Sins of Our Fathers - 2/10 - Final Update
Don't worry Rigur. Destan's got A LOT more to write before he even comes close to where we presently are in the campaign.
Just to give you an idea: we're about 2nd level in the story so far, in the campaign we are all between 10-12 level.
At his present level of detail he could post at this rate 'til Christmas! (well, maybe).
Shen tu fundin!
frostrune (Baden Dost)
Just to give you an idea: we're about 2nd level in the story so far, in the campaign we are all between 10-12 level.
At his present level of detail he could post at this rate 'til Christmas! (well, maybe).
Shen tu fundin!
frostrune (Baden Dost)
Destan
Citizen of Val Hor
pogre said:Destan,
Now, if I might hazard a question
How did you handle the Demon speaking to the Cleric? Did you use notes, pull him aside, or just trust the group not to act or speak about the exchange?
Your story just keeps getting better!
Thanks,
pogre
Thanks Senor Pogre! I suppose it's your turn to ask 'em instead of me just pestering you on your own story hour.
If I recall, I just spoke aloud as Baphtemet - the whole group could hear me - but most of my comments were aimed at Kellus. He was the one who really aroused the demon's fury, as we shall presently see.
My players are - generally - pretty good at separating in-character knowledge from out-of-character knowledge. Sometimes I pass notes, especially if it's critical and/or private information, but most of the time I try to just talk across the table and trust the other guys to pretend they didn't hear.
It's not unknown to have a bunch of thirtysomethings sitting around with their fingers in their ears humming loudly so they don't hear what I have to say to one of their buddies across the table. Sad, isn't it?
Also, I know this isn't the first time and it won't be the last, but - dammit - I appreciate the feedback. To all of you, from the first poster Manatee to the last poster WizarDru and all those in between - thank you for reading.
Cheers,
D
Dakkareth
First Post
Whoah! This is heavy stuff. Very detailed and written in a way that makes pictures come into mind in a fluent stream. In short: I love it. As already mentioned it feels similar to Sepulchrave's story hour in terms of immaculate writing, originality and subtlety. And that's high praise indeed.
-Dakkareth
-Dakkareth
Cinerarium
First Post
Destan, I said it before, but you're a ridiculously good writer. Damn!
Keep it coming -- I'm glad time in between sessions is being spent well!
Keep it coming -- I'm glad time in between sessions is being spent well!
Cinerarium
First Post
Question for all of you in Destan's group: how does the only playing a few times a year work out for everyone? I tried doing something similar with my old high school buddies, and life kept getting in the way. It was hard to keep schedules and interest going. What do you all do to keep everyone motivated, find dates where everyone can play, etc?
Question for Destan: When looking ahead to an all-weekend gaming session, what techniques do you use to come up with enough material in advance? To an extent I'm sure you can guess where they're likely to go, and come up with enough for that. But I know back in my regular DMing days I could usually only plan out good stuff for maybe 8-12 hours of play in advance. Past that there would be too many contingencies to plan well. Any advice for your situation? Also, while the weekend is going on, do you take breaks for yourself to fill in more of the upcoming plot while the group takes a break from playing? Or do you just roll right through?
Thanks! I look forward to the next story hour.
Cin
Question for Destan: When looking ahead to an all-weekend gaming session, what techniques do you use to come up with enough material in advance? To an extent I'm sure you can guess where they're likely to go, and come up with enough for that. But I know back in my regular DMing days I could usually only plan out good stuff for maybe 8-12 hours of play in advance. Past that there would be too many contingencies to plan well. Any advice for your situation? Also, while the weekend is going on, do you take breaks for yourself to fill in more of the upcoming plot while the group takes a break from playing? Or do you just roll right through?
Thanks! I look forward to the next story hour.
Cin
Destan
Citizen of Val Hor
A Rite Gone Wrong
Baden shrugged off the demon’s telepathic urgings as easily as one might doff his coat. The enchantments had little effect on him, though he could hear Baphtemet’s whispered promises clearly enough. He was the last to make the journey down the hallway; the rest of his companions, save the priest, were already at the far end.
The demon was nothing if not persistent. I have no quarrel with you, dwarf. In better days I visited Axemarch, conducted negotiations with your priestly caste, marveled at the natural beauty of your Halls.
Baden swung his axe through the air as he marched down the corridor. He nodded to Kellus; the priest stood with his back to the barred opening, face looking like that of a warrior awaiting the first rush of battle.
Come now. Please, stop for but a moment…You do not answer me? I could set you upon the Stone Throne of your people. Next Midsummer, when the Dwarfkings meet, your counsel would be most heeded. You, dwarf, could ensure your people will remain united and strong when the Lamia Imperator returns-
Lamia Imperator? Baden did not recognize the name or title.
Aye, dwarf - the Witchking.
Baden grimaced. He had not meant to reply to the fiend’s telepathic discourse. Baphtemet continued unabated: The Lamia Imperator will rule these lands. I could make certain that he knows of your assistance. He values my advice-
“The demon calls to me,” Baden murmured to Kellus as he passed. He glanced at the priest’s massive, spiked mace. Should it come to it, Baden thought he could take the Rhelmsman. Come in low, swing for his knees. Perhaps hamstring him with a reverse cut…By the name of the Forge Father, why am I thinking such things?
Rivers of ale, dwarf. You could dip yourself in pools of the finest mead, swim through streams of golden nectar brewed deep within the tunnels of your Hall.
Oh, Baden grinned inwardly, this Baphtemet was good.
But not good enough. As the dwarf approached the iron door wherein his companions waited, it was as if he walked from beneath a storm cloud. The tickling fingers of the demon’s promises receded like the outgoing tide.
The group huddled together once Kellus joined them. They had already discussed how to open what they believed was the final door. Now it was only a matter of putting words to deeds.
Yet John had one final question – the bard eyed Kellus speculatively. “Tell me, friend, if one of us had stopped to talk with the demon – would you really have swung that ugly-looking mace at our heads?”
Kellus feigned contemplation, an uncharacteristic smirk on his face. “At you, certainly, John of Pell. At the others, perhaps not.”
“A little gallows humor, eh?” John smiled even as he pushed open the final door.
***
Baden scanned the room in a single heartbeat. No exits, little cover. ‘Twill be dark for my companions, save for the half-troll.
The room was octagonal in shape – flagstones, vaulted ceiling, walls decorated with ugly mosaics the color of blood and twilight. Four statues – all of armored dwarves – faced the center of the room. There was a depression in the floor, likewise octagonal, directly before the entryway. In the center of the lowered tier rested a black marble sarcophagus.
The dwarf half-expected the statues to leap to life as he and his companions filtered into the sanctum and fanned out in a rough semi-circle. But there was only silence, save for their own considerable noise – labored breathing, creaking leather, grinding metal. ‘Tis empty.
John slung his crossbow over his back, drew his rapier, and padded forward toward the stone coffin. He eyed the depression warily before stepping onto the lower level. Silence. The bard ran his hand lightly over the marble lid – it was nearly seamless, and - most likely - extremely heavy.
Raylin knelt and studied the ground just inside the doorway. The dust was not as thick as it should have been, nor was it undisturbed. Footprints – small, dwarvish – scampered throughout the grime. Baden did not need to see the anxiousness in the ranger’s eyes to understand the prints were fresh. But, if the tracks are recent, where is their owner?
The dwarf stepped forward, axe and shield at the ready, and stared with trepidation at the sarcophagus. Borbidon, you unholy half-gnome, ‘tis time-
A cry pierced the silence. Amelyssan was down, writhing on the flagstones. A shadow detached itself from the elf’s back and danced backward, mouth agape and arms twisting about like serpents in their death throes. Little clouds of dust puffed into the air near the creature’s feet as it nimbly retreated.
For a long moment Baden could do nothing but stare. Their new-found enemy was small – the size of a dwarf – and seemed to be made from the fabric of night. Apparently he had dropped upon Amelyssan from the pools of shadow above the doorway. Baden tore his gaze away from its eyes – they were as wide as a slaughtered sheep’s and filled with a perverse longing that unsettled the Axemarch dwarf.
Vath flipped over the fallen elf and lashed out at the black fiend – missing twice. Raylin circled the room, both swords ready, placing the creature between himself and the half-troll. The ranger stepped forward to deliver a pair of arcing swings, but also failed to land a blow.
Finally, Baden acted. He stepped over Amelyssan, who was still down, and swung his axe with the fury of his fathers. He felt it meet resistance for the briefest of moments before the edge clanged upon the stone floor.
The creature pantomimed a soundless cackle – mouth hanging agape on hingeless jaws. Kellus stepped forward and commanded it to flee his wrath. Suddenly the shadow leapt at the former priest, pitch-colored hands digging at the skin beneath his archaic breastplate. Kellus went white as he slowly lowered his arms, shield and mace suddenly too heavy to bear.
Baden surveyed the situation with a warrior’s instinct. He had heard veterans speak of shadows coming to life. The sister-son of his grandsire, Dagil Sinkingstone, swore until the day he died that a shadow had reached out and touched him in the mining shafts beneath old Axemarch, stealing some of his strength forevermore.
But this particular creature was not made entirely of shadow – Baden was certain of it; the dwarf could not see through its form, nor did the dust upon the flagstones remain still upon its passage. Undead, perhaps - but not shadow. This simple realization inspired him, and once again the dwarf stepped forward to land a telling blow.
***
Amelyssan chewed on a heel of black bread as he thumbed through the journal. The elf paused in his studies to glance past his companions at the afternoon sun. “The snows have ceased. Tomorrow we should make our descent.”
“Aye, and none too soon.” Baden kicked an ember back into the fire Raylin had started within the wyvern’s lair. Earlier, Vath had ventured outside the cave and came back with a yak calf, and now the dwarf turned the spit, slowly, as he watched the meat crack and hiss. “This whole complex stinks of dwem.”
“Not dwem,” John laughed, “just dwarf.”
The Pellman was in a euphoric mood; they had claimed a sizeable horde of coins and jewels from within Borbidon’s coffin. John still felt they should have gathered the coal-black armor encasing Borbidon’s body, despite the unfamiliar sigils and designs etched upon it. The dead dwem’s axe and shield, too, appeared valuable.
Yet Amelyssan would have none of it. “Dangerous magic lies within those items. Strong magic, and old. They are as evil as the dwem Elfkiller who once wore them.”
John’s argument that even evil people had coins and the need for arms and armor had fallen on deaf ears.
For his share the elf had only claimed the tattered journal found amidst the ruins of a black cassock in the corner of the room. It was this tome Amelyssan now studied.
While Baden pulled meat from the yak haunch, slapping his fingers against his breeches from the heat, Amelyssan stood. “This is the journal of Morgad, a priest of the dwem, and counselor to Borbidon. He was the half-shadow we fought in the crypt.”
Amelyssan continued: “I believe Morgad called Baphtemet to act as a guard for this tomb. The demon, however, was too much for him. They had arranged some sort of deal and Morgad felt he had been swindled. He was not powerful enough to destroy or banish the demon, so he-”
“Imprisoned him,” John finished. “And thus ends the tale of Baphtemet.”
“Let him rot,” Raylin agreed.
Kellus rubbed his chin. “Demons cannot rot. He will remain within that chamber until this mountain sinks to the Cormick plains. And the world is better for it, though I wish the fiend remained on his own plane.”
John nodded as a quiet moment descended. Finally, the bard nudged Kellus with his boot. “I saw your face back there, friend, when you first encountered the demon. For a moment you looked a bit unsure of yourself and your atheism. Whisperings of doubt entering your mind, perhaps?”
Kellus shook his head. “Whisperings of faith. ‘Tis much worse.”
Baden tossed meat to the half-troll and watched the hulking monk swallow the strip in two bites. He tossed him another, then yet two more. Amazing. Finally, the dwarf spoke to the group. “We have two pieces of the staff. I am thinking that is enough. I would rather not assist Aramin – or whoever he is – any further.”
Kellus nodded. “Agreed. On the morrow, we shall return to the bones of the Ul’Daegol. We have earned our coin and more. I have a mind to cross the Conomora for the mainland, for I have never been.” The former Helmite saw only blank expressions and gathered none of his companions had been across the saltwater either.
Kellus was suddenly uncomfortable. “Doubtless we will go our different ways after receiving our payment…”
John quickly nodded. “You are welcome – any of you – to accompany me southward to Cymeria, or perhaps Formyr. In time, I could doubtless teach any of you to dance whilst I play the pipes. Until I manage to purchase a semi-talented spider monkey or two, that is.”
Baden grinned. “Thanks, but no. I intend to see the White Towers of Val Hor. I have heard that the workmanship is so fine it appears dwarven-made.”
Raylin stoked the fire, the light dancing in his dark eyes. “'Tis the Reaversward for me, friends. Plenty of bandit chiefs roaming about south of the Trollwood.” The clansman’s smile never reached his eyes. “Those blood-soaked meadows have never seen a shortage of men willing to pay other men to yet kill more men.”
The cave lapsed into silence once more as the dwarf rationed out the last of the meat, including the elf’s unwanted portion.
Amelyssan closed the journal with a sigh. “An interesting tale, perhaps,” he gestured toward the book, “but – taken on the whole – somewhat boring.”
“No magic,” affirmed John.
“Not so much as a cantrip – arcane or otherwise.” Amelyssan smiled. “It appears my quest for knowledge will lead me to the libraries of Val Hor. We would make an odd traveling pair, Baden, would we not?”
The dwarf nodded. “I cannot sing half as well as John, and you cannot hunt nearly so well as Raylin. But I am thinking we could survive – albeit barely.”
Raylin frowned. “What of you, Brother Vath? What are your plans?”
The half-troll licked juice from his fingers. He shrugged. “I will kill Aramin. Beyond that, I know not.”
Baden shrugged off the demon’s telepathic urgings as easily as one might doff his coat. The enchantments had little effect on him, though he could hear Baphtemet’s whispered promises clearly enough. He was the last to make the journey down the hallway; the rest of his companions, save the priest, were already at the far end.
The demon was nothing if not persistent. I have no quarrel with you, dwarf. In better days I visited Axemarch, conducted negotiations with your priestly caste, marveled at the natural beauty of your Halls.
Baden swung his axe through the air as he marched down the corridor. He nodded to Kellus; the priest stood with his back to the barred opening, face looking like that of a warrior awaiting the first rush of battle.
Come now. Please, stop for but a moment…You do not answer me? I could set you upon the Stone Throne of your people. Next Midsummer, when the Dwarfkings meet, your counsel would be most heeded. You, dwarf, could ensure your people will remain united and strong when the Lamia Imperator returns-
Lamia Imperator? Baden did not recognize the name or title.
Aye, dwarf - the Witchking.
Baden grimaced. He had not meant to reply to the fiend’s telepathic discourse. Baphtemet continued unabated: The Lamia Imperator will rule these lands. I could make certain that he knows of your assistance. He values my advice-
“The demon calls to me,” Baden murmured to Kellus as he passed. He glanced at the priest’s massive, spiked mace. Should it come to it, Baden thought he could take the Rhelmsman. Come in low, swing for his knees. Perhaps hamstring him with a reverse cut…By the name of the Forge Father, why am I thinking such things?
Rivers of ale, dwarf. You could dip yourself in pools of the finest mead, swim through streams of golden nectar brewed deep within the tunnels of your Hall.
Oh, Baden grinned inwardly, this Baphtemet was good.
But not good enough. As the dwarf approached the iron door wherein his companions waited, it was as if he walked from beneath a storm cloud. The tickling fingers of the demon’s promises receded like the outgoing tide.
The group huddled together once Kellus joined them. They had already discussed how to open what they believed was the final door. Now it was only a matter of putting words to deeds.
Yet John had one final question – the bard eyed Kellus speculatively. “Tell me, friend, if one of us had stopped to talk with the demon – would you really have swung that ugly-looking mace at our heads?”
Kellus feigned contemplation, an uncharacteristic smirk on his face. “At you, certainly, John of Pell. At the others, perhaps not.”
“A little gallows humor, eh?” John smiled even as he pushed open the final door.
***
Baden scanned the room in a single heartbeat. No exits, little cover. ‘Twill be dark for my companions, save for the half-troll.
The room was octagonal in shape – flagstones, vaulted ceiling, walls decorated with ugly mosaics the color of blood and twilight. Four statues – all of armored dwarves – faced the center of the room. There was a depression in the floor, likewise octagonal, directly before the entryway. In the center of the lowered tier rested a black marble sarcophagus.
The dwarf half-expected the statues to leap to life as he and his companions filtered into the sanctum and fanned out in a rough semi-circle. But there was only silence, save for their own considerable noise – labored breathing, creaking leather, grinding metal. ‘Tis empty.
John slung his crossbow over his back, drew his rapier, and padded forward toward the stone coffin. He eyed the depression warily before stepping onto the lower level. Silence. The bard ran his hand lightly over the marble lid – it was nearly seamless, and - most likely - extremely heavy.
Raylin knelt and studied the ground just inside the doorway. The dust was not as thick as it should have been, nor was it undisturbed. Footprints – small, dwarvish – scampered throughout the grime. Baden did not need to see the anxiousness in the ranger’s eyes to understand the prints were fresh. But, if the tracks are recent, where is their owner?
The dwarf stepped forward, axe and shield at the ready, and stared with trepidation at the sarcophagus. Borbidon, you unholy half-gnome, ‘tis time-
A cry pierced the silence. Amelyssan was down, writhing on the flagstones. A shadow detached itself from the elf’s back and danced backward, mouth agape and arms twisting about like serpents in their death throes. Little clouds of dust puffed into the air near the creature’s feet as it nimbly retreated.
For a long moment Baden could do nothing but stare. Their new-found enemy was small – the size of a dwarf – and seemed to be made from the fabric of night. Apparently he had dropped upon Amelyssan from the pools of shadow above the doorway. Baden tore his gaze away from its eyes – they were as wide as a slaughtered sheep’s and filled with a perverse longing that unsettled the Axemarch dwarf.
Vath flipped over the fallen elf and lashed out at the black fiend – missing twice. Raylin circled the room, both swords ready, placing the creature between himself and the half-troll. The ranger stepped forward to deliver a pair of arcing swings, but also failed to land a blow.
Finally, Baden acted. He stepped over Amelyssan, who was still down, and swung his axe with the fury of his fathers. He felt it meet resistance for the briefest of moments before the edge clanged upon the stone floor.
The creature pantomimed a soundless cackle – mouth hanging agape on hingeless jaws. Kellus stepped forward and commanded it to flee his wrath. Suddenly the shadow leapt at the former priest, pitch-colored hands digging at the skin beneath his archaic breastplate. Kellus went white as he slowly lowered his arms, shield and mace suddenly too heavy to bear.
Baden surveyed the situation with a warrior’s instinct. He had heard veterans speak of shadows coming to life. The sister-son of his grandsire, Dagil Sinkingstone, swore until the day he died that a shadow had reached out and touched him in the mining shafts beneath old Axemarch, stealing some of his strength forevermore.
But this particular creature was not made entirely of shadow – Baden was certain of it; the dwarf could not see through its form, nor did the dust upon the flagstones remain still upon its passage. Undead, perhaps - but not shadow. This simple realization inspired him, and once again the dwarf stepped forward to land a telling blow.
***
Amelyssan chewed on a heel of black bread as he thumbed through the journal. The elf paused in his studies to glance past his companions at the afternoon sun. “The snows have ceased. Tomorrow we should make our descent.”
“Aye, and none too soon.” Baden kicked an ember back into the fire Raylin had started within the wyvern’s lair. Earlier, Vath had ventured outside the cave and came back with a yak calf, and now the dwarf turned the spit, slowly, as he watched the meat crack and hiss. “This whole complex stinks of dwem.”
“Not dwem,” John laughed, “just dwarf.”
The Pellman was in a euphoric mood; they had claimed a sizeable horde of coins and jewels from within Borbidon’s coffin. John still felt they should have gathered the coal-black armor encasing Borbidon’s body, despite the unfamiliar sigils and designs etched upon it. The dead dwem’s axe and shield, too, appeared valuable.
Yet Amelyssan would have none of it. “Dangerous magic lies within those items. Strong magic, and old. They are as evil as the dwem Elfkiller who once wore them.”
John’s argument that even evil people had coins and the need for arms and armor had fallen on deaf ears.
For his share the elf had only claimed the tattered journal found amidst the ruins of a black cassock in the corner of the room. It was this tome Amelyssan now studied.
While Baden pulled meat from the yak haunch, slapping his fingers against his breeches from the heat, Amelyssan stood. “This is the journal of Morgad, a priest of the dwem, and counselor to Borbidon. He was the half-shadow we fought in the crypt.”
Amelyssan continued: “I believe Morgad called Baphtemet to act as a guard for this tomb. The demon, however, was too much for him. They had arranged some sort of deal and Morgad felt he had been swindled. He was not powerful enough to destroy or banish the demon, so he-”
“Imprisoned him,” John finished. “And thus ends the tale of Baphtemet.”
“Let him rot,” Raylin agreed.
Kellus rubbed his chin. “Demons cannot rot. He will remain within that chamber until this mountain sinks to the Cormick plains. And the world is better for it, though I wish the fiend remained on his own plane.”
John nodded as a quiet moment descended. Finally, the bard nudged Kellus with his boot. “I saw your face back there, friend, when you first encountered the demon. For a moment you looked a bit unsure of yourself and your atheism. Whisperings of doubt entering your mind, perhaps?”
Kellus shook his head. “Whisperings of faith. ‘Tis much worse.”
Baden tossed meat to the half-troll and watched the hulking monk swallow the strip in two bites. He tossed him another, then yet two more. Amazing. Finally, the dwarf spoke to the group. “We have two pieces of the staff. I am thinking that is enough. I would rather not assist Aramin – or whoever he is – any further.”
Kellus nodded. “Agreed. On the morrow, we shall return to the bones of the Ul’Daegol. We have earned our coin and more. I have a mind to cross the Conomora for the mainland, for I have never been.” The former Helmite saw only blank expressions and gathered none of his companions had been across the saltwater either.
Kellus was suddenly uncomfortable. “Doubtless we will go our different ways after receiving our payment…”
John quickly nodded. “You are welcome – any of you – to accompany me southward to Cymeria, or perhaps Formyr. In time, I could doubtless teach any of you to dance whilst I play the pipes. Until I manage to purchase a semi-talented spider monkey or two, that is.”
Baden grinned. “Thanks, but no. I intend to see the White Towers of Val Hor. I have heard that the workmanship is so fine it appears dwarven-made.”
Raylin stoked the fire, the light dancing in his dark eyes. “'Tis the Reaversward for me, friends. Plenty of bandit chiefs roaming about south of the Trollwood.” The clansman’s smile never reached his eyes. “Those blood-soaked meadows have never seen a shortage of men willing to pay other men to yet kill more men.”
The cave lapsed into silence once more as the dwarf rationed out the last of the meat, including the elf’s unwanted portion.
Amelyssan closed the journal with a sigh. “An interesting tale, perhaps,” he gestured toward the book, “but – taken on the whole – somewhat boring.”
“No magic,” affirmed John.
“Not so much as a cantrip – arcane or otherwise.” Amelyssan smiled. “It appears my quest for knowledge will lead me to the libraries of Val Hor. We would make an odd traveling pair, Baden, would we not?”
The dwarf nodded. “I cannot sing half as well as John, and you cannot hunt nearly so well as Raylin. But I am thinking we could survive – albeit barely.”
Raylin frowned. “What of you, Brother Vath? What are your plans?”
The half-troll licked juice from his fingers. He shrugged. “I will kill Aramin. Beyond that, I know not.”
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Destan
Citizen of Val Hor
Keeping the motivation is fairly simple - this is a hardcore, addicted group of gamers we've got here. But finding dates that work for everyone is difficult, certainly. Jobs, families, etc. - these things take time and precedence. We usually plan weekends far in advance. This year, for example, we planned our summer and fall sessions back near New Year's. Sometimes one of the guys can't make it - particularly those that have to fly into the rotating session site - but most of the time it works out.
Since there's so much time between our sessions, I'm able to prepare reams upon reams of adventures. Other than having to scale them up a bit, I've found that I don't lack material for the players to explore.
On the contrary, I often find some of my planned adventures getting tossed in the proverbial trash. The group makes decisions and - based on those - sometimes certain threads never get followed.
One of the most challenging - and enjoyable - aspects of this campaign is maintaing the pace of the world, so to speak. If the party elects not to save a certain someone, or not to venture into a certain dungeon, I need to do a gut-check and see if someone else would have done the deed in the interim.
Later on in the tale, we'll start to see how the "bad guys" went on some quests I originally intended for the party to complete. In light of such, we've got some evil dudes who are well equipped, and utilizing items I had first intended for the party.
No - thank you for reading, Cin!
Cheers,
Destan
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