luminance is reduced to a dull glow. He barely has time to be helped to his feet before a twenty-foot-tall humanoid apparently composed of darkness emerges from the obliterated death door. Our intrepid heroes break into a jingly run.

 

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Seemed Like a Good Idea #2 -OR- Midnight snacks

Exhausted, Astor, Pendric, and Festrell find the entrance. Their indifferent mounts are laden with loot. The seven-foot-tall Michael gives the mounts a confused look. The five mules stare back. One drools.

"They're so small," Michael says.

He performs a short ritual. Everyone looks behind Michael to see a figures drawing closer on the horizon. It's a huge black steed with red eyes, a flaming mane, and flaming hooves. Michael mounts it handily and grabs a handful of fiery mane. He gestures to the paladin.

"Lead the way, Sir Pendric." Sir Pendric glares at Michael's evil mount, but decides to let the issue slide.

They make a motley crew. Two mules are laden with gold; one carries a half-elf with a longbow; one carries a holy knight; another carries an androgynous halfling minstrel; and a flaming black stallion easily four times bigger carries Michael.

"I'd like to see my homeland," says Michael. "It's been a while. By which I mean several thousand years, of course."

"I think we should go back to see the mage."

Michael hasn't been filled in, but agrees to split up. He hands Astor a quiver. "To meet up again if we need to." Astor nods.

---

The three adventurers dismount at the foot of Fox's tower and approach the door. Pendric knocks soundly. The goblin from Pendric's last visit seems delighted to see him again, which he indicates by babbling and pointing.

Pendric sighs, "Fox, if you please?"

The goblin beckons them inside and pantomimes that they should sit. Loren Fox soon joins them. Pendric rises and bows shortly, followed by Astor. Festrell remains seated and contemplates his or her nails.

"Greetings all," Fox welcomes them. He does a double take when he sees Festrell. "Would ... you please excuse us?" The mage grabs an arm and pulls Festrell into the next room.

They return shortly with Fox carrying an attractive jewelry box. He asks, "Sir Pendric, would you please open this box?" Pendric looks at his hands. A drop of black blood hits the mage's exotic imported caret. Pendric begins to stutter an apology, but the mage dismisses it with a wave of his hand. "Easily cleaned," he explains.

"Oh... the goblin," says Pendric.

"He is quite civilised!" Loren exclaims crossly. "Gobbly has been living with me for thirty years."

"I... spoke out of turn. I apologise," Pendric offers, eyes low.

"Forgiven. Now, open the box."

Pendric removes his gauntlet, prompting a gush of blood to splatter on the rug. He lifts the lid. There is an audible click, and it opens.

"Very, very interesting, Sir Pendric."

Festrell's eyes light up. The halfling scampers behind Pendric and pushes on the backs of his knees, ignoring his protestations until he stumbles outside the tower. He turns around to admonish, but finds the door shut and locked in his face. He hears a high-pitched voice shout from the other side: "Now come back in!"

Pendric opens the door, leaving a swath of black on it. Festrell is a ball of mirth on the floor, shouting, "Do you have any IDEA of the possibilities? We're rich!"

Pendric gives her a stern look, and answers, "It should be obvious to you by now that there are more pressing concerns at hand."

Festrell only laughs louder. "At hand? Ha ha ha ha!"

The wizened old sage cocks his head to the side and peers inside a bulging sack overflowing with ancient coins which Festrell brought in. He points to an errant gold piece fallen on the floor, regarding Astor with a quizzical expression. Astor shrugs. Fox snaps his fingers and rattles off a gutteral phrase in what must be the Goblin tongue, as Gobbly skitters into the room, retrieves the coin, and skitters out again.

Fox asks Pendric, "Where did you obtain these?"

Pendric swallows uneasily. "They were... requisitioned."

"The Storage Room?" Fox replies hopefully.

"How did you --"

"What did you think I discussed with Festrell?" Fox smiles. "I would very much like to study them. Could you part with them? I possess numerous magical items of some worth... somewhere. They might make suitable exchanges... yes, I'm sure you folk would have use for them. Gobbly!"

The group sorts through magical equipment left behind by Fox's former adventuring companions. The figurine of wondrous sorceror receives a wand of wonder. Astor giggles like a child at his new elfbane mighty composite longbow. Festrell fancies an enigmatic but sinister-looking dagger. Pendric is drawn to a sunblade. While he inspects its balance, Fox puts his hand on Pendric's shoulder.

"This belonged to a man named Oscar. He was a holy knight, like you, of Lirus." He extends his hand, and Pendric hands him the sword. "It is too valuable, financially and emotionally, for me to part with it so cheaply. I could lend it for an oath, however." Pendric nods.

Fox clears his throat. "Live for honour; wield it in the light; die holding it."

Placing both hands on the grip and holding the sword to his heart, Pendric says solemnly, "I so swear."

"Good. To pay the rest, you may come back to me when you are free," Fox adds.

They stay the night in Fox's tower. As they simultaneously enjoy and mistrust the breakfast prepared by omnipresent Gobbly, Fox supplies unsettling news. "During the night, something attempted to penetrate my magical defenses. I would be very careful in my travel plans were I you."

The adventurers exchange nervous glances. It goes without saying that they should set off early. Fox reminds Pendric to serve him later "in a way that would have pleased Oscar." He also gives a parting gift of thick gloves which help to check the bleeding.

---

The party sets off for Marival, the largest human city. Sure enough, on first watch, Astor spies undead warriors advancing in the dim glow of the fire. He lets loose an arrow, and shouts to wake the others. Pendric and Festrell emerge ready for battle. The undead walk toward the heroes, but ignore Festrell. What seems to be their leader even salutes. Festrell sits contented with an apple on the periphery of the melee.

Pendric is without armour, and without Festrell fighting, things go poorly. Both Astor and Pendric pass out from blood loss before being revived by the box of healing to fight on. Gradually, the undead warriors are stuck like pincushions and chopped the pieces. The leader is virtually annihilated by a mighty swing of the sunblade. Panting after the heat of battle, Pendric and Astor exchange a sympathetic glance of acknowledgement for favours unpayable. They then look at Festrell, back at one another, and again at Festrell.

Pendric takes a deep breath. "Now that that's over with, we have matters of," he pauses, remaining calm, "tactics, to discuss."

"Sure," Festrell replies innocently. "What's to discuss?"

Astor nearly shouts, "You sat down and ate an apple while we got pounded by undead! Would you mind not doing it again!?"

"Such a display of cowardice is not only damnable, but it also endangers the lives of everyone present," adds Pendric.

"Cowardice?" Festrell exclaims in an ear-piercing tone. "I was hungry!"

"There is a place for midnight snacks, Festrell. Combat with the undead legion is not such a place!" Pendric raises his voice to match. "If you continue with such displays of... of... undeniable hunger in combat, you will no longer be welcome in this adventuring party. We must be able to trust you with our lives."

The discussion is interrupted by a giant bear emerging from the treeline. There is a collective groan as everyone notices a baby bear helping itself to the party's stash of food.

Astor snaps his fingers and brings out the figurine of wondrous sorceror. It morphs into a human form. The Sorceror looks at the beast, and back at the aghast party. "Hmm. Let's try scaring it away." He draws his new wand from a pocket. "Here goes nothing." He gestures in the bear's direction, and a speck of matter flies from the wand to the bear's feet. It immediately explodes. "Ha! Fireball. Excellent."

The bear, unfortunately, is not scared off. It charges. Several minutes of combat ensue, with massive blows traded by both sides. Astor, bleeding and barely hanging onto consciousness, nocks his last arrow and draws a bead on the bear's head. He narrows his soft half-elven eyes and lets the arrow fly. It passes into the bear's brain via the left eye. Its arm, mid-swing, continues on its path. Claws the size of candlesticks rake across Pendric's face and neck. The bear and paladin fall to the ground with a single thud, both very dead.

 

[tmart]

Seemed Like a Good Idea #3 -OR- On the strengths and weaknesses of the elements

Pendric awakes to a large and overfed face looming over him. He glances down to see a holy symbol of Audenius, god of peace. Pendric shakes his head and remembers his death. "Oh, I -- the -- thank you." Pendric's eyes light up. He tears off his gloves. Unfortunately, his hands still bleed.

The cleric says, "Yes, those. We tried numerous magicks to remove the blood, but I'm afraid there is no helping it. It is very disturbing... I communed with my deity on the subject, but," he pauses, almost shaking, "I received no answer. Nothing. That has never happened. I would have had you taken out of the temple if you weren't a paladin. It might have been for the best, too -- the temple was attacked during the night."

Festrell jumps onto Pendric's chest and exclaims, "The life-debt is paid!" Pendric goes wide-eyed and chin attempts to disappear into his neck.

---

The silvered scythe gets returned to its owner and the party sets off to Marival in the interest of informing higher church authorities of the significant cosmic goings-on of the past few days.

After a few hours of travel, however, they find the path blocked entirely by an enormous congregation of flame. It bellows in an unintelligible language with a voice of crackling sparks and roaring flame, but stays still. Pendric attempts to ride around, but his path is blocked by a flaming limb.

"Oh! The box of healing has a translator button, remember?" Astor realises. He presses it and asks the elemental to try again.

"MORTALS." It unintentionally burns down several trees. "YOU WILL WAIT. MICHAEL SENDS A WARNING."

"Hold on," Pendric speaks into the box, which femininely speaks his words in Ignan. "You're a servant of his?"

"I AM NOT HIS SERVANT, MARKED ONE. HE WARNS YOU OF THINGS WHICH HAVE BREACHED THE BARRIERS AND HAVE MOBILISED TO STOP YOU. THE GUILD OF ASSASSINS HAS ALSO MOBILISED TO STOP YOU. HE ASKS YOU TO MEET HIM IN THE BARRENS AS SOON AS POSSIBLE. MY DEBT TO HIM IS NOW PAID. BEWARE THOSE OF MY KIND. THEY ALL SERVE THE MASTERS." It vanishes.

"Well, then," Astor says amusedly. "I suppose this is more important. Barrens ho!"

---

They continue to be plagued by assorted monsters recently released from storage. After several days of travel on horse and mule, the road is once again blocked, this time by an amorphous vortex of air sixteen feet high.

Its voice is a confusion of rapid breaths almost without substance. It is echoed in Common by the box of healing. "ABANDON YOUR QUEST OR DIE."

"Hold the heck on," Astor interrupts. "How do we know you won't kill us anyway?"

"YOU," it says indicating Pendric, "ARE THE MARKED. YOU," indicating Festrell, "ARE CLAIMED BY ALLIES. YOU," indicating Astor, "... ARE GIVEN A GRACE NOTE. TURN BACK. DO NOT PROCEED TO THE BARRENS." It vanishes.

"Hmm. Sounds like we'd better turn back. That thing was pretty mean-looking."

"Yes," Pendric agrees ironically.

"Obviously."

They camp for the night. Festrell and Pendric are again woken by Astor's battle cry. They emerge from their tents to see Astor with bow in hand, playing the circling game around the campfire with a troll.

"Burn it with the firewood!" Astor yells, familiar with troll weaknesses.

All three grabbed burning sticks from the fire and swat the green beast. Each time, a ring on its right hand glows red. Barring minor slivers, it remains unharmed.

"Sh*t! Anyone have acid?" Astor yells.

"No!"

"Yeah, I got some infants wrapped in back bacon too! Got any use for those?" Festrell shouts sardonically, ducking a massive green arm.

Pendric withdraws from melee, largely useless, and shouts "Hold it off! I'll see what I can do!" He kneels and prays to his god Lirus for aid.* Ten seconds later, the party's weapons drip with yellow-green fluid.

The troll is shortly put to death, and yet another night is spent trying to sleep on leftover adrenaline and enough blood loss to kill lesser beings.

---

The next day proves promising. Clear skies and a brisk breeze encourage the group on their way north to the Barrens. Out of nowhere, the ground beneath them breaks and rises up. The mounts spook, leaving Astor and Festrell flat on their backs and Pendric on his steed Brahma a hundred feet away from the vaguely humanoid mass of earth and stone which menaces them.

Festrell draws her dagger with a flick of the wrist and a diminutive snarl. Instead of attacking, she talks to her dagger in a voice too quiet to overcome the din of the beginning battle.

"Festrell!" Pendric shouts while charging. "You can indulge your mental instability outside of battle! Now stop talking to your knife and use it!"

Festrell snaps back, "You're not one to talk, Mister Bleeding Hands!"

Astor shoots. His arrows bounces off the stone form. Pendric crashes his lance into it, dealing a large wound which heals over almost entirely within a second. A pointy appendage smashes into Brahma, almost killing her.

Festrell pulls a rope from her pack, catches it on a rocky protrusion, and begins to climb. She heaves hard on the rope. The image is so ridiculous that Astor and Pendric, fearing for their lives, have to make time to laugh. The thirty pound halfling is attempting to draw the eight thousand pound mass of rock and dirt off of its balance to comically useless effect.

She shouts, "We have to find out its weaknesses!"

Astor squints and shoots another arrow. "It's a giant rock! It doesn't have weaknesses!"

"You could set it on fire!" Festrell offers.

"It doesn't burn! IT'S A GIANT ROCK!" Astor laughs.

Things look grim for our intrepid heroes until the elemental merges back into the ground inexplicably, leaving the three adventurers confused and panting.

---

Festrell kicks the ground in boredom, staring at the last embers of the campfire. "Stupid Pendric and his bloody hands. I get no respect at all." Her head cocks to the side with the speed of an owl as she strains to hear the approaching footpad.

"Do not be alarmed," the grating voice whispers. "I bring an offer, not death." A slight, pallid man in rough black leather skulks into the firelight.

"Yeah? Get to it, then." Festrell fingers her dagger sheath.

"Then I'll be brief. I offer you membership in the prestigious and exclusive Assassin's Guild. If you wish to access this ocean of opportunity, you may betray your companions at an opportune moment."

"Well," Festrell thinks for a moment, "what if I don't?"

"If you don't, I'm afraid you'll have to be kept very quiet. Regardless, here are some lovely diamonds for a down payment -- a trifling example of the rewards you may expect later on." He tosses her a pouch. "I don't require an answer presently. Please think on it." He backs out of the light with a flourish.

---

A tired dawn comes, and they press on northward. All are relived when a stone tower rises over the horizon. They stay overnight and enjoy the hospitality of a group of mages studying the enigmatic Barrens. Despite fervent warnings to turn back immediately, the adventurers load up on food and water, and depart.

They ride for six weeks. Then strange weather effects begin to manifest: blood rain, perpetual day, lightning shooting from the ground up to the sky. The quiver Michael lent to Astor begins to heat up slightly. Astor amuses himself by playing a hot/cold game with it for two weeks, determining the path to Michael. They ride on, covering in total a distance of perhaps fifteen hundred miles, until they finally discover an enormous edifice stretching from horizon to horizon. The quiver loses its heat.

Astor whistles. "It must be the size of a city." As they approach, the strange single storey architecture of the place becomes more clear. They soon espy a red-cloaked figure waiting on the steps. His details slowly clarify: blood-red clothing, a frame as thin as death, a height half again Pendric's.** His face is obscured by his cloak.

"Greetings. I welcome you on Michael's behalf." There is something strange about his voice, as if his speech organs were alien.

He beckons the group inside. They follow quietly. He leads them through a great door, a smaller door, a smaller door, all at least twice as large as any human architect would design, and entirely plain. The structure seems to obey a very functional design, with no accoutrements whatsoever aside from torch brackets. Some areas are partially ruined.

After a long walk, the figure gesture the group into a room. Michael is lying on a stone tablet with partially healed wounds. Pendric ignores Michael's feeble greeting and lays on hands. He struggles greatly to have his power not work.

The towering red-cloaked figure speaks. "Your gods have no power here. I am Rakor. You are in the Nameless Temple."

Astor asks, "Did you build it?"

The head of the cloak turns slowly to regard Astor. "Yes, the whole thing," he says very seriously. "Myself. It took millennia." The party looks impressed, and Michael giggles slightly. "No, of course I didn't! Idiot. It was built to honour my god."

Pendric asks, intruiged, "And who, may I ask, might that be?"

"His name is lost. Stolen. If it were found again, he could overthrow even Michael's deities and rise again." He emits something which might be conjectured to be a sigh. "Twice now my cosmology has been overturned." Pendric gets a peek at the skin under Rakor's hood. It is ash grey. "I would like to know, if you will... why did you come here on the advice of a elemental?" Michael laughs heartily and then stop, wincing and nursing his ribs.

"Hold on," Astor protests to Michael, "You didn't send for us?" Michael laughs even louder. "Oh."

"Go ahead and explore," Rakor suggests. "Find a corridor you like." His voice lowers. "But stay out of the basement if you value your lives." The group gives him a collective quizzical look. Michael laughs even louder, coughs, whimpers, and laughs again. "Just kidding. There is no basement," Rakor says flatly. He leaves.

As soon as they are alone, Astor says, "Did you notice that no part of his body can actually be seen? And he never puts weight on his right leg. My theory is that he is, in actual fact, three halflings one on top of the other."


* The DM uses a formula based on level, charisma, wisdom, and varying modifiers to determine a percent chance of minor deity intervention.
** Pendric is 6'3". For reference, Astor is 5'7". Festrell is around three feet.

 

[tmart]

Exciting news! Astor's player (kelvahkarain) will be doing the next update. I got a sneak peek and it's hothothot.

Edit: Kelvah is a lazy, lazy individual. It's been a month, man. Write faster!

 

[kelvahkarain]

Statments of Faith I

After some... err... much delay, here is the continuation of Pensy and Astor's mystical adventure!

Pendric wasn’t sure he’d ever grow accustomed to the temple. It wasn’t right. A temple was a place of life, the echoes of ritual chanting, light shining through coloured glass. This was a place of decay- crumbling walls, silence, and passages empty of all save darkness. The Temple of the Light. That’s what he’d heard Astor calling it, citing ‘a conversation with Rakor.’ He had said nothing else, trying to pass it off as a joke. Trying to hide his emptiness, his fear. All Pendric could do was stare at the empty wall before him, ancient on even a cosmological scale and think. I already know, Lirus is not the only god, he is but one of many. The thought echoed through his mind, a simple statement of his faith. But there was something... more, a thought he struggled to repress, that was laid bare in this temple which had surely stood long before Lirus ever came to being. So how then could this fact correlate with his statement of faith? It was the answer he now sought, was seeking ever since he heard the news “Michael is resting, and cannot be disturbed,” what must surely have been days ago. A thought came to him, His greatness is not diminished by the presence of older elemental gods. This, this... plane of existence, this has nothing to do with me, with Lirus. The lie he told himself, believed in his heart that allowed him to sleep that ‘night’.

He arose several hours later, rubbing his neck, sore from the hard stone bed. He left his room, content for a day of listless wandering, mind immediately occupied by his thoughts from the night before. It was as he was walking down a familiar corridor that he heard Astor’s shout, “What! How can it be our world, yet not, ‘technically speaking’, our world!” Curious, Pendric followed the voice and entered a room nearby, where he saw an upset Astor and veiled Rakor.

Rakor emitted what amounted to a chuckle and replied, “My pointy-eared friend, I’m afraid it’s a concept you’re not quite ready to grasp. This temple- we are still on the same planet. This is just... another level. Behind the curtain.” Noticing Astor fumbling to form words he didn’t quite know, he answered the unvoiced question, “Think of it this way: This temple could once be seen on your world. What you have called ‘The Blight’ is the land upon which it once stood. The power that... manifest, the Name... that power is gone now. And so we are... here. Behind the curtain.” Blatantly confused, but trying to hide it Astor fell silent.

“What do you mean by ‘name’? When we first arrived here, you called this place the ‘Nameless Temple’. Astor here claims you told him this was the Temple of the Light. Which is it? And what does ‘name’ have to do with this all?” Pendric asked. Rakor stopped for a moment, apparently deep in thought.

Rakor seemed hesitant, speaking carefully. “The Name, the power of the Name... that is what separates me from you, Lirus from the Elder Gods. And it’s what used to separate the God of this temple from them. Names are.. were Being, the very source of power, and existence. The loss of the Name meant the casting down, the demise of the deity.”

Without thinking, Astor interjected, “What’s the name of the god of this temple?”

Rakor, trying to repress his frustration growled, “Think about that one for a moment.”
Astor thought for a moment, brow crinkled, eyes squinting. “Okay, so the god of the temple is nameless, or somehow misplaced its name. Why build a temple to a dead god?”

“Well, you see The Light was not nameless when his temple was built!” Rakor tried unsuccessfully to hide his mirth.

Astor was about to say more, but Pendric mercifully cut him off before more embarrassment could ensue. “So you say this temple was built to honour ‘The Light’? Is that not then it’s name?”

“No, ‘The Light’ is not my deity’s Name, it’s what it... was. In the beginning, or at least as far back as I’ve awareness, the Light and the Darkness ruled over all creation. Always... in a conflict, yet never seeking the other’s destruction.”

“Light... and Darkness? Just like on that door, back at the storage!” Astor chimed in excitedly, making the connection between Rakor’s summary and the painting on the doors which led into the storage area.

“Hmm... no, it wasn’t like that. As I said, they were in opposition, it was a natural opposition. The Darkness brought forth life, the Light took it away. It wasn’t Light and Darkness as you no doubt have imagined them. Yes, it was a dichotomy, but not of morality, good and evil, nor positive and negative. Darkness was Creation. The Light, and I through the Light, Destruction.”

Pendric, visibly stricken challenged Rakor’s claim, “How is it that the Light could be destruction? The Light is...”

“Something quite different than what you would hold the word ‘light’ to mean.” Rakor interjected. “And I may have phrased that incorrectly. While I, through the Light brought destruction, it itself may more accurately be deemed decay.”

“Why destroy? What purpose is there in that, and how is it you are still here?” Pendric asked, still unable to separate the clearly differing definitions of light and darkness.

“Why? It’s what I was born to be. You can’t kill death, and make no mistake: I am the Light, I am destruction and decay in mortal form. But I’m guessing you’re not talking on so simple a level as ‘I am what I was made to be.’ I, and the Light, destroyed because, quite simply, there is only so much room on your world’s surface. The Darkness filled the world with creatures of all types, it was my duty to do away with all but the finest, most interesting creations.” Rakor paused a moment, watching both Paladin and Ranger as they attempted to make sense of his statement. “Does that answer your question?”

“When you mean... are you talking about the elimination of entire species?” Pendric demanded, shaken to his very moral core.

“Sounds very... natural to me,” said Astor.

Rakor examined the ranger, a modicum of respect returning. “An interesting observation. And yes dear Sir Pendric, I do mean entire species. Shocking, no? Just think of the trouble those... usurpers would be in, if only I had the Name.”

“That brings me back to my earlier question Rakor: how is it you are still here, even though you’re ‘the Light manifest as a mortal?’ Would not the loss of the Name result in your own destruction, if the power of Names is as you say?” Pendric asked, carefully choosing his words, avoiding an outburst of protest against Astor’s statement.

“I am the Light yes, but only in the most... ‘profane’ sense of the word. It’s difficult to explain, because your gods are so... incomplete, so flawed. The Light spanned all aspects of creation, from the most sacred, most set apart from normal reality, to myself at the far end of the spectrum, a mortal creature selected as the profane manifestation of The Light. If you’re following me, the name of the Light stood as the most sacred. I am at the opposite end of the spectrum. Thus, I live on.”

Pendric thought for a moment, still not entirely understanding what Rakor meant, nor the division between sacred and profane. Nor could he understand exactly how such a thing as a Name could be lost. Luckily, Astor voiced this question for him, “Wait, how is it exactly that a Name can be... lost? I mean, you knew it didn’t you? How could you, and everyone forget?”

Rakor sighed, obviously frustrated, yet understanding he discussed concepts well beyond your standard paladin of Lirus or ranger of... whatever Astor was a ranger of. “The Name is not a normal word, and as such was not ‘forgotten’. It was removed from this reality, or more exactly cut from it. And before you ask, it was done so by Marusic, the Eater of Names. A fellow with whom I understand you have dealt with on a most personal level, am I right Sir Pendric?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” the confused paladin replied hastily.

Rakor laughed, though it was hardly gleeful. “You bear his mark on your hands. You held him in your hands, killed the guard and opened a door I’m sure you’d have rather have left closed.”

“The Eater of Names is a sword?” Astor asked.

“Sort of. At the very least, the sword contained the essence of Marusic. But in his original form, no, Marusic was certainly not a sword. He was my apprentice once, training to become a replacement for The Dark.”

“Your apprentice? Were you not a servant of The Light? Why would you train the replacement of your rival?”

“I was bored with my own apprentices, and really Marusic was an interesting one. I’ve already told you, there was no hostility in my struggle with The Darkness. He filled the world, and I emptied it of those that were deemed lacking. Like I should, and would have done... if only had time, if only they hadn’t acted in concert, and drawn Marusic to their side.”

“Who acted in concert?” Astor asked.

“Those against whom Michael, and thus by accidental association yourselves, have come to this place. The four beings released from their slumber when those hands of yours swung two doors open. They, the manifestations of the Elements, originally created to assist The Light and The Darkness, have ironically become our mutual enemy.”

“So what can you tell us about them?” Pendric asked, fighting off a yawn.

“As much as I am able, though I doubt I will have the answers you or Michael seek. But perhaps we’d best leave them until later. For now, rest, and keep this thought in mind: if the gates holding the Elements back opened so easily for you, it is obviously fate, and not error that forced your action. You are not responsible for unleashing the likely doom of your race and gods, merely the instrument of said unleashing.”

On that note, the ranger and paladin left the room, each going to their chosen places, Pendric his small room, Astor the largest, most open auditorium he could find, to think on Rakor’s words. As they parted company, Astor smiled thinly at Pendric and said, “You know, that wasn’t all that reassuring, now was it?”