Alea Iacta Story Hour: A Mythic Rome Campaign (Baby Announcement: 8/17)

[Orichalcum]

Alea Iacta IX: An Easy Descent Chp. 18: Thine is the Kingdom

My dissertation is turned in, which means you can expect a lot of updates in quick succession over the next month. This extra-long one will at the least bring the battle to an end.
***

Quintus Caecilius Metellus finds himself in a marble-inlaid, lavishly furnished bedroom, decorated with small painted panels that are clearly the original work of the great Greek masters. As he blinks for a second, confused at the sudden change from the chaos of the battle in the cave, Hadriana, wife of Cimbrus Caesar, strides into the room. Upon seeing him, her face lights up with joy, and she runs to embrace him. It is at this point, right before she kisses him, that Metellus recognizes that Hadriana is wearing the most translucent of rose-colored Coan silk tunics, and that her garment barely stretches to mid-thigh.

For a moment, shocked, he kisses her back, but then recovers and stumbles backwards into the elegant couch.

"Nobilissima!" Metellus sputters. "What..."

"What's wrong, darling?" Hadriana cooes, trying again to embrace him. "Let's make ourselves another baby..."

"Another?" Metellus gasps.

"Of course, as beautiful as our Cimbra. She looks so much like you, Metellus. And soon we won't need to worry about my idiot of a husband. He'll be dead, and then we can resume our nights of passion!" Hadriana smiles enthusiastically, and leans in for another kiss.

Metellus evades her and makes a run for the open doorway, determined to get away. Hadriana grabs his ankle as he flees, and Metellus drags her along as he enters into the next room, the Imperial audience hall. In there, he sees Cimbrus Caesar, dressed in purple and gold and wearing the laurel wreath of a reigning Emperor. Tears are streaming down his face as he stares at a crystal that holds the faint image of a dead body within, and an onyx urn, brimming with some sort of grey liquid, sits on a pillar to his right.
But these are on the vague periphery of Metellus' vision, as he focuses in on the gladius that Cimbrus is pointing suicidally at his own heart.

***

Meanwhile, back in the dark cavern, the only foe remaining for our heroes is Scaevola himself. However, the philosopher, particularly aided by the Cap of Twilight, is himself still quite formidable. At least half of the time that Scaevola strikes the minds of the fighters, Wena or Heilyn is able to catch a momentary glimpse of light reflecting off a black chain, and direct the others where to hit. But with each blow, the Black Chain Philosopher pulls life from those around him to sustain himself, and gaping wounds have appeared on all of us.

In the most recent flurry of blows, Scaevola seems to have switched tactics to concentrate on the helpless Cimbrus and Metellus. Cornelia, who is standing next to the pair, can hear them both muttering, in pain and despair. Cimbrus whispers, "Better off dead. Better off with my shame and dishonor forgotten to the world." Metellus is similarly oblivious to her but murmurs more clearly, "Look, this isn't my fault. Or your fault. Just wake up!"

As a gaping wound opens in Cimbrus' chest, Cornelia can see the light at the end of the cavern begin to expand and grow, almost wide enough now to crawl through, and the cavern begins shaking. While no healer, Cornelia knows Cimbrus will die in a matter of moments. She flings her necklace to Lucretius, telling him to throw the baubles as needed, and desperately commands her psionic snake tattoo of healing, a long-ago present from Wena, to slither out the tips of her fingers and onto Cimbrus and heal him. As she presses her hand to Cimbrus' wound, Cornelia feels the world going dim around her.

Wena, a few seconds later, reaches the side of the three unconscious Romans, and applies the healing necessary to bring Metellus back from the brink of death. "Keep them from dying, and strike fast and hard!" she shouts. "Scaevola only gains strength the longer he survives. And he's....THERE, on the ground beside Cimbrus!" she points. At the same moment, Wena screams from the agony of her skin erupting with acidic burns and her mind recalling the most horrible memories of her childhood. Wena falls to the ground, slowly bleeding to death.

But Llyr, Marcus, Heilyn, and Lucretius each have one good chance at a shot.

***
Cornelia finds herself in the Imperial throne room, where Cimbrus is busily attempting to commit suicide, while Metellus tries to convince him otherwise. Somewhat to her surprise, Hadriana is wrapped around Metellus' legs lovingly, but Cornelia decides that this is just a distraction.

"I'll never be the Emperor my father was," Cimbrus tells Metellus. "I've achieved nothing honorable. I was carried away like luggage from my only battle, and another man took my place. My wife has abandoned me for you and borne a child who is not mine. Now Parthia is invading, and the Empire will fall. Better I die now and the world forget me forever than that I endure even more disgrace."

Metellus tries to remonstrate with him. "Your wife didn't abandon you." Hadriana appears about to protest this statement, but Cornelia slaps her, briefly quieting the woman. "Cimbra is your child, and Hadriana even now bears a son who will be your heir," Metellus continues. "This is all an evil nightmare into which you have been thrust by the Black Chain Philosopher. You must wake up and save yourself."

"Why wake to more shame? And if this is just a dream, then this will not hurt," Cimbrus responds, beginning to drive the swordpoint deeper into his abdomen.

"Wait!" Cornelia shouts, and the two men turn to stare at her. "Metellus, he can't recognize that this is a dream. But Scaevola is trying to make him self-damnatio memoriae, and that will destroy all of Roma as we know it. I think. "

She turns to Caesar, and speaks clearly and firmly to him. "Cimbrus, I swear to you, on my honor, that Metellus never slept with your wife. I know Cimbra, and she is your daughter. And your father lives even now and wins great victories for Roma."

"How do I know what is the truth and what is the lie?" Cimbrus answers her, a little more hope, perhaps, in his bleak expression.

And at this point, desperate but determined, Metellus gives the best speech of his entire life.

"Cimbrus Caesar, I understand why you have so many doubts and fears about your honor. I have had my own doubts, and it is hard not to question one's own worth when we are blessed with such great and heroic fathers.

But you are a good and brave man, and you have it in you to be a great Emperor. You do not have the decades of wisdom and experience that your father has, but they will come with time. You had the bravery to face the Druidic armies at Hadrian's Wall, and I never saw you flinch when assassins attacked you during your Triumph here in Roma.

Roma needs you now, more than ever. A fearful enemy, one who seeks to destroy all that has made our city and our civilization great, is trying to destroy Roma through killing you. You must not let that happen. You must assume your duty and your responsibility, and save us all." Metellus kneels, offering his sword to Cimbrus, who has been intent on his every word.

"Do not kill yourself, my Caesar. If you feel the need to avenge your honor, then slay me here as I kneel before you. But you must live for Roma."

Cimbrus blinks, a few times and seems lost in his thoughts. But after a few moments, he nods, and sheathes his sword safely, gesturing with his other hand for Metellus to rise.

"Thank you, Tribune, for reminding me that my duty to Roma outweighs my own sense of shame. I believe it is time for us to leave this nightmare, and return to our responsibilities." Cimbrus stands, and the world fades around the three of them, as Cornelia and Metellus, panicked, quickly grab hands with Caesar.

***
Back in the cavern, a deadly battle rages, and only I, Shast the monkey, notice when the three Romans' eyes weakly blink open and the hole of light begins to contract. Lucretius has thrown one of Cornelia's baubles, a deadly ball of ice shards. Although, moments later, Llyr sank to his knees gasping from the new wounds, mirrors of Scaevola's own, which had erupted all over his body, we can see blood dripping from the shadowy air. Marcus swings a mighty blow, and two screams of pain, coming from the shadows and Lucretius, ring out through the air. And finally, Llyr pulls out a last, special iron and silver ballista bolt, and Heilyn chants some last-minute spells over it.

"In the name of Lugh, let this bolt strike you down, Quintus Mucius Scaevola Calgacus Phelan, son of Maura of the Brigantes, traitor to your God and to all that is holy!" Heilyn and Llyr shout together, and release the trigger on the ballista.

It flies true, and embeds itself in...something, and a crash is heard as an invisible body tumbles finally to the ground. Heilyn is first to reach the area, and yanks the Cap of Twilight off the head of what is revealed to be a very, very dead philosopher. The walls of the dark tunnel begin to tremble and constrict around us. Gathering the bodies of our friends and Scaevola's victims, we stumble out of the dark cavern just as it collapses and fades into a tiny point of light. We find that the Black Chain Philosopher is no more than a distant memory.

 

[Fimmtiu]

My dissertation is turned in, which means you can expect a lot of updates in quick succession over the next month.

Twice-welcome news! Good luck with the dissertation, and thanks for the update! And Iwas just about to bump, too...

 

[Orichalcum]

Alea Iacta IX: An Easy Descent Chp. 18: Not with a bang

As we gasp for breath outside the collapsed cavern, Heilyn and Wena administer the minimum of healing needed to get nearly everyone back to consciousness. Upon examination, the other half-flayed captive turns out to be Rufus, Cimbrus' cousin and Scaevola's pupil, who is gibbering fairly insanely. Under the circumstances, it seems easier to knock him unconscious and leave the manacles on while Heilyn carries him.

Cimbrus Caesar, looking tired but resolute, lifts his weary head and speaks commandingly. "We must pass out of the Place of False Visions quickly, and return to the Place of Forms. This threat to Roma must be ended, and I think now I may know how to do so. In any case, we will rest better and more safely there."

Much as we long to return to the normal world of the city (and Meloch, in my case, who must be deeply panicked by all the hints of terror and pain coming over our link), it does not seem like the right moment to disobey Caesar. And now that we have faced the Black Chain Philosopher and our own worst fears, the journey back through the Place of False Visions holds little terror for us. Indeed, we reach the great shadowy plaza quite quickly, and while Wena glances with curiosity at the two other doors, we all proceed with relief out the Gate of Ivory and back through the Gate of Horn.

In the Land of Forms, Heilyn and Wena try their last few, paltry curative magics and discover that they work to the greatest possible effect. Marcus is able to concentrate and restore himself to nearly full health within a matter of moments. Our guide the wolf appears, and nods with respect towards Cimbrus. They may have a brief mental conversation, but if so, none of us hears it.

At this point, Cimbrus falters briefly, clearly wanting to speak but reluctant to. Cornelia, realizing the problem, fishes out the tattered, smoky remains of her wax slate and stylus and hands it to the Caesar.

"First Orichalcum Sphere - remove taint." Cimbrus writes in elegant capitals.

While none of us are sure what he's talking about, we nod, and Metellus writes, "We follow, Caesar."

The wolf leads us back up the Palatine in the glorious, perfect city of Roma. In a small grove of trees stands a white marble pillar, similar to the one which bore the Eagle of the Ninth, and indeed, Marcus, looking up, sees the Eagle swooping and diving in the sky above him. This pillar bears a translucent golden sphere, about the size of a large man's head, with shifting metallic patterns and colors curving around it. Wena, Heilyn, and Llyr can see dim shapes moving and shifting on the surface of the sphere, but they are mostly hidden by the numerous thin black chains which envelop the ball. While the chains seem to be fading and growing thinner, they are nevertheless still present.

Cimbrus looks around, and hesitantly writes on the slate, "Any suggestions? Waiting risky - time different here."

Marcus borrows a slate and writes, "For the Eagle, it needed my hands and pain. They are at your service..."

Cimbrus shakes his head, clearly considering this his duty. He moves to the sphere, and begins unraveling the chains, which fall off the ball much more easily than the other ones did the Eagle. After some time, with Cimbrus' hands bleeding freely until Wena bandages them, the sphere is again free of Scaevola's malign influence, and various figures can be seen on its surface. Cimbrus grasps it again in both hands and looks deeply for some time, and the images swirl rapidly around. Heilyn and Wena both take careful notice, anxious to figure out if they can someday duplicate this Orichalcum Sphere.

Finally, Caesar looks up, and writes quickly on his slate, smiling with relief, "My father is safe. The Magi are strong, but the Legions stronger."

He stands up, and leads us down the hill again, following the thin remnants of the black chain. As we might expect, we come finally to the small black hole marking Scaevola's attempt to break the barrier between the Places. It is tiny now, but still present.

Cimbrus looks at Metellus' face for a second, and seems to gain strength. He goes to stand directly in front of the hole, and draws a deep breath, before proclaiming out loud, with all of his might, a name: "Lucius Mamercus Aemilianus Gallus!"

The hole shrinks and vanishes into nothingness, and we all remember now, Romans and Britons alike, the stories in our youth of the great general, the Emperor's younger brother, who routed the Gallic revolts and the barbarian invasions, and gave many freedoms to the people of Britannia before tragically committing suicide when he learned the fate of his Ninth Legion.

Clearly suddenly exhausted, Cimbrus takes the slate again, and writes, "Let us rest here for now," before collapsing in a near-faint.

As the Romans gather around him, ensuring the welfare of the great Caesar, the three Britannians, Heilyn, Llyr, and Wena, glance at each other, and slip off into the distant meadows of the Place of Forms.

 

[Orichalcum]

Alea Iacta IX: An Easy Descent Chp. 20: Between the conception and the creation

While the Romans have gathered together, the three Celts have wandered off, and Wena quietly establishes a mindlink between herself, Heilyn, and Llyr.


"I think I might be able to get us to the True Britannia," Heilyn thinks through
Wena's mindlink, "if we can concentrate hard enough."

"What can we do there?" Llyr asks.

"Well, I might be able to say a word," he suggests.

"Do we have a Word?"

"Well, I've been doing a bit of thinking about one, aye."

"Then let's go," Wena thinks back. "We've helped saved Roma, now it's time for
Britannia. And this is our only chance."

The three of them set off across the perfect landscape of the Ideal City,
concentrating on their own homeland. There is only a small stream, one easily crossable on foot, separating their vision of the mainland continent from Britannia, and they step across it easily, uncertain whether this is through the power of your own will or a more physical task.

The Celts find themselves in a Britannia without people or visible animals, where the
rolling green hills, covered with thick forests at their tops, stretch on for endless
miles, and they can hear the constant roaring of the sea, the only sound in this place. Roads and field markers cover the land, and the crops grow tall and strong. There is no sign of the bloodshed that has marked Britannia's land over the past few generations.

A wolf, akin but different to the wolf of Roma, her fur shining silver in the light of the setting sun, pads up to them. Her glowing amber eyes regard each of the Celtic men intently.
"You are the Three, as required by tradition and contract," she states calmly into your minds.
"The Seer and Lorekeeper, Preserver of the Traditions of the People," she inclines her snout to Wena.
"The Spirit-Speaker and Craftsman, Preserver of the Bonds Between Nature and the People," she inclines her snout to Heilyn.
"The Protector and Warrior, who Rules the People and Keeps Them Safe," and she inclines her snout finally towards Llyr.

"If you Three are agreed on the Good of the People, he who has the Blood may speak a Word of Binding and of Change here. But be aware, that there is a sacrifice to be asked for any Word, and no Change is without a Price."

"What is the price we must pay?" Heilyn asks. "You can see we have all already
given some of the sight of one eye that we might serve Lugh better."

"The price never changes, descendant of Lugh. It is always what you most value.
For you...you must sacrifice for yourself that which you most long to protect. If you wish
to speak a word of change for this island, you must give up your own hope of ever
returning here to your home. The Protector and the Lorekeeper may return to guide their
homeland, but you will remain in exile as long as the gods see fit, perhaps even beyond
the death of your body, barred from the forest of Annuin itself."

"You know now the Price. Will you speak a Word? And what do you advise him,
Protector and Lorekeeper?"

 

[Shieldhaven]

So... awesome...


Duuuuude.

Haven
Normally more loquacious than this

 

[Orichalcum]

Alea Iacta IX: An Easy Descent Chp. 21: But a Whimper

Thanks, Shieldhaven! You clearly appreciate this much more than Heilyn did....

***
There is a long moment of awed silence from all three Celts, before Heilyn bursts out mentally with his anguished, infuriated retort:

"Ohhhh - Eez that all? Whut Ie valew moest? Ie tell yew whut - Ie'm sterting to valew thiez ackursed adventurs with thayer ackursed deels ind ackursed deevine beeings priety highlee. Perhaps yew mieght wunt to taek them insted?

Auchk! $$@# this! @$@# thiez spearits! Ind @$$% Rome! If thay gut thayer @$@*ing shiening citi on a $*&%ing shiening heel, than wee gut ouer chince at impyre too! Weell seee hooz pisses the tist of tyme! Iee'lll sae ta ^*#ing wurd! Eef it ##$*s me tan &^*# tat! Wee seee hooz a shiening liet to &*#$ing hoo!"

[GM Note: This is a literal transcription, edited for the likes of Eric's grandma. If you wish to fill in the blanks, please mentally remember to use an "oo" sound rather than an "uh" sound to preserve the sense of the accent.]

A stunned, if slightly impressed silence falls again. Wena says, finally, "Well, it's your choice, Heilyn. But we have seen that Britannia needs protection."

Llyr adds, "Make sure when you're thinking about the protection to protect us from those Druids and spirits up north, though. We're just worried about Britannia - not Caledonia."

Heilyn simply glares at them and the wolf, and takes a deep breath, drawing in all of his innate power and his connections to the spirit and natural world. He lifts his enormous hammer high above his head with both hands and swings it up and down a few times. Finally, at the arc of the swing, he shouts "WAVES" out loud and brings the hammer pummeling down into the surface of the land beneath him, which trembles beneath his blow. The Celts can hear the noise of rushing water all around them, echoing in the distance, but see no visible effect initially.

Heilyn looks as if he has run many miles, and his face has gone bright red from exertion. The wolf speaks gently into their minds. "It is done. You should return to your companions."

When the trio walks back to the small stream which had formerly divided Britannia from the mainland, they discover that it has transformed into a deep, gaping chasm, with roiling waves and jagged rocks far below. The stark white cliffs on each side add a note of forbidding beauty to the scene, and Wena thinks that perhaps she saw, for a moment, their acquaintance the sea serpent gliding northwards through the chasm.

There is also no obvious way to cross. Llyr proposes an elaborate thrown rope bridge involving a complicated pulley-and-weight system. Heilyn, however, looking weary and frustrated, simply transforms himself into a giant hippogriff, and Wena and Llyr climb on his back and fly over. As they land, Heilyn the hippogriff takes one long look back at the idyllic rolling green meadows of his homeland, before resolutely turning his gaze back towards Roma.

Here ends "Shast the Monkey and the Black Chain Philosopher," the first scroll of the Adventures of Shast (and his intrepid companions). Look out soon for the forthcoming scroll, "A Civil Campaign: Shast the Monkey's Inside Report on the Seamy World of Roman Politics."

 

[Fimmtiu]

Auchk! $$@# this!

Somehow, your players' problem-solving strategies seem very familiar...

Congratulations on completing the first part of your tale! Here's to many more good sessions to come.

 

[Orichalcum]

Alea Iacta X: A Civil Campaign Chp. 1: Irregulares

The Celts return to find that their absence has gone relatively unnoticed, although Cornelia and Lucretius appear to have had somewhat of an argument in their absence. Cornelia is upset that Lucretius won't explain why "he" appears to be a woman in the Place of Forms. On the other hand, she is similarly unwilling to explain her scales and vestigial wings, so really, they're at somewhat of an impasse.

Rested and mostly healed in bodies if not minds, we depart the Place of Forms finally, and reunite with families and friends in Roma. Meloch is overjoyed to see me, naturally, and quietly informs me that he stopped two separate suspicious assassination attempts upon Hadriana. Somewhat to our startlement, although this had been partially expected, over six weeks have passed during our journey into the other realms, and it is now early August. While rumors and uneasy murmurs had begun to sweep the city about Cimbrus' mysterious "illness," his public appearance in good health and spirits to confidently announce Hadriana's pregnancy reassures most of the doubtful. Neither Metellus' parents nor Cornelia's mother have returned from their summer homes, although Cornelia hears from her mother's factor that she has made a great deal of money speculating in military equipment purchases in the last month.

After a day or two of quiet recovery at home, filled in my case with many long baths and nightmare-free naps, we are summoned by Cimbrus and Hadriana to their private receiving room. It is made clear that this is not an official audience, although we all still put on our best clothes.

Cimbrus, who continues to look more serious and resolute, stands as we all file into the room. "Greetings, worthy citizens. There are several matters which my wife and I wish to discuss with you. First of all,you have of course our thanks and gratitude for directly saving both of our lives, and indirectly Roma herself. If we can be of assistance to you in your future endeavors, know that you have the imperial favor.

However, we cannot reward or honor you directly. I have spoken with my father, and we have agreed that it is far too dangerous to let the ordinary citizens, or even the Senate, know how great a danger Roma faced, or how high such an evil traitor was able to infiltrate into the Imperial family. Therefore, you will receive no official recognition, and I can not directly reward you with offices or monetary rewards, lest suspicion be raised.

As a part of this, we shall require you all to swear, by gods you hold dear, to keep your recent deeds absolutely secret and between yourselves. We are not asking you to erase your memory of them - we have learned our lesson there. Indeed, the Imperial Archivist will at some point wish to speak with you and chronicle your recollections, that future Emperors may learn from your experiences. But you must not speak of this matter in general.

My cousin, Rufus, has been declared hopelessly insane, which is perhaps all for the best. We are exiling him to a remote island off the coast of Corsica. His mother, Mamerca, awoke in shock after we returned and came to Hadriana in tears, claiming to have been under the mental control of Scaevola for some time, but now to have been freed from his influence."

Hadriana interrupts here, "At least, that's what she says. I don't trust her at all though - she's always wanted the throne for her branch of the family."

Cimbrus remonstrates, "Hadriana, she's my aunt. We have no evidence against her, and we certainly know that Scaevola was capable of mentally influencing people to do things against their wishes - like me, for instance."

Cimbus turns back to us. "In any case, Mamerca remains part of the Imperial household. Scaevola's library has been searched and its contents turned over for further investigation to the Library of Trajan.

As to the last reason for which I called you here - it is not a reward, I am afraid, but rather offer of more work. The recent events, as well as others, have suggested to my father and I that perhaps the normal talents of the Praetorian Guard and the Imperial Secretaries, wide-ranging though they are, are not well-equipped to deal with more...unusual threats to the safety of Roma and the imperial family.

As a group, many of you have unorthodox talents which have been of demonstrable service to the Empire in the last year. Meanwhile, Tribune Metellus and Decurion Lucretius have official roles which make them useful liasions and leaders."

Hadriana takes over seamlessly from Cimbrus; clearly, she has had significant input into this plan. "We would like you to continue to serve the Empire as a group, in an unofficial but nevertheless distinct fashion, as Irregulares, a special team who will report directly to Cimbrus and me. From time to time, we may have specific projects we wish you to investigate. For instance, I would like you to keep an eye on Mamerca, although Cimbrus thinks this is less necessary. In general, though, you will be free to go about your own lives and careers, and we will help you where we can without being too obvious. If in the course of your days you find something which may be a threat to the Empire, we naturally expect you to report it as well as investigate it. However, this is not an Imperial edict - we cannot force any of you to join, although the rewards may be high if you do. For instance, Metellus, I believe you're planning on running for electoral office this year. While we can't guarantee a victory, we can certainly help your chances through a quiet word here and there. So, what do you each think of our little proposal?"

Metellus, Lucretius, Cornelia, and Marcus enthusiastically agree to be a part of this team. Meloch explains loquaciously that as Cornelia's slave, he of course will assist her when asked, failing to mention what he would do if ever freed. "Fast talking, my friend - you think like a monkey!" I praise over our mental link.

Wena, however, offers her regrets, "Thank you for the honor, noble Caesar and nobilissima Hadriana. However, I am needed by my people, the Iceni. It is time for me to take up my role as their vates and bring the knowledge and wisdom I have learned here in Roma back to Britannia. I will of course be happy to continue to protect people and stop more foul magics from Britannia, but I must soon journey home."

"Indeed," Cimbrus responds, "It is good for all of us to fulfill our duties and responsibilities. Go safely, good Vates, and please use my name to travel with the Imperial posting houses, that you may reach the Iceni all the sooner."

Llyr speaks up, "Begging your pardon, great Caesar, nobilissima, I am very much at your service, of course. But I also think I should go home to my people, the Brigantes, for a bit. Matters are a bit unsettled there, with my cousin the heir dying and all, and I also need to fulfill my duties there. But I'll be back in a few months, I hope." He glances briefly at Cornelia.

"And you, mighty smith?" Hadriana asks Heilyn.

Heilyn looks extremely sulky and irritated as he gives his answer, although he does so politely. "Mistress Hadriana, Master Cimbrus, there is still much for me to learn about smithing, and I might as well do it in Roma. I am working with a great master smith here, the Master of Naxos, and I'll be doing that for quite a while, so I'm sure I can help out with anything that needs doing in the meantime, as long as the rewards are more than the wounds."

Both Cimbrus and Hadriana's eyes widen during Heilyn's speech, and they murmur briefly to each other, before Cimbrus says, "Ah...good Heilyn. You said the Master of Naxos?"

"Aye, do ye know him?" Heilyn asks, puzzled.

"Well, ah...you might want to pay him a visit. Apparently, there was a bit of an accident of some sort in his forge recently, Hadriana tells me."

Heilyn looks unnerved, but decides that Caesar is clearly not the right person to ask for more details.

The audience soon ends, and Lucretius and Metellus are given secret passwords to use to ensure immediate audiences with Cimbrus or Hadriana. Wena and Llyr make their preparations to leave, amid tearful farewells from Cornelia and Meloch.

Heilyn, however, heads straight for the Via Ferra, where many of Roma's best smithies are located.

Even from a block away, it is easy for him to identify the forge of the Master of Naxos, in which he had bought a journeyman's share by investing nearly all of his own money and a substantial loan from Metellus.

It's the smithy which doesn't have a roof anymore.

 

[Orichalcum]

Alea Iacta X: A Civil Campaign Chp. 2: A Mad Smith

Heilyn hurries into the wrecked, roofless remains of the smithy, which is covered with strange-smelling ash and soot, and finds the grizzled, wide-shouldered Master of Naxos sitting on a stone ebcnh, head buried in his hands, a cheap wine amphora next to him.

"Master, what happened?"

"Heilyn? Is that you?" the Master slurs, a bit drunken, but mostly just lost in his own woes. "I thought you left with all the other apprentices."

"No, I've just had some business of my own. All the other workers here are gone? Where did they go? What caused this?"

"I was so sure, so sure I had it right this time," the Naxian mumbles.

"An experiment? Were ye trying to make the lightning bolt, like we had talked about before?"

"I was trying for the first step," the Naxian says, and a gleam briefly returns to his eyes. "I thought it was a time to be going back to the beginning, to when I apprenticed to the Cyclopes under Mount Etna. I thought, what is the difference between this smithy - and a volcano?"

Heilyn, a little afraid of this line of reasoning, looks up at the clear blue sky and ventures, "A roof?"

"No no...well, that's true. That's something to consider. Perhaps next time an open chimney...but there will be no next time," the Naxian briefly dissolves into sobs again, before Heilyn surreptitiously uses magic to soothe him.

"But no," the Master finally continues, "the important difference between my smithy and a volcano is the heat. In a volcano, they have liquid metal and rock, which heats up to fabulous temperatures, and I am thinking perhaps that this heat is needed to make a lightning bolt."

"So...you tried to heat up the forge really hot?"

"No no, silly British barbarian, you cannot heat a forge that hot with charcoal, and there are rules about how large a fire you can make within the city. I realized that what I needed was to get some liquid metal, and heat that, and use that to heat the material for the lightning bolt."

"But...you can't keep metal liquid for very long, Master."

"No, and I worried about this. But then I met this friendly merchant in a tavern, and we got to talking about my problem, and he suggested that I use quicksilver, because it is a metal that stays liquid all the time."

"But, where would you get that much quicksilver? Isn't it very rare?" Heilyn asks, even more worried about this answer.

"Oh, that was no problem. The nice merchant said he could find me four grain-sized large amphorae, for 300 sestertii each. That is only about two swords for me, so it was easy. He delivered the barrels the next day, and I arranged them around the forge, and opened their lids, and then carefully lit them. But then...there was a great noise and burst of flame, and then I woke up, here in my forge, without a roof, and with my anvil cracked clean in half," he starts crying again.

"And your apprentices deserted you while you were unconscious and injured? How cruel these Romans are!"

"Oh no," the Master of Naxos reassures Heilyn, "My apprentices had bandaged my wounds and taken good care of me. But the next day, a young advocate came and served me with a summons to court. He said that the blast from the quicksilver had destroyed half of four other smithies, the ones next door and on the next street, and that I had to pay damages. I tried to explain to the court that it had just been an experiment gone wrong, and that the fire should not have spread, but they ruled against me. The other smithies took all my slave apprentices, and the contracts of the journeymen, as collateral, along with all of my ready-made weapons and armor, and my sestertii in the bank. But do not worry - since you were my partner, not under contract, they cannot seize you."

Heilyn is aghast. He needs this smithy - not just because he has invested most of his own and much of Metellus' money in it, but because he promised the god Mercury a lightning bolt as atonement for breaking out of his Temple, and who knows how patient a god is. At the same time, a few things seem odd about this whole story. Heilyn doesn't know much about quicksilver, but he thinks it's fairly expensive, more so than 300 sestertii for a large amphora. And if there was so much damage, how come there were still intact weapons and armor left within the forge itself? And he hadn't noticed all that much damage to surrounding smithies on his walk down the Via Ferra.

For now, though, he comforts the Master of Naxos, and promises to see what he can do about getting new funds, and a new anvil. He finds out the names of the smiths who sued, as well as the name of their advocate, the familiar sounding Gnaeus Tertius Publicola. The "friendly merchant," unfortunately, identified himself only as Lucius from Neapolis, which doesn't narrow it down terribly much. The Master of Naxos, while brilliant, is perhaps a little naive and trusting.

Yet at least for now, Heilyn has found a more urgent problem to distract him from his despairing homesickness. And he knows just the people to help him discover the truth behind this mysterious explosion.

 

[Orichalcum]

Alea Iacta X: A Civil Campaign Chp. 3: I like Thrax!

Just to make things clear, I'm posting rapidly at the moment, because we're about to go on vacation for ten days or so, so there'll be a corresponding drop in storyhour. And then after that I need to plan for the next actual session.

Also, as an advance warning, it's going to be a long long time before you see any significant combat. We're into a much more intriguey and roleplaying-heavy section of the game, so don't expect a lot of power attacks.

In game logistical notes, however, CerebralPaladin suggests I mention that, when Metellus gave "the speech of his life," that was a Diplomacy Check of 37, which was, in fact, as well as he could possibly do.
***

Heilyn hurries back to Metellus' parents' house, and tells him the grim news.

"You have to understand," Heilyn says, "he isn't dumb or a bad smith. He just wanted a hot, hot, hot forge."
"What's wrong with a normal, normal, normal forge? Like the one I invested in?" Metellus whimpers.
"Well, a normal forge can't produce lightning bolts. But in any case, I need your help finding out more about this lawsuit and getting it overturned."
"I'm sorry, Heilyn. Maybe in a few weeks I can help. But it turns out that, with the time having passed like it did, the official election campaign season starts tomorrow. I've decided to run for Judge, and I need to write a speech. Go talk to Marcus or something..."
Metellus answers unhelpfully, perhaps a little irritated at the loss of what Heilyn promised was a "sure profit."
Heilyn, unwilling to confide his problems to the gruff Centurion, goes and practices speaking to spirits in his room, trying to think of ways to navigate the complex world of Roman law.
***

The next morning, we all get up early to go to the Forum and hear Marcus' speech, as well as those of the other candidates. It seems to be a popular year - four other candidates are running for the three annual judge slots. The Roman citizens will vote in their tribes in early December, and in each round of balloting the majority of tribes will elect one judge. While Metellus therefore only needs to be within the top three candidates, he will of course accrue more honor and political clout if he is the first candidates returned by the voters.

The five candidates draw lots randomly from an urn to determine the order of their announcement speeches, and Metellus, looking quite nervous, is fourth.

The first speaker steps up to the rostra, a tall podium formed out of the dozens of ships' beaks captured by the Roman fleets. He is a quite young man, a few years younger even than Metellus, but broad-shouldered and fair of face. He is quite properly wearing a toga, but he also has bronze greaves strapped to his calves, and a thick pair of military boots, despite the hot weather.

Marcus represses a gasp as he notices the most unusual aspect of this man's costume - the dried, almost colorless wreath of woven grass blades which adorns his brow. He leans forward and murmurs quietly in Metellus' ear, "He's wearing the Grass Crown, sir. You only receive that honor for being personally responsible for saving a Legion from destruction on the battlefield."

"I know what the Grass Crown is, Centurion!" Metellus hisses back, even more nervous than he was before.

Meanwhile, the specially talented members of our group have quietly activated a barrage of detection spells, determined to gain as much information early on as possible about the opposition. Cornelia and Meloch confirm that he has no magic on him apart from the Grass Crown itself, which seems to radiate some sort of transmutation effect, much like Marcus' golden phalerae for heroism. Heilyn sees no particular spirits around him. And Lucretius uses his paladin abilities to Detect Pantheon, and finds that the man, whoever he is, has a perfectly orthodox devotion to the Olympian pantheon, especially Mars, and the divine Emperors, particularly the great general Trajan and Mamercus Aemilianus, the previous Emperor. Marcus, meanwhile, also notes that there are a fair number of people standing near the man who bear obvious signs of military training, especially one older man decked out in the full armor and honors of a primuspilus centurion, who is missing an arm.

The young man clears his throat and begins to speak in a light, resonant tenor, "My name is Aulus Gellius Thrax, and I come before you today to ask for your support in my campaign for the honorable position of judge of Roma. Some of you may have heard my name before, but for those of you more focused on the internal affairs of our great city, let me tell you my story.

Four months ago, I served Roma as a military tribune of the 17th Legion. Our great Emperor had commanded us to join him in the war against the foul, fire-throwing Parthian Magi, and we were marching across the Thracian steppes towards Parthia. My legate, Quintus Vitellius, had commanded the cohorts to separate into three groups in order to make better use of the scant resources of food and water available.

Out of nowhere, as we were beginning to make camp one evening, hordes of Thracian barbarians attacked our army. In the first volley, Vitellius was killed by an arrow through his throat. The men began to panic and flee, but I took up our Eagle, and rallied them into tortoise position. Shield to shield, arm to arm, we stood by each other and fought until the last light of sun began to fall below the horizon. In desperation, I threw my last javelins at their bloody, bearded chieftain and lured him into single combat. I managed to kill him, but not before his axe sliced open my leg, the reason for the clumsy boot I now must wear. With the loss of their leader, the Thracians fled into the shadows.

My men cheered me on the field and bestowed this Grass Crown upon me, led by their brave and loyal primuspilus centurion, Regulus, who had lost his own arm defending me. We rejoined the other cohorts and protected them from the Thracians, and together we brought the 17th safely to the Parthian front. With my wounded leg, however, I could no longer remain on the battle lines, and thus I have come home, to serve Roma in a different way, as best as I can."

Wild cheering breaks out throughout the crowd, carefully led by the various soldiers that Marcus noted earlier.