Elder-Basilisk
First Post
Awesome story hour--the pictures add a lot.
Nebulous's Keep on the Shadowfell (FR)
Nebulous
Legend
Thanks Elder. I spend a lot of time on the sets and the subsequent pictures. What's not conveyed in the Story Hour is the sound effects and sound tracks, which i try to tie to the action and scenes.
The story is deliberately just a fast and quick recap, not a true STORY like so many of those here on EnWorld. I found that in the years since we play i (we) forget so many details of games, so i'm trying to preserve it in these recaps. A real story takes so much time to write!
Last edited:
Nebulous
Legend
Side Trek (II): The Streets of Silverymoon
PART ONE
[GM Note: These events take place either when the main Shadowfell party has first reached Winterhaven, or right before their arrival. It is likely that Douvan and Merric passed the other heroes on the road without knowing].
[GM Note: This adventure also springboards a homebrew campaign that starts after Shadowfell is complete].
For three days Douvan Stahl and his companion Merric Littlefoot have trudged northward along the Evermoor Way from the small hamlet of Winterhaven, carrying with them a curious artifact: a large ornate mirror confiscated from the watery grave of a dead dragon named Blacksoul. It was not easy to haul the item up from the mud, and even harder to salvage when an ornery bugbear and his friends appeared and tried to murder them.
But the two adventurers prevailed, and upon reaching Winterhaven with the mirror (which surely must be valuable!) the local sage and scholar, portly Valthrun the Prescient, told them that certain parties might want the mirror back at all costs. The mirror, in fact, could cause grave danger for everyone in Winterhaven. Well, Douvan the Ranger and Merric the Rogue didn’t much like the sound of that, but Valthrun was insistent. He had smiled gently, twiddling his wide thumbs.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “just leave and take the mirror as far from Winterhaven as you can. I believe it is called the Mirror of Skarvoss, and a small piece of the Shadowfell is trapped within. The Shadowfell is a dark place of…well…nevermind. Just go, my friends, and may the luck of Tymora be with you.”
But Douvan is not one to rely on luck so much as sweat and blood. Merric…well, yes, he lives day to day on luck and mischief. But they have no problem taking the mirror to Silverymoon. In fact, their sponsor Merple the Moneylender will probably be very interested in what they found and possibly give them a bonus. Their only task originally was to inspect the dragon grave and determine if it was salvageable, but it had been well looted by the kobolds.
That was three days ago when Valthrun’s words first worried them, and since then the two heroes had to fend off an attack by kobolds who had already destroyed another wagon and its occupants.
[GM Note: We didn’t actually play through the fight; there are enough kobolds in this campaign already]
Perhaps the vicious little bastards were hoping to recapture the mirror of Skarvoss, but Douvan and Merric didn’t leave any alive to question afterwards. They encountered no more problems, and on a brilliant vermillion dawn, their wagon being pulled by Jim the Mule, they clear a rocky rise that offers them a majestic view of mighty Silverymoon, Gem of the North.
They enter through the southern gate, passing the School of Thaumaturgy and the Lady’s College. Throngs of people have already begun to stir, and the morning air is split by cries from birds and children and voices in a multitude of racial tongues, soon joined by the creak and groan of daily commerce. Jim plods sullenly onward and they reach the translucent, shimmering Moonbridge that spans the River Rauvin. Merric cannot stand looking down through the semi-transparent bridge into the swirling current below, (it gives him terrible vertigo) so he stares into the sky, whistling.
The Market is bustling with activity from various vendors and customers. Douvan and Merric plan to head straight to Diagon Alley and Merple’s shop, but then a large shadow passes over their wagon from above. Douvan looks up, shielding his eyes, and is surprised to see a large griffon wheeling down on their location. Moments later he spots a second griffon, and then a massive owl joins their ranks, all three bearing armed riders!
“What is this?” mutters Merric, hand flitting to his dagger.
The birds of prey alight on the cobblestone streets right in front of their wagon, and Jim the Mule is clearly displeased at their proximity. A rider clad in purple plumes and purple leather armor, not unlike a bird himself, hops off his griffon. A tiefling woman dismounts as well, but the woman on her owl remains seated. Douvan sees an armband on each person designating them as Silver Knights, part of Silverymoon’s standing army. Douvan raises his hands in submission. He doesn’t want any trouble.
“You there!” shouts the purple-plumed warrior. “Halt in the name of the Griffon Guard! What do you carry in your wagon?”
Dozens of citizens are gawking at this exchange. It is not everyday that the Griffon Guard swoops down from the sky on unsuspecting travelers. A griffon squawks its impatience, shifting from one taloned foot to another.
Douvan clears his throat and answers as honestly as he can. “It is a mirror we found near Winterhaven. We are bringing it to Merple the Moneylender, of Diagon Alley.”
The man steps closer, shouldering a wicked looking longbow. “The Mythal of Silverymoon detected an item of unacceptable power within our borders. It is our sworn duty to inspect any and every violation of the law. Open your wagon, sir. Slowly, please.”
Douvan obliges, sweeping back the fold and pulling off the black cloth to reveal the mirror safely nestled in the back of the wagon.
The Griffon Knight says, “Is that all? A mirror?” He looks somewhat perplexed.
“Yes,” answers Douvan. “We…we aren’t exactly sure what it does. We were just told…” and Douvan relates some of the details about the Mirror of Skarvoss, as told to him by Valthrun the Prescient. He ends with mention of the Shadowfell, and possible danger associated with Winterhaven if it had remained.
The Griffon Knight nods, and when Douvan is done, he snaps his fingers at the others. “This mirror will have to be confiscated and tested. My apology for the inconvenience, but it is our obligation. Please do not argue.”
“But…I…” And yes, Douvan does want to argue, but he doesn’t want to anger them either. “Will we get it back?” he asks imploringly.
“Perhaps,” the Griffon Knight says. “That all depends on what our mages find. But don’t hold your breath in a jelly cube, as they say.”
Douvan wracks his brain about the Silver Knights. They are resourceful and formidable, but known to be fair. Douvan is not a citizen himself, but has spent so much time in this city that it almost feels like home.
“Well…I would like some other compensation then,” Douvan says. “We went through a lot of trouble to get this mirror.”
“A LOT of trouble,” Merric adds peevishly.
The Griffon Knight rubs his chin as Douvan tries to convince him, looking to the owl-rider for advice. “Well, Onyx?” She shrugs, and ultimately he shrugs too and pulls out a piece of parchment. He begins scribbling with a quill. “My name is Grax Steelfeather. Consider this a receipt then. Come to the Rookery at dawn tomorrow, we’ll know by then is this mirror of yours can be returned or not. If not, the City will offer you some sort of reparation. I can’t say what exactly, it’s not up to me.”
Douvan shakes each of their hands, appreciative that he is at least being given a fair chance. Not long after Grax the Griffon Knight hands the parchment to Douvan, a new contingent of Silver Knights arrives with their own wagon. They take the mirror and carefully load it, and begin trundling through the streets towards Alustriel’s Palace.
“G’day gentlemen,” Grax says with a nod, and he mounts his griffon. Seconds later they’re all airborne and vanishing toward distant airy spires.
Merric sighs. “It could have been worse.”
Douvan agrees. But in truth, he thinks this is probably for the best. If the item is indeed a threat it is better for experienced wizards to deal with it. If nothing else, they’ll get some sort of recompense for their trouble, perhaps a sack of gold. That would be good enough.
PART ONE
[GM Note: These events take place either when the main Shadowfell party has first reached Winterhaven, or right before their arrival. It is likely that Douvan and Merric passed the other heroes on the road without knowing].
[GM Note: This adventure also springboards a homebrew campaign that starts after Shadowfell is complete].
For three days Douvan Stahl and his companion Merric Littlefoot have trudged northward along the Evermoor Way from the small hamlet of Winterhaven, carrying with them a curious artifact: a large ornate mirror confiscated from the watery grave of a dead dragon named Blacksoul. It was not easy to haul the item up from the mud, and even harder to salvage when an ornery bugbear and his friends appeared and tried to murder them.
But the two adventurers prevailed, and upon reaching Winterhaven with the mirror (which surely must be valuable!) the local sage and scholar, portly Valthrun the Prescient, told them that certain parties might want the mirror back at all costs. The mirror, in fact, could cause grave danger for everyone in Winterhaven. Well, Douvan the Ranger and Merric the Rogue didn’t much like the sound of that, but Valthrun was insistent. He had smiled gently, twiddling his wide thumbs.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “just leave and take the mirror as far from Winterhaven as you can. I believe it is called the Mirror of Skarvoss, and a small piece of the Shadowfell is trapped within. The Shadowfell is a dark place of…well…nevermind. Just go, my friends, and may the luck of Tymora be with you.”
But Douvan is not one to rely on luck so much as sweat and blood. Merric…well, yes, he lives day to day on luck and mischief. But they have no problem taking the mirror to Silverymoon. In fact, their sponsor Merple the Moneylender will probably be very interested in what they found and possibly give them a bonus. Their only task originally was to inspect the dragon grave and determine if it was salvageable, but it had been well looted by the kobolds.
That was three days ago when Valthrun’s words first worried them, and since then the two heroes had to fend off an attack by kobolds who had already destroyed another wagon and its occupants.
[GM Note: We didn’t actually play through the fight; there are enough kobolds in this campaign already]
Perhaps the vicious little bastards were hoping to recapture the mirror of Skarvoss, but Douvan and Merric didn’t leave any alive to question afterwards. They encountered no more problems, and on a brilliant vermillion dawn, their wagon being pulled by Jim the Mule, they clear a rocky rise that offers them a majestic view of mighty Silverymoon, Gem of the North.
They enter through the southern gate, passing the School of Thaumaturgy and the Lady’s College. Throngs of people have already begun to stir, and the morning air is split by cries from birds and children and voices in a multitude of racial tongues, soon joined by the creak and groan of daily commerce. Jim plods sullenly onward and they reach the translucent, shimmering Moonbridge that spans the River Rauvin. Merric cannot stand looking down through the semi-transparent bridge into the swirling current below, (it gives him terrible vertigo) so he stares into the sky, whistling.
The Market is bustling with activity from various vendors and customers. Douvan and Merric plan to head straight to Diagon Alley and Merple’s shop, but then a large shadow passes over their wagon from above. Douvan looks up, shielding his eyes, and is surprised to see a large griffon wheeling down on their location. Moments later he spots a second griffon, and then a massive owl joins their ranks, all three bearing armed riders!
“What is this?” mutters Merric, hand flitting to his dagger.
The birds of prey alight on the cobblestone streets right in front of their wagon, and Jim the Mule is clearly displeased at their proximity. A rider clad in purple plumes and purple leather armor, not unlike a bird himself, hops off his griffon. A tiefling woman dismounts as well, but the woman on her owl remains seated. Douvan sees an armband on each person designating them as Silver Knights, part of Silverymoon’s standing army. Douvan raises his hands in submission. He doesn’t want any trouble.
“You there!” shouts the purple-plumed warrior. “Halt in the name of the Griffon Guard! What do you carry in your wagon?”
Dozens of citizens are gawking at this exchange. It is not everyday that the Griffon Guard swoops down from the sky on unsuspecting travelers. A griffon squawks its impatience, shifting from one taloned foot to another.
Douvan clears his throat and answers as honestly as he can. “It is a mirror we found near Winterhaven. We are bringing it to Merple the Moneylender, of Diagon Alley.”
The man steps closer, shouldering a wicked looking longbow. “The Mythal of Silverymoon detected an item of unacceptable power within our borders. It is our sworn duty to inspect any and every violation of the law. Open your wagon, sir. Slowly, please.”
Douvan obliges, sweeping back the fold and pulling off the black cloth to reveal the mirror safely nestled in the back of the wagon.
The Griffon Knight says, “Is that all? A mirror?” He looks somewhat perplexed.
“Yes,” answers Douvan. “We…we aren’t exactly sure what it does. We were just told…” and Douvan relates some of the details about the Mirror of Skarvoss, as told to him by Valthrun the Prescient. He ends with mention of the Shadowfell, and possible danger associated with Winterhaven if it had remained.
The Griffon Knight nods, and when Douvan is done, he snaps his fingers at the others. “This mirror will have to be confiscated and tested. My apology for the inconvenience, but it is our obligation. Please do not argue.”
“But…I…” And yes, Douvan does want to argue, but he doesn’t want to anger them either. “Will we get it back?” he asks imploringly.
“Perhaps,” the Griffon Knight says. “That all depends on what our mages find. But don’t hold your breath in a jelly cube, as they say.”
Douvan wracks his brain about the Silver Knights. They are resourceful and formidable, but known to be fair. Douvan is not a citizen himself, but has spent so much time in this city that it almost feels like home.
“Well…I would like some other compensation then,” Douvan says. “We went through a lot of trouble to get this mirror.”
“A LOT of trouble,” Merric adds peevishly.
The Griffon Knight rubs his chin as Douvan tries to convince him, looking to the owl-rider for advice. “Well, Onyx?” She shrugs, and ultimately he shrugs too and pulls out a piece of parchment. He begins scribbling with a quill. “My name is Grax Steelfeather. Consider this a receipt then. Come to the Rookery at dawn tomorrow, we’ll know by then is this mirror of yours can be returned or not. If not, the City will offer you some sort of reparation. I can’t say what exactly, it’s not up to me.”
Douvan shakes each of their hands, appreciative that he is at least being given a fair chance. Not long after Grax the Griffon Knight hands the parchment to Douvan, a new contingent of Silver Knights arrives with their own wagon. They take the mirror and carefully load it, and begin trundling through the streets towards Alustriel’s Palace.
“G’day gentlemen,” Grax says with a nod, and he mounts his griffon. Seconds later they’re all airborne and vanishing toward distant airy spires.
Merric sighs. “It could have been worse.”
Douvan agrees. But in truth, he thinks this is probably for the best. If the item is indeed a threat it is better for experienced wizards to deal with it. If nothing else, they’ll get some sort of recompense for their trouble, perhaps a sack of gold. That would be good enough.
Nebulous
Legend
Side Trek (II): The Streets of Silverymoon
PART TWO
Merric has some business he must attend to elsewhere, so he bids goodbye to Douvan. The Ranger intends to find Merple the Moneylender and get paid. Merric says that perhaps he will meet him later at The Green Tankard. And if Merple will let Douvan bring Merric’s share of the finder’s fee, all the better. The grizzled ranger retrieves his possessions from the back of the wagon, including the magical maul taken from the bugbear a few days before. He intends to sell it when he gets the chance.
Douvan finds himself winding through the convoluted streets of Silverymoon on his way to Diagon Alley. Silverymoon is a unique place where the various races all live in harmony, and he enjoys walking down tranquil neighborhoods decorated with bright flowers and soaring exotic trees.
He eventually leaves the residential area and reaches Diagon Alley, a place he would not normally visit. Spellcasters of all sorts make their living here, and he passes more than one shop housing bizarre items behind the glass; various stuffed imps with lolling red eyes and urns puffing smelly colored smoke; floating baubles spinning around mannequin heads and rows of twiggy broomsticks designated as: “ON SALE! TODAY ONLY!”
He finally reaches the unadorned door of Merple the Moneylender and raps the appropriate amount of times. A squeaky voice announces: “Enter!” The door swings open of its own accord and Douvan steps in. The place is the same as he remembers, small but cozy, a roaring iron furnace on the wall, a few shallow steps leading down to a den lined with bookshelves. Merple is sitting in a chair behind a desk cluttered with pens, quills and a fat ledger book. There’s a new item though. It looks like a large square cage draped by a blue cloth.
“Douvan!” he cries. “Good to see you again! How did you fare in Winterhaven? Find anything interesting?”
Douvan starts at the beginning and tells him the whole story; the trapped bridge, the flooded excavation site, the dozens of kobolds, the human helping them, the bones and the mirror and the bugbears and Valthrun and the Shadowfell and the Griffon Guard taking the mirror. Merple’s face changes during the story from extreme joy at the beginning, to glum disappointment by the end.
“They took it, eh? Sad, sad, sad news that is. Very sad to hear. It sounded like a most exquisite artifact! Worth a coin or two, I’m sure, I’m sure. I hate to say this, but it is unlikely they will return it, Douvan.”
The ranger is aware of this too, but doesn’t dwell on the news. He steps closer to the cage and is jolted when a pink tongue whips out.
“CROOOAK.” There is a huge toad inside.
“Oh, don’t mind him. That’s Toady, a rare speckled specimen from the Evermoors. Should make short work of the nasty rodents around here. He’s quite nice, actually. I’m fond of him.” Douvan takes his word for it.
As promised, Merple pays his half of the fee for finding the Tomb of Blacksoul and determining that there is nothing there left to salvage. He insists though in paying Merric in person. Merple makes a few notes in his fat ledger book, emphatically dots the entry with his pen, and closes the book.
“Well,” says Merple, “with that done, are you interested in a new job? I always have several pots brewing on the stove. For instance—”
But Merple is interrupted by heavy pounding on the door. The pattern of knocks is very specific. He presses his lips together into a thin line. “Oh my. Oh my oh my oh my. He’s early. Very early.”
Merple is flustered and stands up, wringing his hands. Douvan is confused. “Not good, no no no. Not good at all. Douvan, you must leave. Wait! No! He mustn’t see you leaving, no no no. Hide in the closet here. Wait! No! He’ll look there. Oh my oh my oh my, dear dear dear dear…” Merple pushes Douvan toward the cage. “Go in there with Toady. Don’t worry, he’s very gentle! Just be quiet and don’t say a word. Zip! Zip!” Merple makes a pinching motion across his lips.
Douvan stares at the dark cage with the big toad inside. He doesn’t like the sound of this, but Merple is clearly upset. “Are you sure, Merp—”
“Yes! Yes! Just go!” he hisses. “And quietly!” To the door he shouts: “Coming! Just a wee moment!”
Douvan is bustled into the cage with the wet, spotted amphibian, and a tongue lashes out to lick his arm. Or taste him, he isn’t sure which. There is not much room and Douvan maneuvers to the back, hunching down for as much cover as possible and peeking out through the dark fabric draped over the cage. Merple has returned to his chair, pressing down the lapels of his coat, and then announces: “Ah…enter!”
The front door creaks open. A shaft of light spills down the steps, a shadow elongated upon the threshold. From his position, Douvan cannot see who it is. Footsteps slowly click into the room, and then the door closes.
“Balthazar!” says Merple with forced sincerity. “A pleasure to see you so soon, a pleasure indeed. How…ahem…how can I help you today?”
A man says, “Help me, Merple? I believe you have helped me enough already.” The voice drips with sarcasm. Douvan shifts for a better angle, peeking out into the room. A man clad in black robes with red trim and a pointed hat has stopped in front of Merple’s desk. Draped around his neck is a hissing maroon pseudodragon, its yellow eyes glaring all directions.
Douvan’s stomach lurches. This man is obviously a wizard with his familiar, and he does not look happy.
“What seems to be the problem, Balthazar?” asks Merple. “Perhaps we can work out—”
“The problem, my squat Halfling, has to do with a bag of powdered unicorn hoof you sold me. The PROBLEM, my dear, conniving, treacherous little half-man, is that you sold me powdered mule’s hoof instead!”
The pseudodragon spits and hisses, flapping its wings. Merple pales.
“It’s not true!” he wails, his voice squeakier than ever. “It’s not true, Balthazar! I didn’t know! I didn’t know!”
“It’s your job to know,” growls the wizard, producing a long, thin maple wand from the depths of his robe.
The pseudodragon leaps from his shoulder and flaps to the floor, sniffing. “Do you think that Balthazar of the Potion Emporium wouldn’t notice that kind of trick in my magical workings? Do you even comprehend the sort of unwanted side effects that arise from daring to ADD a mule’s foot? DO YOU? Or course not!” Merple falls to his knees, begging and pleading.
Douvan pushes the fat toad aside, wondering what in the Nine Hells he has gotten himself into. Toady pushes back some, feeling equally cramped in the cage. Douvan is knocked into a latch he had not seen previously. There seems to be a secondary door on the back of the cage that is flush to the stone wall. He peeks out the curtain again. The pseudodragon is closer, sniffing and snarling.
“It was an honest mistake!” shrieks Merple. “Please believe me, Balthazar! It won’t happen again, I swear!”
“Oh, I know it won’t,” the wizard says airily. “Not for the next day at least. After that, I expect you to be on your best behavior, Merple.”
The tip of the wand begins to glow blue. Merple’s face is bathed in its light. “What are you going to do?” he whispers in abject terror.
The wizard’s smile is not pleasant. “Teach you a lesson.”
“You don’t have to do this.”
“Yes. I DO.”
A thin beam of light streaks out, enveloping Merple and followed by a puff of acrid smoke. He screams once, but when the smoke clears Merple is no longer there, replaced by a large squat frog, a pair of oversized glasses dangling awkwardly from its face.
Merple-Frog croaks and hops away, while Balthazar cannot help but to laugh. He puts the wand away, circles around to the ledger book and begins flipping through it, still chuckling. Douvan is appalled, and not more than a little terrified! He shrinks back into the cage, but the pseudodragon familiar is curious about Toady and the shadow lurking behind it. It has moved closer than ever, ruffling its wings and squawking a warning to its master.
Balthazar looks up from the ledger. “What is it? Oh my, yes. Look, Merple! You have a friend here! One of the few you’ll probably ever make. Wretch.”
Balthazar walks closer to the draped cage. His eyes narrow. “Is someone…in there?”
Icy cold fear fills Douvan’s gut. He nearly springs out of the cage, using the toad as a shield and bolting for the door, but doubts his chances. The wizard’s wand is out again. Douvan brushes the backdoor latch, and this time in the subsequent glow from the wand he sees the outline of a trapdoor in the wall outside the cage. The cage is pressed flush against it. Douvan does not waste another second. He pushes the toad out of the way, jerks the small cage door open, and presses on the stone outline. There is a quiet click as a secret panel opens.
“WHO IS THERE?” bellows the magician. “SHOOOOOOOW YOURSELF!”
The front door of the cage magically jerks open and Toady wriggles out, just about the same time as Douvan has squeezed himself into a passage obviously made to accommodate a halfling and not a human. He tries to close the secret door just as the red pseudodragon darts into the cage. Douvan succeeds, and then shuffles on his elbows through a narrow dank tunnel, but soon bumps his head on a stone wall. Beneath his fingers he feels a wooden trapdoor with a metal ring. He pulls up, feels space yawning beneath him and an unpleasant stink. He doesn’t have time to ponder the destination. The secret passage is opening behind him. His fingers scramble for a dilapidated wooden ladder, and then Douvan is moving down, down, down into darkness, his boots scuffing on wood and stone, his heart hammering in his chest. Blue light fills the tunnel above him and he hears the throaty rasp of the pseudodragon. He hears running water and the strong smell of a sewer, and soon Douvan’s feet touch on a cold stone floor. Far above him the blue light winks out, and then he hears doors slamming.
He’s trapped down here. Wherever “here” is. He can’t see a thing in the pitch blackness.
PART TWO
Merric has some business he must attend to elsewhere, so he bids goodbye to Douvan. The Ranger intends to find Merple the Moneylender and get paid. Merric says that perhaps he will meet him later at The Green Tankard. And if Merple will let Douvan bring Merric’s share of the finder’s fee, all the better. The grizzled ranger retrieves his possessions from the back of the wagon, including the magical maul taken from the bugbear a few days before. He intends to sell it when he gets the chance.
Douvan finds himself winding through the convoluted streets of Silverymoon on his way to Diagon Alley. Silverymoon is a unique place where the various races all live in harmony, and he enjoys walking down tranquil neighborhoods decorated with bright flowers and soaring exotic trees.
He eventually leaves the residential area and reaches Diagon Alley, a place he would not normally visit. Spellcasters of all sorts make their living here, and he passes more than one shop housing bizarre items behind the glass; various stuffed imps with lolling red eyes and urns puffing smelly colored smoke; floating baubles spinning around mannequin heads and rows of twiggy broomsticks designated as: “ON SALE! TODAY ONLY!”
He finally reaches the unadorned door of Merple the Moneylender and raps the appropriate amount of times. A squeaky voice announces: “Enter!” The door swings open of its own accord and Douvan steps in. The place is the same as he remembers, small but cozy, a roaring iron furnace on the wall, a few shallow steps leading down to a den lined with bookshelves. Merple is sitting in a chair behind a desk cluttered with pens, quills and a fat ledger book. There’s a new item though. It looks like a large square cage draped by a blue cloth.
“Douvan!” he cries. “Good to see you again! How did you fare in Winterhaven? Find anything interesting?”
Douvan starts at the beginning and tells him the whole story; the trapped bridge, the flooded excavation site, the dozens of kobolds, the human helping them, the bones and the mirror and the bugbears and Valthrun and the Shadowfell and the Griffon Guard taking the mirror. Merple’s face changes during the story from extreme joy at the beginning, to glum disappointment by the end.
“They took it, eh? Sad, sad, sad news that is. Very sad to hear. It sounded like a most exquisite artifact! Worth a coin or two, I’m sure, I’m sure. I hate to say this, but it is unlikely they will return it, Douvan.”
The ranger is aware of this too, but doesn’t dwell on the news. He steps closer to the cage and is jolted when a pink tongue whips out.
“CROOOAK.” There is a huge toad inside.
“Oh, don’t mind him. That’s Toady, a rare speckled specimen from the Evermoors. Should make short work of the nasty rodents around here. He’s quite nice, actually. I’m fond of him.” Douvan takes his word for it.
As promised, Merple pays his half of the fee for finding the Tomb of Blacksoul and determining that there is nothing there left to salvage. He insists though in paying Merric in person. Merple makes a few notes in his fat ledger book, emphatically dots the entry with his pen, and closes the book.
“Well,” says Merple, “with that done, are you interested in a new job? I always have several pots brewing on the stove. For instance—”
But Merple is interrupted by heavy pounding on the door. The pattern of knocks is very specific. He presses his lips together into a thin line. “Oh my. Oh my oh my oh my. He’s early. Very early.”
Merple is flustered and stands up, wringing his hands. Douvan is confused. “Not good, no no no. Not good at all. Douvan, you must leave. Wait! No! He mustn’t see you leaving, no no no. Hide in the closet here. Wait! No! He’ll look there. Oh my oh my oh my, dear dear dear dear…” Merple pushes Douvan toward the cage. “Go in there with Toady. Don’t worry, he’s very gentle! Just be quiet and don’t say a word. Zip! Zip!” Merple makes a pinching motion across his lips.
Douvan stares at the dark cage with the big toad inside. He doesn’t like the sound of this, but Merple is clearly upset. “Are you sure, Merp—”
“Yes! Yes! Just go!” he hisses. “And quietly!” To the door he shouts: “Coming! Just a wee moment!”
Douvan is bustled into the cage with the wet, spotted amphibian, and a tongue lashes out to lick his arm. Or taste him, he isn’t sure which. There is not much room and Douvan maneuvers to the back, hunching down for as much cover as possible and peeking out through the dark fabric draped over the cage. Merple has returned to his chair, pressing down the lapels of his coat, and then announces: “Ah…enter!”
The front door creaks open. A shaft of light spills down the steps, a shadow elongated upon the threshold. From his position, Douvan cannot see who it is. Footsteps slowly click into the room, and then the door closes.
“Balthazar!” says Merple with forced sincerity. “A pleasure to see you so soon, a pleasure indeed. How…ahem…how can I help you today?”
A man says, “Help me, Merple? I believe you have helped me enough already.” The voice drips with sarcasm. Douvan shifts for a better angle, peeking out into the room. A man clad in black robes with red trim and a pointed hat has stopped in front of Merple’s desk. Draped around his neck is a hissing maroon pseudodragon, its yellow eyes glaring all directions.
Douvan’s stomach lurches. This man is obviously a wizard with his familiar, and he does not look happy.
“What seems to be the problem, Balthazar?” asks Merple. “Perhaps we can work out—”
“The problem, my squat Halfling, has to do with a bag of powdered unicorn hoof you sold me. The PROBLEM, my dear, conniving, treacherous little half-man, is that you sold me powdered mule’s hoof instead!”
The pseudodragon spits and hisses, flapping its wings. Merple pales.
“It’s not true!” he wails, his voice squeakier than ever. “It’s not true, Balthazar! I didn’t know! I didn’t know!”
“It’s your job to know,” growls the wizard, producing a long, thin maple wand from the depths of his robe.
The pseudodragon leaps from his shoulder and flaps to the floor, sniffing. “Do you think that Balthazar of the Potion Emporium wouldn’t notice that kind of trick in my magical workings? Do you even comprehend the sort of unwanted side effects that arise from daring to ADD a mule’s foot? DO YOU? Or course not!” Merple falls to his knees, begging and pleading.
Douvan pushes the fat toad aside, wondering what in the Nine Hells he has gotten himself into. Toady pushes back some, feeling equally cramped in the cage. Douvan is knocked into a latch he had not seen previously. There seems to be a secondary door on the back of the cage that is flush to the stone wall. He peeks out the curtain again. The pseudodragon is closer, sniffing and snarling.
“It was an honest mistake!” shrieks Merple. “Please believe me, Balthazar! It won’t happen again, I swear!”
“Oh, I know it won’t,” the wizard says airily. “Not for the next day at least. After that, I expect you to be on your best behavior, Merple.”
The tip of the wand begins to glow blue. Merple’s face is bathed in its light. “What are you going to do?” he whispers in abject terror.
The wizard’s smile is not pleasant. “Teach you a lesson.”
“You don’t have to do this.”
“Yes. I DO.”
A thin beam of light streaks out, enveloping Merple and followed by a puff of acrid smoke. He screams once, but when the smoke clears Merple is no longer there, replaced by a large squat frog, a pair of oversized glasses dangling awkwardly from its face.
Merple-Frog croaks and hops away, while Balthazar cannot help but to laugh. He puts the wand away, circles around to the ledger book and begins flipping through it, still chuckling. Douvan is appalled, and not more than a little terrified! He shrinks back into the cage, but the pseudodragon familiar is curious about Toady and the shadow lurking behind it. It has moved closer than ever, ruffling its wings and squawking a warning to its master.
Balthazar looks up from the ledger. “What is it? Oh my, yes. Look, Merple! You have a friend here! One of the few you’ll probably ever make. Wretch.”
Balthazar walks closer to the draped cage. His eyes narrow. “Is someone…in there?”
Icy cold fear fills Douvan’s gut. He nearly springs out of the cage, using the toad as a shield and bolting for the door, but doubts his chances. The wizard’s wand is out again. Douvan brushes the backdoor latch, and this time in the subsequent glow from the wand he sees the outline of a trapdoor in the wall outside the cage. The cage is pressed flush against it. Douvan does not waste another second. He pushes the toad out of the way, jerks the small cage door open, and presses on the stone outline. There is a quiet click as a secret panel opens.
“WHO IS THERE?” bellows the magician. “SHOOOOOOOW YOURSELF!”
The front door of the cage magically jerks open and Toady wriggles out, just about the same time as Douvan has squeezed himself into a passage obviously made to accommodate a halfling and not a human. He tries to close the secret door just as the red pseudodragon darts into the cage. Douvan succeeds, and then shuffles on his elbows through a narrow dank tunnel, but soon bumps his head on a stone wall. Beneath his fingers he feels a wooden trapdoor with a metal ring. He pulls up, feels space yawning beneath him and an unpleasant stink. He doesn’t have time to ponder the destination. The secret passage is opening behind him. His fingers scramble for a dilapidated wooden ladder, and then Douvan is moving down, down, down into darkness, his boots scuffing on wood and stone, his heart hammering in his chest. Blue light fills the tunnel above him and he hears the throaty rasp of the pseudodragon. He hears running water and the strong smell of a sewer, and soon Douvan’s feet touch on a cold stone floor. Far above him the blue light winks out, and then he hears doors slamming.
He’s trapped down here. Wherever “here” is. He can’t see a thing in the pitch blackness.
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Nebulous
Legend
Wand of Polymorph
I couldn't resist throwing a Wand of Polymorph into the adventure. It scared the player pretty bad (this was a solo obviously). Mechanically, in 4e, i imagine it would work on just a temporay basis, or work like Turned to Stone. Merple (behind the scenes) failed all of his saving throws and was stuck in that shape.
I couldn't resist throwing a Wand of Polymorph into the adventure. It scared the player pretty bad (this was a solo obviously). Mechanically, in 4e, i imagine it would work on just a temporay basis, or work like Turned to Stone. Merple (behind the scenes) failed all of his saving throws and was stuck in that shape.
Nebulous
Legend
Side Trek (II): The Streets of Silverymoon
PART THREE
He’s trapped down here. Wherever “here” is. He can’t see a thing in the pitch blackness.
He’s not terribly worried yet. He did not descend far; he’s surely in the upper level of Silverymoon’s sewer system, which is well maintained by sweepers and ratters. His keen directional sense gives him an idea of which way to go, and he knows that the aqueducts empty to the east. Plus, he has several sunrods that will light the way if all else fails, but he doesn’t want to use them quite yet. Too much light. Feeling along the wet, slick walls, Douvan eventually finds a torch sconce and half a torch. He lights it with tindertwigs and looks around him in the wan illumination. He’s on the cusp of a sluggish, stinking channel, bobbing with all sorts of glistening, unsavory things.
Douvan starts walking toward what he hopes is an exit.
The debacle upstairs worries him though. Merple has never wronged Douvan, not that he’s aware, and his punishment at the hands of the mage seems unduly cruel. Transmogrification or Polymorph, whatever they call it, also seems illegal. Douvan starts to wonder if there is a way to blackmail the wizard, and then he has second thoughts about that as well. He’ll need to speak with Merric first. One must never be careless with a wizard.
Half an hour later Douvan stops cold when he hears a new sound over the swish of dirty water – a rhythmic flapping like a wet leather sheet, and it is moving closer. He pulls his sword and waits, unable to see anything down the dingy tunnel more than twenty feet or so, listening to something draw nearer, and nearer, and nearer, and THEN—
Something bulbous, pink and veined explodes around a corner at high speed! It careens off a wall and whips past him, darkness swallowing it within seconds, coming and going so fast that Douvan barely caught a glimpse. His heart rate finally starts to slow, and he thinks back on what he knows about creatures in the sewer system. It must have been a sludge bat, a relatively harmless if disgusting denizen of the region.
He continues, eventually reaching a junction blocked by slick green slime dripping from the ceiling. He can possibly leap to the far side but would rather not risk it. Untold diseases lurk in the water. Douvan hunches down and waits, anticipating some flotsam and jetsam to float by eventually, maybe something that will support his weight so he can vault across.
He hasn’t been waiting long when he hears voices in the distance.
Douvan slowly grinds out his torch and retreats a short ways, watching torchlight approach from a tunnel across the watery channel.
“I’m hungry,” a voice rasps. “Where’d that sludge bat go?”
“I dunno,” says another. “Shut up.”
Douvan also hears rats squeaking, and a few moments later several unsavory characters enter his sight. They’re ratmen, almost surely the lycanthrope kind, with elongated noses and twitching whiskers. They’re armed with shortswords, and the foremost wererat carries a torch. A few filthy rats scurry around their feet.
Douvan presses his back against the wall, cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. They’re heading his way, and their vision is much, much keener than his own. This is also their element, and he’s not sure if he can take on two of them at once. Separately perhaps, yes, but both? They’re filthy, cruel little monsters, and he is sorry that he encountered them. Worse, as lycanthropes, he lacks a silver weapon to make the wererats truly howl in pain. This won’t be easy.
The wererats push open a moldy door and root around inside, then exit again and stand at the lip of the channel. “We’ll jump,” one of them says. “Stand back, need room.”
Douvan sees his chance. He unslings his bow, peeking around the corner from cover. The ratman has backed up, testing his footing, and then sprints forward, gaining momentum to leap over the gap. Douvan readies to fire just as the wererat is about to leave his platform. The arrow catches him square in the chest. It shrieks in midair, floundering, hits the corner of the far walkway and flops into the water. It rises, sputtering and choking and squealing as the current carries it down the tunnel.
“Meazel! HELP!”
The other wererat follows, extending a hand to pull him out. Smiling, Douvan shoulders his bow and backtracks until he finds a hidden storage room. Inside he finds some old mops, one of which is sturdy enough to use as a pole. Praying for the luck of Tymora, he prods the bottom of the stinking channel, and then hurls himself across. He thuds to the other side, safe and sound, and keeps walking. He soon finds a new door, but it is swollen in the frame. He rams a shoulder into it, bounces off, and then tries a better plan.
Skullthumper.
He takes the maul out and starts hitting the door. Cracks appear, spreading wider and wider, and soon he has battered the door down. He steps inside a disgusting room filled with rotting bags of grain covered with tiny black insects. There is a cracked barrel that he rolls in front of the door, and then he takes some time to reapply the pitch to his torch. There is only enough fuel left for a few minutes, but he still has the sunrods. Unfortunately, the sunrods will draw the attention of anything nearby long before Douvan sees it approaching.
He finds a second door, but there is only wrecked equipment beyond it. Then he sees the ladder.
The same sort of ladder that led him down here to begin with. He has just started climbing up rungs when he hears footsteps approaching! Outside the ravaged door he sees the wobble of torchlight. Fearing that is the wererats again, he climbs the ladder double haste, pushes through a lid at the top and finds himself in a narrow drainage tunnel flooded by a beautiful thing—
SUNLIGHT!
There is an iron grill above his head, but once he laces his fingers through it Douvan finds that the grill is firmly secured. He hears wagons outside rolling across flagstone streets and the neigh of horses. He sees legs walking by, so he’s probably standing in a drainage tunnel on a main thoroughfare.
“Hey! Someone help me!” he calls out. He’s ignored for the most part, and then he hears sounds from below. At least one person has entered the room beneath him.
“Is anybody there? I need out of here! Help!”
Finally, a pair of immaculate shoes stops beside the grate. The face is unseen because of the dazzling corona of the sun behind the man’s head.
“What are you doing in the drain?” asks the man. Douvan is VERY disappointed to find that the man’s voice is familiar.
“Ah…please…ah…please help me out,” he says lamely.
The other man is quiet for a moment, and then with an exasperated huff, mutters, “Very well. Stand back.” He pulls forth a maple wand, taps the iron grid, it shudders violently, and then peels back like the skin of a soft fruit. Thanking the gods for his fortune (and wondering at the incredible irony of his benefactor being someone he does not want to see again), makes sure his assumption is correct.
It is. His savior is none other than Balthazar of the Potion Emporium, with a rather mean-looking pseudodragon curled about his shoulders like a scaly cat. Up close Douvan sees his bushy black eyebrows, and the glint of intelligent green eyes.
“Can you help me up?” asks Douvan.
Rolling his eyes, the mage in the pointed hat starts to oblige, but pulls back. “By the gods, man, you reek! No! I won’t help.”
Douvan pulls himself out and stands up, turns around calmly, and fires an arrow down the shaft. He hears a shriek.
“Do…I know you,” asks the wizard slowly.
Douvan shakes his head. “No. No, I don’t believe you do.”
The cage with Toady had been very dark, and Douvan scampered from sight before they had a good look. But the pseudodragon looks suspicious…and so does his master.
Nevertheless, Douvan thanks them again and then jogs into the crowded streets, putting as much distance as he can between them, and tries to remember how to get to the Green Tankard to tell Merric the story. He needs a beer after all of that.
And a bath.
And there we stopped.
PART THREE
He’s trapped down here. Wherever “here” is. He can’t see a thing in the pitch blackness.
He’s not terribly worried yet. He did not descend far; he’s surely in the upper level of Silverymoon’s sewer system, which is well maintained by sweepers and ratters. His keen directional sense gives him an idea of which way to go, and he knows that the aqueducts empty to the east. Plus, he has several sunrods that will light the way if all else fails, but he doesn’t want to use them quite yet. Too much light. Feeling along the wet, slick walls, Douvan eventually finds a torch sconce and half a torch. He lights it with tindertwigs and looks around him in the wan illumination. He’s on the cusp of a sluggish, stinking channel, bobbing with all sorts of glistening, unsavory things.
Douvan starts walking toward what he hopes is an exit.
The debacle upstairs worries him though. Merple has never wronged Douvan, not that he’s aware, and his punishment at the hands of the mage seems unduly cruel. Transmogrification or Polymorph, whatever they call it, also seems illegal. Douvan starts to wonder if there is a way to blackmail the wizard, and then he has second thoughts about that as well. He’ll need to speak with Merric first. One must never be careless with a wizard.
Half an hour later Douvan stops cold when he hears a new sound over the swish of dirty water – a rhythmic flapping like a wet leather sheet, and it is moving closer. He pulls his sword and waits, unable to see anything down the dingy tunnel more than twenty feet or so, listening to something draw nearer, and nearer, and nearer, and THEN—
Something bulbous, pink and veined explodes around a corner at high speed! It careens off a wall and whips past him, darkness swallowing it within seconds, coming and going so fast that Douvan barely caught a glimpse. His heart rate finally starts to slow, and he thinks back on what he knows about creatures in the sewer system. It must have been a sludge bat, a relatively harmless if disgusting denizen of the region.
He continues, eventually reaching a junction blocked by slick green slime dripping from the ceiling. He can possibly leap to the far side but would rather not risk it. Untold diseases lurk in the water. Douvan hunches down and waits, anticipating some flotsam and jetsam to float by eventually, maybe something that will support his weight so he can vault across.
He hasn’t been waiting long when he hears voices in the distance.
Douvan slowly grinds out his torch and retreats a short ways, watching torchlight approach from a tunnel across the watery channel.
“I’m hungry,” a voice rasps. “Where’d that sludge bat go?”
“I dunno,” says another. “Shut up.”
Douvan also hears rats squeaking, and a few moments later several unsavory characters enter his sight. They’re ratmen, almost surely the lycanthrope kind, with elongated noses and twitching whiskers. They’re armed with shortswords, and the foremost wererat carries a torch. A few filthy rats scurry around their feet.
Douvan presses his back against the wall, cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. They’re heading his way, and their vision is much, much keener than his own. This is also their element, and he’s not sure if he can take on two of them at once. Separately perhaps, yes, but both? They’re filthy, cruel little monsters, and he is sorry that he encountered them. Worse, as lycanthropes, he lacks a silver weapon to make the wererats truly howl in pain. This won’t be easy.
The wererats push open a moldy door and root around inside, then exit again and stand at the lip of the channel. “We’ll jump,” one of them says. “Stand back, need room.”
Douvan sees his chance. He unslings his bow, peeking around the corner from cover. The ratman has backed up, testing his footing, and then sprints forward, gaining momentum to leap over the gap. Douvan readies to fire just as the wererat is about to leave his platform. The arrow catches him square in the chest. It shrieks in midair, floundering, hits the corner of the far walkway and flops into the water. It rises, sputtering and choking and squealing as the current carries it down the tunnel.
“Meazel! HELP!”
The other wererat follows, extending a hand to pull him out. Smiling, Douvan shoulders his bow and backtracks until he finds a hidden storage room. Inside he finds some old mops, one of which is sturdy enough to use as a pole. Praying for the luck of Tymora, he prods the bottom of the stinking channel, and then hurls himself across. He thuds to the other side, safe and sound, and keeps walking. He soon finds a new door, but it is swollen in the frame. He rams a shoulder into it, bounces off, and then tries a better plan.
Skullthumper.
He takes the maul out and starts hitting the door. Cracks appear, spreading wider and wider, and soon he has battered the door down. He steps inside a disgusting room filled with rotting bags of grain covered with tiny black insects. There is a cracked barrel that he rolls in front of the door, and then he takes some time to reapply the pitch to his torch. There is only enough fuel left for a few minutes, but he still has the sunrods. Unfortunately, the sunrods will draw the attention of anything nearby long before Douvan sees it approaching.
He finds a second door, but there is only wrecked equipment beyond it. Then he sees the ladder.
The same sort of ladder that led him down here to begin with. He has just started climbing up rungs when he hears footsteps approaching! Outside the ravaged door he sees the wobble of torchlight. Fearing that is the wererats again, he climbs the ladder double haste, pushes through a lid at the top and finds himself in a narrow drainage tunnel flooded by a beautiful thing—
SUNLIGHT!
There is an iron grill above his head, but once he laces his fingers through it Douvan finds that the grill is firmly secured. He hears wagons outside rolling across flagstone streets and the neigh of horses. He sees legs walking by, so he’s probably standing in a drainage tunnel on a main thoroughfare.
“Hey! Someone help me!” he calls out. He’s ignored for the most part, and then he hears sounds from below. At least one person has entered the room beneath him.
“Is anybody there? I need out of here! Help!”
Finally, a pair of immaculate shoes stops beside the grate. The face is unseen because of the dazzling corona of the sun behind the man’s head.
“What are you doing in the drain?” asks the man. Douvan is VERY disappointed to find that the man’s voice is familiar.
“Ah…please…ah…please help me out,” he says lamely.
The other man is quiet for a moment, and then with an exasperated huff, mutters, “Very well. Stand back.” He pulls forth a maple wand, taps the iron grid, it shudders violently, and then peels back like the skin of a soft fruit. Thanking the gods for his fortune (and wondering at the incredible irony of his benefactor being someone he does not want to see again), makes sure his assumption is correct.
It is. His savior is none other than Balthazar of the Potion Emporium, with a rather mean-looking pseudodragon curled about his shoulders like a scaly cat. Up close Douvan sees his bushy black eyebrows, and the glint of intelligent green eyes.
“Can you help me up?” asks Douvan.
Rolling his eyes, the mage in the pointed hat starts to oblige, but pulls back. “By the gods, man, you reek! No! I won’t help.”
Douvan pulls himself out and stands up, turns around calmly, and fires an arrow down the shaft. He hears a shriek.
“Do…I know you,” asks the wizard slowly.
Douvan shakes his head. “No. No, I don’t believe you do.”
The cage with Toady had been very dark, and Douvan scampered from sight before they had a good look. But the pseudodragon looks suspicious…and so does his master.
Nevertheless, Douvan thanks them again and then jogs into the crowded streets, putting as much distance as he can between them, and tries to remember how to get to the Green Tankard to tell Merric the story. He needs a beer after all of that.
And a bath.
And there we stopped.
Nebulous
Legend
Adventure #8: Caves of Peril
PART ONE
Kerric, Helga, Erevan, Irann, Brandis Padraig and Splug the Goblin are in Boss Fatty’s bedchamber, looking down the narrow, twisting tunnel. The fat goblin boss and his accomplice have escaped, and judging from the scuff marks and a dust-free rectangular block of tile, they’re dragging a small chest with them. Do they follow? Do they wait and see if Fatty turns up elsewhere? After their last tangle with the goblins they decide to rest for a few minutes and recuperate, but this gives Fatty even more of a head start. It doesn’t matter; the group needs time to discuss their options.
According to their sketched map, the tunnel should exit roughly near the excavation site. But from there Fatty could have roamed anywhere, even back to the surface if he wished. But they think that the treasure chest will be relatively easy to follow. The scuff marks are distinct.
Helga the Dwarf Fighter is chomping at the bit to track him down and crack her axe on Fatty’s skull. She’s very impatient with all the chitchat and planning, but the others are more cautious, throwing magical and mundane light down the tunnel first. Splug is asked to search it, but mumbling his refusal, he’s obviously scared of coming face to face with Fatty, and they don’t want to sacrifice Splug (also called SPUD by the group) in such a worthless fashion. They’ve actually come to like the little groveling guy. His chunky yellow face beams up at them with approval when they say he doesn’t have to investigate.
The group is not badly hurt, so they return to the main entryway, even checking the surface for clues. Daylight filters down the steps, but there is no sign of anyone else. Moving down the stairs toward the dig site, they find a secret door in the wall gaping open, forming an S-shape that snakes back to Fatty’s chamber. The chest has been dragged across the corridor and down a set of steps into a natural cavern…
…the same cavern where an unknown monster burned Splug with acid.
The goblin is terrified to return, but feels safer in the company of his new, formidable friends. They check the excavation site and see that no one has been here either. Helga and Kerric naturally take the lead, brandishing their blades, and navigate down the stairs toward the cavern. The room beyond is riddled with dripping stalactites. The air is noticeably cooler. Somewhere in the distance Kerric thinks he hears the squeak of rats, but he is hardly worried about that. Rats are sword fodder.
“Gonna bash me some goblins,” mutters Helga darkly, not for the first time. Her bloodlust has been raised ever since the last fight. Usually, multiple cold beers are required to calm her down.
The fighter and paladin advance silently, senses alert, when Kerric suddenly shouts:
“…the floor…BY KELEMVOR!”
It crumbles under their feet, plunging them into a deep pit. Helga shrieks, a baritone dwarvish cry of pain, and the others hear the crunch of bone, metal, and stone. The dwarf and paladin are crumpled twenty feet below, moaning.
“Ah don’t like this,” mutters Helga, spitting dirt from her mouth.
“Me neither,” says Kerric, standing up and dusting himself off. He looks up at the others. “We’re fine. We need a rope, or—wait…what NOW?”
The paladin tenses, his hands darting out to brace himself, but it is too late. Helga’s fingers scramble on stone. She’s screaming for help as the floor beneath them fractures, splinters, and crumbles away, dropping both heroes into utter darkness!
Irann, Brandis, Erevan and Splug hear the splash of water and gurgling cries that quickly fade away.
The dwarf and paladin are gone.
PART ONE
Kerric, Helga, Erevan, Irann, Brandis Padraig and Splug the Goblin are in Boss Fatty’s bedchamber, looking down the narrow, twisting tunnel. The fat goblin boss and his accomplice have escaped, and judging from the scuff marks and a dust-free rectangular block of tile, they’re dragging a small chest with them. Do they follow? Do they wait and see if Fatty turns up elsewhere? After their last tangle with the goblins they decide to rest for a few minutes and recuperate, but this gives Fatty even more of a head start. It doesn’t matter; the group needs time to discuss their options.
According to their sketched map, the tunnel should exit roughly near the excavation site. But from there Fatty could have roamed anywhere, even back to the surface if he wished. But they think that the treasure chest will be relatively easy to follow. The scuff marks are distinct.
Helga the Dwarf Fighter is chomping at the bit to track him down and crack her axe on Fatty’s skull. She’s very impatient with all the chitchat and planning, but the others are more cautious, throwing magical and mundane light down the tunnel first. Splug is asked to search it, but mumbling his refusal, he’s obviously scared of coming face to face with Fatty, and they don’t want to sacrifice Splug (also called SPUD by the group) in such a worthless fashion. They’ve actually come to like the little groveling guy. His chunky yellow face beams up at them with approval when they say he doesn’t have to investigate.
The group is not badly hurt, so they return to the main entryway, even checking the surface for clues. Daylight filters down the steps, but there is no sign of anyone else. Moving down the stairs toward the dig site, they find a secret door in the wall gaping open, forming an S-shape that snakes back to Fatty’s chamber. The chest has been dragged across the corridor and down a set of steps into a natural cavern…
…the same cavern where an unknown monster burned Splug with acid.
The goblin is terrified to return, but feels safer in the company of his new, formidable friends. They check the excavation site and see that no one has been here either. Helga and Kerric naturally take the lead, brandishing their blades, and navigate down the stairs toward the cavern. The room beyond is riddled with dripping stalactites. The air is noticeably cooler. Somewhere in the distance Kerric thinks he hears the squeak of rats, but he is hardly worried about that. Rats are sword fodder.
“Gonna bash me some goblins,” mutters Helga darkly, not for the first time. Her bloodlust has been raised ever since the last fight. Usually, multiple cold beers are required to calm her down.
The fighter and paladin advance silently, senses alert, when Kerric suddenly shouts:
“…the floor…BY KELEMVOR!”
It crumbles under their feet, plunging them into a deep pit. Helga shrieks, a baritone dwarvish cry of pain, and the others hear the crunch of bone, metal, and stone. The dwarf and paladin are crumpled twenty feet below, moaning.
“Ah don’t like this,” mutters Helga, spitting dirt from her mouth.
“Me neither,” says Kerric, standing up and dusting himself off. He looks up at the others. “We’re fine. We need a rope, or—wait…what NOW?”
The paladin tenses, his hands darting out to brace himself, but it is too late. Helga’s fingers scramble on stone. She’s screaming for help as the floor beneath them fractures, splinters, and crumbles away, dropping both heroes into utter darkness!
Irann, Brandis, Erevan and Splug hear the splash of water and gurgling cries that quickly fade away.
The dwarf and paladin are gone.
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Nebulous
Legend
Adventure #8: Caves of Peril
PART TWO
“After them!” yells Erevan. He rips coiled rope off his back and throws it around a stalagmite. Glancing up, however, he sees multiple tiny red eyes on the ceiling. He tosses a light spell, scattering several large rats hiding up there among the jagged rocks. Returning to the pit, Erevan ties two lengths of rope together, cracks a sunrod, attaches it to the end and tosses it down into the hole. Brilliant light fills a natural cavern before plunging into frigid water, becoming blurry and diffracted. Splug is wringing his hands and moaning.
“Why didn’t you tell us there was a trap here?” demands Brandis.
Splug shakes his head. “Me not know! Hmm-mmm. Goblin not weigh much. Big man heavy.”
They call their friends’ names, but there is no answer. Altogether, they’ve fallen over 60 feet into icy water. Drowning or battered to death on rocks is a very real possibility. They have to find them as soon as possible or it will be too late. Brandis volunteers to go down first, so securing his weapons, he clambers hand over hand down the rope. He’s swaying back and forth in midair, gazing at eerie rock formations that have developed over hundreds if not thousands of years.
With some difficulty, Brandis finally reaches the river bank. It is steep, slick rock, and his footing is precarious, but there is no other sign of immediate danger. The tunnel continues south for fifty yards before rounding a bend, and it is obvious that Helga and Kerric have been swept down this way. Brandis ties the other end of the rope to a stalagmite.
“Did you know there was an underground river?” Iraan asks Splug. The goblin shakes his head, no. He had no idea this was below the keep. Not liking this development one bit, Irann rubs her hands briskly and prepares for some physical exertion. This is not her area of expertise. And this is exemplified seconds later when her grip slips from the rope--and with a shriek--she’s in freefall. Brandis watches helplessly as the warlock lashes out for the rope, catching herself before she hits the water or sharp rocks. She lands on the far side of the river, trembling in fear.
Splug is next and shimmies down like a champ. Lastly, Erevan makes it partway and then Fey Steps the rest of the distance. But Brandis is on a different side than the others, so after some testing (the water is fairly deep here) they are able to throw a rope across so that Brandis joins them.
But then Erevan hears laughter, and looking at the shattered hole in the ceiling he sees two leering goblin faces: Boss Fatty and his buddy. The goblin boss laughs once more and then tosses the other end of the rope into the hole.
Now they’re trapped down here.
“Thank you!” Erevan yells.
“I hate that goblin,” mutters Brandis. Splug (Spud) nods furiously in agreement.
The bank of the river can be followed if they’re careful, but it is slow going. They have to pick their way through tight rock formations. A while later they see a cave entrance on the far side of the river. There are runes and words carved into the archway, but they’re not close enough to decipher them, and don’t want to waste time instead of finding Helga and Kerric. They keep going, but soon reach another bend in the river and find a similar archway on their side. Brandis sees goblin runes engraved above the tunnel.
The first inscription is the oldest and barely legible. An arrow points northeast and reads:
TALLOW’S DEEP – SEVEN DAYS.
Another arrow points north and the words translate:
TO THUNDERSPIRE LABYRINTH – THREE DAYS.
And the final inscription is multiple arrows pointing all directions, and says:
MAGLUBIYET’S EMBRACE- ANY DAY!
Brandis knows that this is the cruel god of the goblins, Maglubiyet, and this message is simply stating that goblins can die anytime, anywhere, and will join their dark god in the afterlife. A pleasant thought as Splug is reading the words alongside him. The goblin sighs.
But their friends were not deposited here. There is a small waterfall nearby, so they were probably shucked right off the edge. The heroes continue their search, growing more and more worried with each passing step.
PART TWO
“After them!” yells Erevan. He rips coiled rope off his back and throws it around a stalagmite. Glancing up, however, he sees multiple tiny red eyes on the ceiling. He tosses a light spell, scattering several large rats hiding up there among the jagged rocks. Returning to the pit, Erevan ties two lengths of rope together, cracks a sunrod, attaches it to the end and tosses it down into the hole. Brilliant light fills a natural cavern before plunging into frigid water, becoming blurry and diffracted. Splug is wringing his hands and moaning.
“Why didn’t you tell us there was a trap here?” demands Brandis.
Splug shakes his head. “Me not know! Hmm-mmm. Goblin not weigh much. Big man heavy.”
They call their friends’ names, but there is no answer. Altogether, they’ve fallen over 60 feet into icy water. Drowning or battered to death on rocks is a very real possibility. They have to find them as soon as possible or it will be too late. Brandis volunteers to go down first, so securing his weapons, he clambers hand over hand down the rope. He’s swaying back and forth in midair, gazing at eerie rock formations that have developed over hundreds if not thousands of years.
With some difficulty, Brandis finally reaches the river bank. It is steep, slick rock, and his footing is precarious, but there is no other sign of immediate danger. The tunnel continues south for fifty yards before rounding a bend, and it is obvious that Helga and Kerric have been swept down this way. Brandis ties the other end of the rope to a stalagmite.
“Did you know there was an underground river?” Iraan asks Splug. The goblin shakes his head, no. He had no idea this was below the keep. Not liking this development one bit, Irann rubs her hands briskly and prepares for some physical exertion. This is not her area of expertise. And this is exemplified seconds later when her grip slips from the rope--and with a shriek--she’s in freefall. Brandis watches helplessly as the warlock lashes out for the rope, catching herself before she hits the water or sharp rocks. She lands on the far side of the river, trembling in fear.
Splug is next and shimmies down like a champ. Lastly, Erevan makes it partway and then Fey Steps the rest of the distance. But Brandis is on a different side than the others, so after some testing (the water is fairly deep here) they are able to throw a rope across so that Brandis joins them.
But then Erevan hears laughter, and looking at the shattered hole in the ceiling he sees two leering goblin faces: Boss Fatty and his buddy. The goblin boss laughs once more and then tosses the other end of the rope into the hole.
Now they’re trapped down here.
“Thank you!” Erevan yells.
“I hate that goblin,” mutters Brandis. Splug (Spud) nods furiously in agreement.
The bank of the river can be followed if they’re careful, but it is slow going. They have to pick their way through tight rock formations. A while later they see a cave entrance on the far side of the river. There are runes and words carved into the archway, but they’re not close enough to decipher them, and don’t want to waste time instead of finding Helga and Kerric. They keep going, but soon reach another bend in the river and find a similar archway on their side. Brandis sees goblin runes engraved above the tunnel.
The first inscription is the oldest and barely legible. An arrow points northeast and reads:
TALLOW’S DEEP – SEVEN DAYS.
Another arrow points north and the words translate:
TO THUNDERSPIRE LABYRINTH – THREE DAYS.
And the final inscription is multiple arrows pointing all directions, and says:
MAGLUBIYET’S EMBRACE- ANY DAY!
Brandis knows that this is the cruel god of the goblins, Maglubiyet, and this message is simply stating that goblins can die anytime, anywhere, and will join their dark god in the afterlife. A pleasant thought as Splug is reading the words alongside him. The goblin sighs.
But their friends were not deposited here. There is a small waterfall nearby, so they were probably shucked right off the edge. The heroes continue their search, growing more and more worried with each passing step.
Nebulous
Legend
Adventure #8: Caves of Peril
PART THREE
A while later the current slows and becomes a calm pond-like area. Part of the water is diverted into a side stream, with much of it probably leaking through cracks in the limestone basin into lower levels. But there’s something else of immediate concern: Helga’s boot. It’s lying on the shore. Irann picks it up, but there is no sign of the dwarf or paladin other than blood and drag marks on the stone. It looks like something hauled them away into a narrow tunnel where the creek flows.
Brandis follows, splashing into the icy water, his magical longsword Wolftooth in hand. Erevan, Irann and Splug tentatively follow. The creek plunges over the lip of a ravine, spattering on unseen rocks far, far below, but on the other side is small chamber with a man-made fort of some kind. The walls are cobbled together from stone and mud. It looks very, very old. He doesn’t hear a sound other than the murmur of water nearby. A human skeleton lies on the floor, the bones as yellow and cracked as old parchment.
Brandis finds a battered wooden door scored by deep grooves and scratches. Something has bashed its way inside. Behind the door are barrels and sacks shoved against it as a last-ditch barricade, but something broke through anyway. Brandis gives the room a cursory glance; there is a lot of junk here to sort through, and he sees a smashed dwarf skull with spiders in the eye sockets, but no Helga or Kerric.
Outside, however, the others are about to have company. Erevan spots movement a split second before a tiny, insect-like creature scuttles from a dark alcove. About the size of a small dog, it hisses and clicks at him, and then lunges! Serrated limbs slash at his robes, and then two more scurry out from hiding as well.
“Brandis!” shouts the wizard. Erevan unleashes a shimmering silver missile, but his aim is off and it soars down a tunnel. Splug squeals and tries to hide behind Irann as the warlock throws a curse at an agile beast. Brandis leaps into the fray, skewering a monster on the tip of Wolftooth, even as Erevan immolates the others with a burst of flame. Within seconds the battle is over, their enemy’s legs quivering in their final death throes.
There are drag marks and blood stains on the floor leading down the same tunnel from which the insects emerged. Their friends must be down there, dead or alive, and the group hurries to find them. The tunnel descends sharply, but the last few feet are very slick and Brandis tumbles. He catches himself and is glad he did – he could have fallen off a small ledge that juts over an open room. A rickety bridge stretches across to a tunnel on the far side. The others clamber down as well, but Erevan slips and rolls to a bumpy halt against their legs. Embarrassed, he dusts off his robes and peers over the side…
…and somewhere down below they hear a curious
“CLICK-CLACK-CLICKCLICKCLICK-CLICK CLACK CLICKITTY CLICK CLACK…”
“The bridge doesn’t look safe,” mutters Irann. She’s already sick of this place, but all three heroes roll miraculously poor Dungeoneering checks; they’re not even sure they’re in a cave! Brandis volunteers (again) to go first. They tie a rope around his waist just to be sure, and he steps onto the bridge. It holds his weight, and he continues…
…and is soon immensely grateful for the rope.
A weak plank shatters beneath his boot and the warlord plunges through!
Irann, Erevan and Splug grab the rope and Brandis stops short, swaying back and forth in midair below the bridge. But then he sees something moving. A huge black shape detaches from the darkness and surges toward him, something with a hideous vulture’s head and two massive arms that end in deadly scythes.
“PULL ME UP!” screams Brandis. “Pull me FASTERRRRRR!”
His companions heave with all of their might, and Brandis starts to rise, but they’re not quite strong enough. He falls again, even lower than before and dangerously close to the hook beast, which is now slashing at him. It can’t quite reach, so it moves to the sloped wall and digs its hooks in, climbing up so that it can snag the squishy dangling morsel of meat.
“GET ME OUT OF HERE!” screams Brandis. The others keep pulling, bracing themselves and hauling with all of their pitiable strength. The hook monster is now level with Brandis, and with one arm anchored to the wall, it lashes out with the other…and rips a horrible wound across the warlord’s chest. Brandis is knocked away, blood pouring from his splintered armor where the hook ravaged him. One more swipe will probably finish him off. He swings back in, feet propped and ready to kick at the thing…
Erevan casts an ice spell on the sloped wall, and the hook monster loses its grip. It tumbles to the bottom, rolling back and forth on its hardened carapace, and just as they’re hoping the beast might be incapacitated, it hops back up, madder than ever.
The wizard, warlock and goblin keep pulling, and Brandis finally ascends to the ledge. The infuriated hook monster keeps flailing below them, unsure if it can reach their position. They sure as hell hope not.
The bridge has proved an obstacle, yes, but they eventually cross it with mundane and magical methods. They rest in the center span while Brandis catches his breath. There’s another bridge on the far side of the tunnel, in better shape too. Furthermore, water and blood streaks are on the planks; their companions Helga and Kerric were dragged this way, although they’re not sure how they circumvented the weak bridge. One of Kerric’s gauntlets lies on the tunnel floor which Irann retrieves for him. Hopefully, the horrible hook beast behind them won’t be able to pursue.
PART THREE
A while later the current slows and becomes a calm pond-like area. Part of the water is diverted into a side stream, with much of it probably leaking through cracks in the limestone basin into lower levels. But there’s something else of immediate concern: Helga’s boot. It’s lying on the shore. Irann picks it up, but there is no sign of the dwarf or paladin other than blood and drag marks on the stone. It looks like something hauled them away into a narrow tunnel where the creek flows.
Brandis follows, splashing into the icy water, his magical longsword Wolftooth in hand. Erevan, Irann and Splug tentatively follow. The creek plunges over the lip of a ravine, spattering on unseen rocks far, far below, but on the other side is small chamber with a man-made fort of some kind. The walls are cobbled together from stone and mud. It looks very, very old. He doesn’t hear a sound other than the murmur of water nearby. A human skeleton lies on the floor, the bones as yellow and cracked as old parchment.
Brandis finds a battered wooden door scored by deep grooves and scratches. Something has bashed its way inside. Behind the door are barrels and sacks shoved against it as a last-ditch barricade, but something broke through anyway. Brandis gives the room a cursory glance; there is a lot of junk here to sort through, and he sees a smashed dwarf skull with spiders in the eye sockets, but no Helga or Kerric.
Outside, however, the others are about to have company. Erevan spots movement a split second before a tiny, insect-like creature scuttles from a dark alcove. About the size of a small dog, it hisses and clicks at him, and then lunges! Serrated limbs slash at his robes, and then two more scurry out from hiding as well.
“Brandis!” shouts the wizard. Erevan unleashes a shimmering silver missile, but his aim is off and it soars down a tunnel. Splug squeals and tries to hide behind Irann as the warlock throws a curse at an agile beast. Brandis leaps into the fray, skewering a monster on the tip of Wolftooth, even as Erevan immolates the others with a burst of flame. Within seconds the battle is over, their enemy’s legs quivering in their final death throes.
There are drag marks and blood stains on the floor leading down the same tunnel from which the insects emerged. Their friends must be down there, dead or alive, and the group hurries to find them. The tunnel descends sharply, but the last few feet are very slick and Brandis tumbles. He catches himself and is glad he did – he could have fallen off a small ledge that juts over an open room. A rickety bridge stretches across to a tunnel on the far side. The others clamber down as well, but Erevan slips and rolls to a bumpy halt against their legs. Embarrassed, he dusts off his robes and peers over the side…
…and somewhere down below they hear a curious
“CLICK-CLACK-CLICKCLICKCLICK-CLICK CLACK CLICKITTY CLICK CLACK…”
“The bridge doesn’t look safe,” mutters Irann. She’s already sick of this place, but all three heroes roll miraculously poor Dungeoneering checks; they’re not even sure they’re in a cave! Brandis volunteers (again) to go first. They tie a rope around his waist just to be sure, and he steps onto the bridge. It holds his weight, and he continues…
…and is soon immensely grateful for the rope.
A weak plank shatters beneath his boot and the warlord plunges through!
Irann, Erevan and Splug grab the rope and Brandis stops short, swaying back and forth in midair below the bridge. But then he sees something moving. A huge black shape detaches from the darkness and surges toward him, something with a hideous vulture’s head and two massive arms that end in deadly scythes.
“PULL ME UP!” screams Brandis. “Pull me FASTERRRRRR!”
His companions heave with all of their might, and Brandis starts to rise, but they’re not quite strong enough. He falls again, even lower than before and dangerously close to the hook beast, which is now slashing at him. It can’t quite reach, so it moves to the sloped wall and digs its hooks in, climbing up so that it can snag the squishy dangling morsel of meat.
“GET ME OUT OF HERE!” screams Brandis. The others keep pulling, bracing themselves and hauling with all of their pitiable strength. The hook monster is now level with Brandis, and with one arm anchored to the wall, it lashes out with the other…and rips a horrible wound across the warlord’s chest. Brandis is knocked away, blood pouring from his splintered armor where the hook ravaged him. One more swipe will probably finish him off. He swings back in, feet propped and ready to kick at the thing…
Erevan casts an ice spell on the sloped wall, and the hook monster loses its grip. It tumbles to the bottom, rolling back and forth on its hardened carapace, and just as they’re hoping the beast might be incapacitated, it hops back up, madder than ever.
The wizard, warlock and goblin keep pulling, and Brandis finally ascends to the ledge. The infuriated hook monster keeps flailing below them, unsure if it can reach their position. They sure as hell hope not.
The bridge has proved an obstacle, yes, but they eventually cross it with mundane and magical methods. They rest in the center span while Brandis catches his breath. There’s another bridge on the far side of the tunnel, in better shape too. Furthermore, water and blood streaks are on the planks; their companions Helga and Kerric were dragged this way, although they’re not sure how they circumvented the weak bridge. One of Kerric’s gauntlets lies on the tunnel floor which Irann retrieves for him. Hopefully, the horrible hook beast behind them won’t be able to pursue.
Elder-Basilisk
First Post
Hoping that the beast won't be able to pursue, eh? And how often does that work out 
I predict a show-down with the beast sooner or later.
I predict a show-down with the beast sooner or later.
