Copperheads: Betrayal and Strange Runes and Burning Dead, oh my (short update 02/12)
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arwink
Clockwork Golem
Black energy erupts out of the Glyph, crackling bands of electricty clawing Blarth as though trying to pull him into the earth. He doesn’t scream, or even feel a great deal of pain, but the others see him sag as the black lightening dissipates.
“Ugh,” Blarth grunts. “Glyph make armor heavy.”
“Are you hurt?” Geoffrey asks, approaching with his eyes warily scanning the floor for any sign of the trap.
“He shouldn’t be,” Halgo says. “I recognize that effect. Someone stored a Ray of Enfeeblement in there. It won’t hurt him, but…”
“But Blarth become puny,” Blarth finishes for him. His face is crestfallen, and no one speaks for a few moments as the realization sinks in.
“Blarth not want to be puny.”
“It shouldn’t last to long,” Halgo offers cheerfully. “The spell usually only lasts a few minutes, even when cast by a powerful wizard. You should be back to your old self within the hour at the latest.”
“Blarth’s armor feels funny.”
“That’s just because you’re not used to noticing the weight,” Geoffrey tells him. He examines the half-orcs armor for a few minutes, hammering on shoulder greaves and tightening straps. “You’ve been wearing this a little loosely since we met, so the weight distribution is a little off. Usually you’re strong enough not to notice, but now…how’s that.”
Blarth takes an experimental swing with his sword, getting used to the new weight on his shoulders.
“Better,” he agrees. “But Blarth still want to be strong again.”
“We don’t really have time,” Geoffrey says. “Whatever built that glyph is probably aware we’re here, so we need to press on.”
“Which way?” Halgo asks, looking at the branching passages.
“That way,” Geoffrey says, pointing down one of the corridors. “There’s light coming from around that corner, and Selandar’s human. He’s most likely going to be with the light source, no matter how well his followers see in the dark.”
The light comes from a small laboratory, with wooden shelves set into the earthen walls bearing a wide array of fungi, dried leaves and desiccated body parts. In the center of the room is a crude mound of earth that serves as a table, with mortar and pestle surrounded by a small collection of jars, vials and a pair of lit candelabra.
Hiding behind the contents of one of the shelves is a small, vaguely humanoid creature with skin the color of mud. About the size of a small cat, it glares at the intruders and bares a mouthful of sharp needle-like teeth. Spindly limbs propel it into the air as it leaps, small bat-wings fluttering in the air and carrying it toward Blarth with a hiss of fury.
Blarth swings with an almost casual indifference, a wild blow with more strength and fury behind it than precision. The creature is sliced in two before it can reach him, falling to the ground and melting into a muddy paste on the floor.
“Puny,” Blarth grunts, taking a great deal of satisfaction in the word.
A quick search is made of the room, turning up a pair of sunrods and an unidentified potion amid the clutter on the table. Halgo spots a small alcove in the back of the room, containing little more than a potters wheel and some blood streaked clay.
“Homunculi,” he says when he sees the wheel. “A wizards tool, small constructs that serve as guardians. Most likely belonged to whoever corrupted Selandar.”
“Brilliant, wizards.” Geoffrey mutters. “Are there any secret doors out of here?”
No one can find any.
“So much for logic then. We go back, and we follow the other path.”
The second path leads into a chamber that reeks of sulfur, the scent emanating from a vein of the yellow mineral that cuts through the wall. A writing desk sits in the corner or the room, it’s accoutrements neatly arrayed on one side and a stack of skin skeins resting on another. A small pile of books is stacked on a small bench by the desk, although most are thin and missing pages.
Geoffrey and Halgo make a move towards the desk, their approach interrupted halfway across the room by a savage hiss from a darkened passage on the southern wall. A gray skin lizard steps out of the darkness, longspear in hand.
“You not touch the massstersss workss,” it hisses, and a stench strong enough to overpower the smell of sulfur permeates the room.
Halgo is nauseated by the stench, but their fortitude holds both Blarth and Geoffrey in good stead. Blarth charges across the room with his sword raised, the lizard-creatures spear skittering along his armor. While the spear does little damage, the force of the attack throws off the half-orcs attack and he swings wide. Still gagging on the stench in the room, Halgo circles wide to get a clear shot at the creature and casts ray of frost. The beam of pale energy strikes the lizard in his flank, covering its scales in frost and drawing an angry hiss. Geoffrey follows Blarth’s charge more cautiously, moving in for a measured strike on the creatures flank.
The lizard’s spear proves awkward in such close quarters, with two opponents pressing the attack, so it drops the weapon and lashes out with its claws, drawing a thin line of blood from both it’s attackers. It has a momentary flash of pleasure when it thinks of how it’ll explain it’s brave defense of the small study to its master, cut short when Blarth’s sword cuts through its chest.
“You know, even without strength, you’re not that puny,” Halgo comments. Blarth merely smiles and wipes the lizard’s blood of his blade.
A quick search of the desks contents is made, and there is a great deal to be learned from the various skins and pages scattered across it. The books turn out to be simple texts, most of them covering issues such as heraldry and imperial law and all have been rigorously defaced, but the two stretched animal skins hold some information of worth. The first appears to be a simple hymn to Granak, but the second appears to be some kind of order.
“The Archeprelate is correct,” Halgo reads, quickly translating the crude scrawl from orcish. “We must turn towards the elder gods, raise them from their graves and use them for our own purposes. Laeth has taught me how to channel the power of Granak, and the savage god is behind our plans. By restoring the old gods, we can take on the powers of avatars. Other agents have been sent to find their graves, to deal with their spirits and servants. You must find their holy shrines, rebuild them and awaken their worship once more.”
“Then I guess we should add Heresy to the list,” Geoffrey shrugs. He glances at the scrolls as Halgo hands them over, staring at the illegible scrawl.
“What’s this say?” he asks, pointing to a more civilized set of runes in the margin of the hymn. Halgo takes the scroll and looks carefully.
“It’s draconic,” he says, surprised. “It says “May only be summoned during Beltane ritual.’ Mean anything to you?”
Geoffrey shrugs.
“There’s half a hundred Beltane rituals, especially among the nature gods. Could be anything.”
The various books and scrolls are gathered and stowed, ready to be transported back to the church for further investigation. With firm resolve, they turn towards the passageway leading into the darkness and continue deeper into the complex.
“Ugh,” Blarth grunts. “Glyph make armor heavy.”
“Are you hurt?” Geoffrey asks, approaching with his eyes warily scanning the floor for any sign of the trap.
“He shouldn’t be,” Halgo says. “I recognize that effect. Someone stored a Ray of Enfeeblement in there. It won’t hurt him, but…”
“But Blarth become puny,” Blarth finishes for him. His face is crestfallen, and no one speaks for a few moments as the realization sinks in.
“Blarth not want to be puny.”
“It shouldn’t last to long,” Halgo offers cheerfully. “The spell usually only lasts a few minutes, even when cast by a powerful wizard. You should be back to your old self within the hour at the latest.”
“Blarth’s armor feels funny.”
“That’s just because you’re not used to noticing the weight,” Geoffrey tells him. He examines the half-orcs armor for a few minutes, hammering on shoulder greaves and tightening straps. “You’ve been wearing this a little loosely since we met, so the weight distribution is a little off. Usually you’re strong enough not to notice, but now…how’s that.”
Blarth takes an experimental swing with his sword, getting used to the new weight on his shoulders.
“Better,” he agrees. “But Blarth still want to be strong again.”
“We don’t really have time,” Geoffrey says. “Whatever built that glyph is probably aware we’re here, so we need to press on.”
“Which way?” Halgo asks, looking at the branching passages.
“That way,” Geoffrey says, pointing down one of the corridors. “There’s light coming from around that corner, and Selandar’s human. He’s most likely going to be with the light source, no matter how well his followers see in the dark.”
The light comes from a small laboratory, with wooden shelves set into the earthen walls bearing a wide array of fungi, dried leaves and desiccated body parts. In the center of the room is a crude mound of earth that serves as a table, with mortar and pestle surrounded by a small collection of jars, vials and a pair of lit candelabra.
Hiding behind the contents of one of the shelves is a small, vaguely humanoid creature with skin the color of mud. About the size of a small cat, it glares at the intruders and bares a mouthful of sharp needle-like teeth. Spindly limbs propel it into the air as it leaps, small bat-wings fluttering in the air and carrying it toward Blarth with a hiss of fury.
Blarth swings with an almost casual indifference, a wild blow with more strength and fury behind it than precision. The creature is sliced in two before it can reach him, falling to the ground and melting into a muddy paste on the floor.
“Puny,” Blarth grunts, taking a great deal of satisfaction in the word.
A quick search is made of the room, turning up a pair of sunrods and an unidentified potion amid the clutter on the table. Halgo spots a small alcove in the back of the room, containing little more than a potters wheel and some blood streaked clay.
“Homunculi,” he says when he sees the wheel. “A wizards tool, small constructs that serve as guardians. Most likely belonged to whoever corrupted Selandar.”
“Brilliant, wizards.” Geoffrey mutters. “Are there any secret doors out of here?”
No one can find any.
“So much for logic then. We go back, and we follow the other path.”
The second path leads into a chamber that reeks of sulfur, the scent emanating from a vein of the yellow mineral that cuts through the wall. A writing desk sits in the corner or the room, it’s accoutrements neatly arrayed on one side and a stack of skin skeins resting on another. A small pile of books is stacked on a small bench by the desk, although most are thin and missing pages.
Geoffrey and Halgo make a move towards the desk, their approach interrupted halfway across the room by a savage hiss from a darkened passage on the southern wall. A gray skin lizard steps out of the darkness, longspear in hand.
“You not touch the massstersss workss,” it hisses, and a stench strong enough to overpower the smell of sulfur permeates the room.
Halgo is nauseated by the stench, but their fortitude holds both Blarth and Geoffrey in good stead. Blarth charges across the room with his sword raised, the lizard-creatures spear skittering along his armor. While the spear does little damage, the force of the attack throws off the half-orcs attack and he swings wide. Still gagging on the stench in the room, Halgo circles wide to get a clear shot at the creature and casts ray of frost. The beam of pale energy strikes the lizard in his flank, covering its scales in frost and drawing an angry hiss. Geoffrey follows Blarth’s charge more cautiously, moving in for a measured strike on the creatures flank.
The lizard’s spear proves awkward in such close quarters, with two opponents pressing the attack, so it drops the weapon and lashes out with its claws, drawing a thin line of blood from both it’s attackers. It has a momentary flash of pleasure when it thinks of how it’ll explain it’s brave defense of the small study to its master, cut short when Blarth’s sword cuts through its chest.
“You know, even without strength, you’re not that puny,” Halgo comments. Blarth merely smiles and wipes the lizard’s blood of his blade.
A quick search of the desks contents is made, and there is a great deal to be learned from the various skins and pages scattered across it. The books turn out to be simple texts, most of them covering issues such as heraldry and imperial law and all have been rigorously defaced, but the two stretched animal skins hold some information of worth. The first appears to be a simple hymn to Granak, but the second appears to be some kind of order.
“The Archeprelate is correct,” Halgo reads, quickly translating the crude scrawl from orcish. “We must turn towards the elder gods, raise them from their graves and use them for our own purposes. Laeth has taught me how to channel the power of Granak, and the savage god is behind our plans. By restoring the old gods, we can take on the powers of avatars. Other agents have been sent to find their graves, to deal with their spirits and servants. You must find their holy shrines, rebuild them and awaken their worship once more.”
“Then I guess we should add Heresy to the list,” Geoffrey shrugs. He glances at the scrolls as Halgo hands them over, staring at the illegible scrawl.
“What’s this say?” he asks, pointing to a more civilized set of runes in the margin of the hymn. Halgo takes the scroll and looks carefully.
“It’s draconic,” he says, surprised. “It says “May only be summoned during Beltane ritual.’ Mean anything to you?”
Geoffrey shrugs.
“There’s half a hundred Beltane rituals, especially among the nature gods. Could be anything.”
The various books and scrolls are gathered and stowed, ready to be transported back to the church for further investigation. With firm resolve, they turn towards the passageway leading into the darkness and continue deeper into the complex.
arwink
Clockwork Golem
“Desecration,” a deep voice snarls, and there's a meaty *thunk* as a javelin flies out of the darkness of the corridor and strikes Blarth in the shoulder. Blood streams from the wound, and the half-orc swears loudly a he pulls it free. Within the space of a few moments, a second javelin appears from the shadows to rebound of Geoffrey’s shield.
Everyone blinks for a few moments, sluggish reflexes adapting to the sudden attack. Fighting through the pain Blarth launches himself into a charge, war cry on his lips, only to run into a patch of caltrops blocking half the corridor. The half-orc screams in pain, his hurried retreat leaving small spots of blood on the floor of the passageway. Geoffrey watches his comrade’s interrupted charge and swears, hurriedly pulling a sunrod free from his pack and throwing it down the passageway. The rod strikes the ground with a soft crack, suddenly throwing the area into illumination.
The room that suddenly blinks into vision is like a nightmarish parody of a shrine, with a bloody eye painted above a black-stone alter and small patches of blood scattered about the floor. Standing in the center, a javelin in hand, is a mangled bear-likecreature that could once have been a man. Twisted limbs are covered with thick, clumped fur, and the humanoid face bears the traits of some wild animal – a bear-like snout and the thick fangs of a dog are prominent, as are a set of wolfish ears the poke out of a mane of black hair. The remnants of a suit of plate armor are strapped to misshapen limbs, and the creature still wears a white surcoat that is splattered with blood and grime. Despite its twisted features, Geoffrey recognized the face behind the corrupted flesh.
“Selandar,” he shouts, surprised and slightly stunned by the fallen justicar’s warped features.
Halgo emotes no such reaction, quickly loading his crossbow and opening fire. The bolt spirals through the air, catching the Selandar in one of his brutish legs. The fallen justicar grunts something gutteral, pulling a potion vial from his belt and swallowing its contents. With a sudden shimmer, he disappears from view.
Everyone cautiously moves through the field of caltrops strewn across the pathway, scanning the floor for metal points while they listen to the guttural sound of Selandar praying to his new god. The Copperheads move into the room in a tight formation, weapons at the ready and wary for invisible attackers. They can hear the sound of Selandar moving and praying, but the small chamber echoes and its hard to pinpoint his exact location until he appears by the alter, javelin in hand, and spears Halgo with a heavy blow. The hulking Justicar is quick to follow up the attack, crossing the chamber in the wake of his thrown spear, morning star in hand. His giant form closes in on Geoffrey and Blarth, trying to bottle them by the entryway of the temple. They both swing wildly at the charging justicar, but Selandar's new form proves surprisingly resilient and he he remains standing despite the force of their blows. Halgo hurriedly casts an extended daze on the warped human, but the mental training he received as a Justicar has obviously not been eradicated by his transformation.
Salandar hammer’s Blarth with his morning star, his free hand fumbling for a scroll tucked through his crude belt. Geoffrey and Blarth attack again, but the Justicar’s training and the fury of his assault leave them unable to penetrate his defenses. Still, Selandar is bleeding from two wounds that would fell a normal man, and his movements are slower. The hand groping at his belt finds the scroll he’s searching for, and he fends off his opponents with the morning star as he unfurls it one handed and reads its content aloud. The guttural words echo across the chamber, and Selandar’s hand channels black energy that he touches to Geoffrey’s chest. The young cleric screams in pain as old wounds re-open, and as the three heroes press the attack Geoffrey punches his mace through Selandar’s mis-timed parry and opens a large gash in the fallen justicars chest. Blood splatters across the floor as Selandar’s lifeblood pumps out of the wound, but still the fallen cleric doesn’t fall.
“Surrender,” Geoffrey yells. Selandar’s only response is to stumble backwards, quickly drinking the contents of a vial he wears on a chain around his neck.
Everyone swears as the fallen Justicar’s wounds heal, flesh and bone knitting together until all that is left is yellowing bruises.
“Desecration,” Selandar screams through his brutish teeth, seemingly the only word he can manage in the common tongue after his transformation. Geoffrey and Blarth move up to flank him as Halgo loads his crossbow and waits for a shot. Selandar’s defenses prove strong as he bats away the measured blows, and the bolt that Halgo lodges in his arm seems little more than an irritant. The fallen Justicar swings wildly at Geoffrey, battering a wide dent in his armor and punching the points of the morningstar through Geoffrey’s shoulder. Geoffrey stumbles backwards, trying to recall the words to a healing spell through the pain and praying that Blarth can hold his own. His vision is blurred with pain as the healing magic flows through his hands, slowly closing the wound, and when he is finished he can see Selandar's gruisome form looming over the half-orc psion with his morning star raised high. Blarth has a large gash along one arm, making it difficult for him to hold his shield high enough to deflect the blade, and Geoffrey curses when he realises that Selandar's next blow may kill his comrade.
The morning star swings down, a blow driven by fury and bestial strength that is aimed at Blarth's head. Blarth swings his blade up in a desperate parry, and the sound of the two weapons meeting echoes loudly accross the chamber.
Everyone is surprised to find that Blarth has blocked the blow, his sword holding steady against the strength of Selandar.
Then Blarth's joyous cry echoes accross the cavern, as he realises that the strength sapped by the glyph has returned.
"Blarth not puny!" he yell joyfully, and he pushes back against Selandar and renews his assault. Selandar’s bestial strength isn't anwwhere near enough to match an unrestrained Blarth, and between the half-orcs heavy blows and Halgo’s third bolt it’s enough to drop him to the ground.
With nary a pause to recover from the battle, Blarth lops off the fallen Justicar’s head.
“He not puny,” Blarth offers as the others stare at him. “He make good kill.”
After a few minutes spent healing and catching their breath, the adventurers search the room. The alter contains Selandar’s magical holy symbol fo the justicar, although the symbol is slightly dented as though the fallen cleric had tried to damage it. Sitting next to it as a warhammer that glows with a pale blue light – a weapon Geoffrey recognizes as the Hammer of St Gustav, one of the most respected clerics of his religion in ancient times. The hammer bears only weak enhancement, but its powers made it impossible for it to be wielded by evil.
Halgo busies himself with the looting of Selandar’s body, recovering a small pouch filled with gold and silver as well as a small topaz of some value. Also among the fallen justicars possessions is a note written on a scrap of parchment in orcish. Halgo alerts Geoffrey and reads the orcish runes aloud.
“When you’ve finished this simple task, join us at the rendezbvous. The rebuilding of the alter at Skarth awaits our attention.”
They barely have time to consider what this means when Halgo, searching the walls of secret passages, calls them over. The dwarf has found the stone frame of a doorway in the back of the temple, barely distinguishable from the dirt and stone around it. It’s made of a pearly gray stone, with a small hole the size of a coin at the height of the arch.
As Geoffrey and Blarth walk over, Halgo examines it with a detect magic.
“It’s magical,” he says. “And judging by the aura, I’m guessing that it’s a portal or a gate.”
Everyone blinks for a few moments, sluggish reflexes adapting to the sudden attack. Fighting through the pain Blarth launches himself into a charge, war cry on his lips, only to run into a patch of caltrops blocking half the corridor. The half-orc screams in pain, his hurried retreat leaving small spots of blood on the floor of the passageway. Geoffrey watches his comrade’s interrupted charge and swears, hurriedly pulling a sunrod free from his pack and throwing it down the passageway. The rod strikes the ground with a soft crack, suddenly throwing the area into illumination.
The room that suddenly blinks into vision is like a nightmarish parody of a shrine, with a bloody eye painted above a black-stone alter and small patches of blood scattered about the floor. Standing in the center, a javelin in hand, is a mangled bear-likecreature that could once have been a man. Twisted limbs are covered with thick, clumped fur, and the humanoid face bears the traits of some wild animal – a bear-like snout and the thick fangs of a dog are prominent, as are a set of wolfish ears the poke out of a mane of black hair. The remnants of a suit of plate armor are strapped to misshapen limbs, and the creature still wears a white surcoat that is splattered with blood and grime. Despite its twisted features, Geoffrey recognized the face behind the corrupted flesh.
“Selandar,” he shouts, surprised and slightly stunned by the fallen justicar’s warped features.
Halgo emotes no such reaction, quickly loading his crossbow and opening fire. The bolt spirals through the air, catching the Selandar in one of his brutish legs. The fallen justicar grunts something gutteral, pulling a potion vial from his belt and swallowing its contents. With a sudden shimmer, he disappears from view.
Everyone cautiously moves through the field of caltrops strewn across the pathway, scanning the floor for metal points while they listen to the guttural sound of Selandar praying to his new god. The Copperheads move into the room in a tight formation, weapons at the ready and wary for invisible attackers. They can hear the sound of Selandar moving and praying, but the small chamber echoes and its hard to pinpoint his exact location until he appears by the alter, javelin in hand, and spears Halgo with a heavy blow. The hulking Justicar is quick to follow up the attack, crossing the chamber in the wake of his thrown spear, morning star in hand. His giant form closes in on Geoffrey and Blarth, trying to bottle them by the entryway of the temple. They both swing wildly at the charging justicar, but Selandar's new form proves surprisingly resilient and he he remains standing despite the force of their blows. Halgo hurriedly casts an extended daze on the warped human, but the mental training he received as a Justicar has obviously not been eradicated by his transformation.
Salandar hammer’s Blarth with his morning star, his free hand fumbling for a scroll tucked through his crude belt. Geoffrey and Blarth attack again, but the Justicar’s training and the fury of his assault leave them unable to penetrate his defenses. Still, Selandar is bleeding from two wounds that would fell a normal man, and his movements are slower. The hand groping at his belt finds the scroll he’s searching for, and he fends off his opponents with the morning star as he unfurls it one handed and reads its content aloud. The guttural words echo across the chamber, and Selandar’s hand channels black energy that he touches to Geoffrey’s chest. The young cleric screams in pain as old wounds re-open, and as the three heroes press the attack Geoffrey punches his mace through Selandar’s mis-timed parry and opens a large gash in the fallen justicars chest. Blood splatters across the floor as Selandar’s lifeblood pumps out of the wound, but still the fallen cleric doesn’t fall.
“Surrender,” Geoffrey yells. Selandar’s only response is to stumble backwards, quickly drinking the contents of a vial he wears on a chain around his neck.
Everyone swears as the fallen Justicar’s wounds heal, flesh and bone knitting together until all that is left is yellowing bruises.
“Desecration,” Selandar screams through his brutish teeth, seemingly the only word he can manage in the common tongue after his transformation. Geoffrey and Blarth move up to flank him as Halgo loads his crossbow and waits for a shot. Selandar’s defenses prove strong as he bats away the measured blows, and the bolt that Halgo lodges in his arm seems little more than an irritant. The fallen Justicar swings wildly at Geoffrey, battering a wide dent in his armor and punching the points of the morningstar through Geoffrey’s shoulder. Geoffrey stumbles backwards, trying to recall the words to a healing spell through the pain and praying that Blarth can hold his own. His vision is blurred with pain as the healing magic flows through his hands, slowly closing the wound, and when he is finished he can see Selandar's gruisome form looming over the half-orc psion with his morning star raised high. Blarth has a large gash along one arm, making it difficult for him to hold his shield high enough to deflect the blade, and Geoffrey curses when he realises that Selandar's next blow may kill his comrade.
The morning star swings down, a blow driven by fury and bestial strength that is aimed at Blarth's head. Blarth swings his blade up in a desperate parry, and the sound of the two weapons meeting echoes loudly accross the chamber.
Everyone is surprised to find that Blarth has blocked the blow, his sword holding steady against the strength of Selandar.
Then Blarth's joyous cry echoes accross the cavern, as he realises that the strength sapped by the glyph has returned.
"Blarth not puny!" he yell joyfully, and he pushes back against Selandar and renews his assault. Selandar’s bestial strength isn't anwwhere near enough to match an unrestrained Blarth, and between the half-orcs heavy blows and Halgo’s third bolt it’s enough to drop him to the ground.
With nary a pause to recover from the battle, Blarth lops off the fallen Justicar’s head.
“He not puny,” Blarth offers as the others stare at him. “He make good kill.”
After a few minutes spent healing and catching their breath, the adventurers search the room. The alter contains Selandar’s magical holy symbol fo the justicar, although the symbol is slightly dented as though the fallen cleric had tried to damage it. Sitting next to it as a warhammer that glows with a pale blue light – a weapon Geoffrey recognizes as the Hammer of St Gustav, one of the most respected clerics of his religion in ancient times. The hammer bears only weak enhancement, but its powers made it impossible for it to be wielded by evil.
Halgo busies himself with the looting of Selandar’s body, recovering a small pouch filled with gold and silver as well as a small topaz of some value. Also among the fallen justicars possessions is a note written on a scrap of parchment in orcish. Halgo alerts Geoffrey and reads the orcish runes aloud.
“When you’ve finished this simple task, join us at the rendezbvous. The rebuilding of the alter at Skarth awaits our attention.”
They barely have time to consider what this means when Halgo, searching the walls of secret passages, calls them over. The dwarf has found the stone frame of a doorway in the back of the temple, barely distinguishable from the dirt and stone around it. It’s made of a pearly gray stone, with a small hole the size of a coin at the height of the arch.
As Geoffrey and Blarth walk over, Halgo examines it with a detect magic.
“It’s magical,” he says. “And judging by the aura, I’m guessing that it’s a portal or a gate.”
arwink
Clockwork Golem
Blarth is, most definately, not puny in the slightest. I think this was one of the last sessions where he wasn't regularly hitting with a full-scale power attack and rolls of seven or less 
I haven't really run a game with a real, brutish, high strength and heavy armor fighter since the very first campaign of 3e where Yip's player ran around as a Barbarian. This time around there's a surplus of them - Blarth serves as a tank fighter fairly effectively despite his status as a psi warrior (20 Strength and Psionic Weapon cover a variety of ills), and Geoffrey is slowly angling his way towards War Priest when he hits seventh level (with a ranger follower for leadership). After a group that was top-heavy with spellcasters/psions and stealth types, it's nice to be able to throw hordes of opponents at the group and rely on someone to cleave again (to say nothing of a character able to punch through damage reduction despite an absence of magic weapons).
On an unrelated note, this week has probably been the most fun week I've had posting this storyhour. The players have perused the events that took place almost a year ago of real time, made some connections with some recent events in the campaign, and the reactions have been interesting
I haven't really run a game with a real, brutish, high strength and heavy armor fighter since the very first campaign of 3e where Yip's player ran around as a Barbarian. This time around there's a surplus of them - Blarth serves as a tank fighter fairly effectively despite his status as a psi warrior (20 Strength and Psionic Weapon cover a variety of ills), and Geoffrey is slowly angling his way towards War Priest when he hits seventh level (with a ranger follower for leadership). After a group that was top-heavy with spellcasters/psions and stealth types, it's nice to be able to throw hordes of opponents at the group and rely on someone to cleave again (to say nothing of a character able to punch through damage reduction despite an absence of magic weapons).
On an unrelated note, this week has probably been the most fun week I've had posting this storyhour. The players have perused the events that took place almost a year ago of real time, made some connections with some recent events in the campaign, and the reactions have been interesting
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arwink
Clockwork Golem
“This isn’t good,” Geoffrey says quietly. “Can you tell where it goes?”
Halgo shrugs.
“Hard to say,” he explains. “I don’t even know how to activate it at the moment. I’ve got a spell that possibly tell us more, but I'll need some rest before I can cast it. And even then, it could take days for my magic to find out everything I need to know.”
“How many days?” Geoffrey asks.
“Three, maybe four.”
Geoffrey glares at the dormant gate, then considers the various wounds his comrades bare. It’ll take at least that long for him to heal everyone.
“We’ll make time,” he says. “Borr isn’t going anywhere, and another few days won’t make any difference to the church. Selandar’s been rogue for a while now, it's not like they were expecting us to succeed immediately.”
The alter to Granak is destroyed as competently as the group can manage, and a small camp is set up in the abandoned cottage on the surface. Over the next four days, the group settles into an easy ritual – Blarth stands guard, Geoffrey starts dismantling the evil devices in the complex as best he’s able and casts curatives, and Halgo spends the day making notes about the portal and studying the device with object loresight.
His magic reveals the following:
1) The gate is 1328 years old
2) The name of the last creature to touch the object was Laeth, Archeprelate of the Fallorn
3) Laeth’s race was Human, albeit tinged with demonic blood.
4) The Gate was created by Abanis of the Scallari.
5) The object was created by a human.
6) The object’s purpose is to provide instantaneous passage between this temple and the grand temple.
7) The Portal is made of magically enhanced stone.
8) It was created in this chamber, although some lingering sense says that part of its creation occurred elsewhere.
9) The own of its most recent owner is Selandar.
When his divinations are complete on the fourth day, he gathers his comrades together and explains what he’s learned.
“We destroy it then,” Geoffrey says, his voice final. “I don’t recognize any of the names, but the presence of demonic blood and its presence in a temple of evil....”
He leaves the thought hanging.
“I don’t know that we can destroy it,” Halgo says, his expression thoughtful. “Its construction is like nothing I’ve ever seen, and the stonework is exceptional. It’s not going to be harmed by our weapons, and certainly neither you nor I have the ability to harm it with magic. I doubt even Y’Dey could dispel it’s magic – the things damned powerful.”
“Then we make sure whoever uses it can’t get to the surface,” Geoffrey decides. “You thought the roof here was unstable, yes? Then Blarth and his whistle are going to keep that thing underground for years to come.”
The task proves easier said than done, especially with the limited use Blarth gets from his whistle. Six days are spent firing blasts of sound at the roof of the temple chamber, then slowly collapsing the rooms that lead towards it. In the end, they have reduced the crude complex to a mass of stone and rubble that would require months of excavation to be used again. With the task done, they send Blarth up a tree to determine the direction and return to the road.
The remainder of their journey to Petrev is uneventful, with the next night spent in the relative comfort of a small inn built along the roadside. They are told tales of some trouble the inn had a few weeks back, a tale about evil fairies kidnapping the patrons and stealing them into the forest, but few of the group are interested enough to enquire further. Only the inn’s mustard eating contest attracts their attention, with Blarth becoming so enamored of the tage mustards fiery taste that he buys a jar to take with him when they leave.
Two days later they arrive in the Holy City of Petrev, a sprawling metropolis of a city that crams itself between the sea cliffs and a giant spire of rock several thousand feet high, along a shelf of land on the coastal edge of the Ironstone hills. They enter the city without incident, reporting to the Grand Temple of the Saint with news of their victory over the renegade justicar and a request for orders.
When their report is completed, the group is told of the mission to Borr, learning they will be part of the first wave of St Cuthbertite law to sail to the new continent and bring the voice of law to the settlers within. Arrangements are made for Geoffrey to be sworn in as a full-fledged Justicar, and Blarth turns out to be the most senior of the Drakkarim warriors being sent on the expedition. The boat is still a month from leaving for the northern continent, however, and the group is given permission to pursue their own goals until such time they are required to make the voyage.
Everyone takes some time to themselves. Geoffrey is put through hours of rigorous training in church dogma, required before he can take his position as an official Arbiter of justice. Blarth spends his time at the local Chapterhouse of the Drakkarim, honing his skills and learning to better control his psionic gifts.
Halgo spends the time in the city, searching the markets for new scrolls and spells to learn and commissioning a lead-lined box that can be used to hide his payment from Kelpreth from magical detection. Such time that isn’t spent researching new magic is spent in the temple libraries of the city, trying to find some reference to the strange holy symbol they found in Haggash or the various groups and people uncovered by his divination of the magic gate. He finds little of use about either.
For three weeks, the Copperheads see little of one another, content to pursue their own goals without the presence of their companions. It isn’t until the third week, when Geoffrey’s mastery of Law and Dogma is considered complete enough to attain the title of Justicar and everyone gathers for the ceremony, that the realization that they crave something more interesting sets in. They gather in a small tavern in the cities temple district to discuss what they should do to fill in their remaining week, and the decision is made to talk to the church. Geoffrey is, after all, an officially recognized warrior of the law now and there’s bound to be something the church needs done.
A meeting is made with Brother Cadloren, a plump monk that serves in one of the smaller chapels in the city. Cadloren was a friend of Geoffrey’s mentor, and vouched for the younger priest during the ceremony in which Geoffrey was made justicar. A middle-aged man with a plump belly, he still manages to maintain the rigid military bearing associated with the Church.
“Hmm,” he muses, sorting through a pile of scrolls that litter his desk. “In theory, there’s not a lot we should be sending you here. Sixteen chapels devoted to Our Lord or his Children in the city usually keeps things pretty quiet, and orders are that none of you should be incapacitated by the time that boat arrives.”
He sucks on his cheeks for a few minutes, carefully observing the three eager faces in front of him.
“Still, there may be something you three would be suited for.”
He pulls out a scroll and lays it flat on the table.
“How do you feel about tracking down a cult?”
Halgo shrugs.
“Hard to say,” he explains. “I don’t even know how to activate it at the moment. I’ve got a spell that possibly tell us more, but I'll need some rest before I can cast it. And even then, it could take days for my magic to find out everything I need to know.”
“How many days?” Geoffrey asks.
“Three, maybe four.”
Geoffrey glares at the dormant gate, then considers the various wounds his comrades bare. It’ll take at least that long for him to heal everyone.
“We’ll make time,” he says. “Borr isn’t going anywhere, and another few days won’t make any difference to the church. Selandar’s been rogue for a while now, it's not like they were expecting us to succeed immediately.”
The alter to Granak is destroyed as competently as the group can manage, and a small camp is set up in the abandoned cottage on the surface. Over the next four days, the group settles into an easy ritual – Blarth stands guard, Geoffrey starts dismantling the evil devices in the complex as best he’s able and casts curatives, and Halgo spends the day making notes about the portal and studying the device with object loresight.
His magic reveals the following:
1) The gate is 1328 years old
2) The name of the last creature to touch the object was Laeth, Archeprelate of the Fallorn
3) Laeth’s race was Human, albeit tinged with demonic blood.
4) The Gate was created by Abanis of the Scallari.
5) The object was created by a human.
6) The object’s purpose is to provide instantaneous passage between this temple and the grand temple.
7) The Portal is made of magically enhanced stone.
8) It was created in this chamber, although some lingering sense says that part of its creation occurred elsewhere.
9) The own of its most recent owner is Selandar.
When his divinations are complete on the fourth day, he gathers his comrades together and explains what he’s learned.
“We destroy it then,” Geoffrey says, his voice final. “I don’t recognize any of the names, but the presence of demonic blood and its presence in a temple of evil....”
He leaves the thought hanging.
“I don’t know that we can destroy it,” Halgo says, his expression thoughtful. “Its construction is like nothing I’ve ever seen, and the stonework is exceptional. It’s not going to be harmed by our weapons, and certainly neither you nor I have the ability to harm it with magic. I doubt even Y’Dey could dispel it’s magic – the things damned powerful.”
“Then we make sure whoever uses it can’t get to the surface,” Geoffrey decides. “You thought the roof here was unstable, yes? Then Blarth and his whistle are going to keep that thing underground for years to come.”
The task proves easier said than done, especially with the limited use Blarth gets from his whistle. Six days are spent firing blasts of sound at the roof of the temple chamber, then slowly collapsing the rooms that lead towards it. In the end, they have reduced the crude complex to a mass of stone and rubble that would require months of excavation to be used again. With the task done, they send Blarth up a tree to determine the direction and return to the road.
The remainder of their journey to Petrev is uneventful, with the next night spent in the relative comfort of a small inn built along the roadside. They are told tales of some trouble the inn had a few weeks back, a tale about evil fairies kidnapping the patrons and stealing them into the forest, but few of the group are interested enough to enquire further. Only the inn’s mustard eating contest attracts their attention, with Blarth becoming so enamored of the tage mustards fiery taste that he buys a jar to take with him when they leave.
Two days later they arrive in the Holy City of Petrev, a sprawling metropolis of a city that crams itself between the sea cliffs and a giant spire of rock several thousand feet high, along a shelf of land on the coastal edge of the Ironstone hills. They enter the city without incident, reporting to the Grand Temple of the Saint with news of their victory over the renegade justicar and a request for orders.
When their report is completed, the group is told of the mission to Borr, learning they will be part of the first wave of St Cuthbertite law to sail to the new continent and bring the voice of law to the settlers within. Arrangements are made for Geoffrey to be sworn in as a full-fledged Justicar, and Blarth turns out to be the most senior of the Drakkarim warriors being sent on the expedition. The boat is still a month from leaving for the northern continent, however, and the group is given permission to pursue their own goals until such time they are required to make the voyage.
Everyone takes some time to themselves. Geoffrey is put through hours of rigorous training in church dogma, required before he can take his position as an official Arbiter of justice. Blarth spends his time at the local Chapterhouse of the Drakkarim, honing his skills and learning to better control his psionic gifts.
Halgo spends the time in the city, searching the markets for new scrolls and spells to learn and commissioning a lead-lined box that can be used to hide his payment from Kelpreth from magical detection. Such time that isn’t spent researching new magic is spent in the temple libraries of the city, trying to find some reference to the strange holy symbol they found in Haggash or the various groups and people uncovered by his divination of the magic gate. He finds little of use about either.
For three weeks, the Copperheads see little of one another, content to pursue their own goals without the presence of their companions. It isn’t until the third week, when Geoffrey’s mastery of Law and Dogma is considered complete enough to attain the title of Justicar and everyone gathers for the ceremony, that the realization that they crave something more interesting sets in. They gather in a small tavern in the cities temple district to discuss what they should do to fill in their remaining week, and the decision is made to talk to the church. Geoffrey is, after all, an officially recognized warrior of the law now and there’s bound to be something the church needs done.
A meeting is made with Brother Cadloren, a plump monk that serves in one of the smaller chapels in the city. Cadloren was a friend of Geoffrey’s mentor, and vouched for the younger priest during the ceremony in which Geoffrey was made justicar. A middle-aged man with a plump belly, he still manages to maintain the rigid military bearing associated with the Church.
“Hmm,” he muses, sorting through a pile of scrolls that litter his desk. “In theory, there’s not a lot we should be sending you here. Sixteen chapels devoted to Our Lord or his Children in the city usually keeps things pretty quiet, and orders are that none of you should be incapacitated by the time that boat arrives.”
He sucks on his cheeks for a few minutes, carefully observing the three eager faces in front of him.
“Still, there may be something you three would be suited for.”
He pulls out a scroll and lays it flat on the table.
“How do you feel about tracking down a cult?”
Mathew_Freeman
Adventurer
I'll make a pre-emptive quote, here:
After all, it's bound to happen, isn't it?
arwink
Clockwork Golem
“There’s rumors of a strange fire-cult starting among the half-orc and orcish population of the city,” Cadloren explains. “We’ve been trying to pin them down, but the racial stance of the cult is fairly strong. They’re only accepting those with orc blood, and they keep things small enough that they can recognize outsiders. We even sent a small group of Yips looking for them in the sewers, but they disappeared without a trace. It’s a fair bet that they’re dangerous, and they’ve been responsible for a few acts of arson in the name of ‘Orcish Liberation’ already. We’ve got no orcish justicars in the city at the moment, but maybe you three can bluff your way through with him.”
He points at Blarth. Halgo and Geoffrey both stare, imagining Blarth working undercover, and carefully restrain themselves from laughing.
“Blarth can do that,” Blarth says, grinning wildly.
“Excellent,” Cadloren beams. “We can’t really offer you much help at the moment, but I’d suggest you start at the Blood and Water– it’s a tavern that caters primarily to half-orcs and other half-bloods. It’s likely that their recruiting there, so try to get yourselves picked up. And be careful – they know there’s justicars looking for them and the last person we sent out was badly beaten.”
The group writes down the directions to the Blood and Water, making their way into one of the poorer streets of the cities South Market region. Geoffrey, in particular, draws a great deal of notice as he strides through the streets. The area is poor, and the people who live there relatively downtrodden, and the gleaming armor and shining tabard of the new justicar mark him as someone out of place.
”There’s the tavern,” Halgo says, peering around a corner and down a short street. “I think it’d be best if we split up.”
“Why?” Geoffrey demands. “Surely we can go in and ask a few questions?”
“You’re a tad conspicuous,” Halgo reminds him. “And a tavern full of surly half-orcs isn’t the best place to get on someone’s bad side. Blarth and I will go on. You take Blarth’s earring and find some place to hide on the other side of the street.”
Halgo glances around the corner and squints at the shops.
“…maybe the second story of that Bakery there. If we need your help, we’ll call you.”
“What about you?” Geoffrey demands. “Surely you don’t think you’ll fare any better than I would?”
Halgo offers him a happy wink.
“I’m an illusionist,” he says cheerfully. “I’m not going to look like an dwarf.”
Geoffrey heads down the street, heading towards the bakery with a small pouch full of gold. He notices several of the men and orcs on the street suddenly leave after he moves past them, slinking into back alleys or heading indoors with strange expressions on their faces. Geoffrey does his best to pretend he hasn’t noticed, striding into the bakery.
The baker is an elderly man, Thamos, and he nearly feints in surprise when the Geoffrey brings his armored form through the door.
“C-C-Can I help you?” Thamos asks.
“You have a room upstairs that overlooks that tavern, yes?” Geoffrey says, pointing. “I’ll give you ten gold a week if you let me use it.”
Thamos eagerly agrees, throwing in a daily supply of buns to the deal.
Halgo and Blarth wait until the count of four hundred before they move, Halgo taking a few minutes to magically transform his appearance into that of an orc.
“You’ a bit short,” Blarth offers, examining the result. Even magically altered, Halgo’s height is only a little over five feet.
“Goblin blood,” Halgo rasps, doing his best to master an orcish croak. “Killed me mah fer it, but it left me stunted. Wouldn’t go makin’ jokes about it iffen I was yoo.”
“Blarth not sound like that,” Blarth says, eyes squinted as he studies Halgo’s disguise.
“You’re slightly more erudite than the standard orc,” Halgo offers smoothly, his voice returning to normal. “We need to stress that you’re the strong one, and I’m the puny sneak. Gives us a good dynamic to work with.”
“Blarth not sure other orcs believe you really orc,” Blarth says dubiously. “You sound silly.”
“It’s okay,” Halgo assures him. “No-one will notice.”
They head down the street, Blarth striding purposefully with Halgo doing his best imitation of a goblinish caper beside him. Most people don’t even glance up as they past, and one or two of the half-orcs even nod a greeting as they pass.
The Blood and Water is a beaten and battered tavern, it’s door hanging half off its hinges and its sole window patched with boards. Despite it’s ramshackle look, the roar from the interior is loud enough to suggest a healthy patronage.
Inside the tavern is a hive of movement, with dozens of half-orcs, hobgoblin mercenaries and kobolds scattered from doorway and to back booth. Everyone shouts at one another, often in a mish-mashed pidgin of common and their racial tongue, and the furniture is almost as battle damaged as the exterior.
“Geoffrey,” Halgo whispers quietly, “this could take us a few days.”
He points at Blarth. Halgo and Geoffrey both stare, imagining Blarth working undercover, and carefully restrain themselves from laughing.
“Blarth can do that,” Blarth says, grinning wildly.
“Excellent,” Cadloren beams. “We can’t really offer you much help at the moment, but I’d suggest you start at the Blood and Water– it’s a tavern that caters primarily to half-orcs and other half-bloods. It’s likely that their recruiting there, so try to get yourselves picked up. And be careful – they know there’s justicars looking for them and the last person we sent out was badly beaten.”
The group writes down the directions to the Blood and Water, making their way into one of the poorer streets of the cities South Market region. Geoffrey, in particular, draws a great deal of notice as he strides through the streets. The area is poor, and the people who live there relatively downtrodden, and the gleaming armor and shining tabard of the new justicar mark him as someone out of place.
”There’s the tavern,” Halgo says, peering around a corner and down a short street. “I think it’d be best if we split up.”
“Why?” Geoffrey demands. “Surely we can go in and ask a few questions?”
“You’re a tad conspicuous,” Halgo reminds him. “And a tavern full of surly half-orcs isn’t the best place to get on someone’s bad side. Blarth and I will go on. You take Blarth’s earring and find some place to hide on the other side of the street.”
Halgo glances around the corner and squints at the shops.
“…maybe the second story of that Bakery there. If we need your help, we’ll call you.”
“What about you?” Geoffrey demands. “Surely you don’t think you’ll fare any better than I would?”
Halgo offers him a happy wink.
“I’m an illusionist,” he says cheerfully. “I’m not going to look like an dwarf.”
Geoffrey heads down the street, heading towards the bakery with a small pouch full of gold. He notices several of the men and orcs on the street suddenly leave after he moves past them, slinking into back alleys or heading indoors with strange expressions on their faces. Geoffrey does his best to pretend he hasn’t noticed, striding into the bakery.
The baker is an elderly man, Thamos, and he nearly feints in surprise when the Geoffrey brings his armored form through the door.
“C-C-Can I help you?” Thamos asks.
“You have a room upstairs that overlooks that tavern, yes?” Geoffrey says, pointing. “I’ll give you ten gold a week if you let me use it.”
Thamos eagerly agrees, throwing in a daily supply of buns to the deal.
Halgo and Blarth wait until the count of four hundred before they move, Halgo taking a few minutes to magically transform his appearance into that of an orc.
“You’ a bit short,” Blarth offers, examining the result. Even magically altered, Halgo’s height is only a little over five feet.
“Goblin blood,” Halgo rasps, doing his best to master an orcish croak. “Killed me mah fer it, but it left me stunted. Wouldn’t go makin’ jokes about it iffen I was yoo.”
“Blarth not sound like that,” Blarth says, eyes squinted as he studies Halgo’s disguise.
“You’re slightly more erudite than the standard orc,” Halgo offers smoothly, his voice returning to normal. “We need to stress that you’re the strong one, and I’m the puny sneak. Gives us a good dynamic to work with.”
“Blarth not sure other orcs believe you really orc,” Blarth says dubiously. “You sound silly.”
“It’s okay,” Halgo assures him. “No-one will notice.”
They head down the street, Blarth striding purposefully with Halgo doing his best imitation of a goblinish caper beside him. Most people don’t even glance up as they past, and one or two of the half-orcs even nod a greeting as they pass.
The Blood and Water is a beaten and battered tavern, it’s door hanging half off its hinges and its sole window patched with boards. Despite it’s ramshackle look, the roar from the interior is loud enough to suggest a healthy patronage.
Inside the tavern is a hive of movement, with dozens of half-orcs, hobgoblin mercenaries and kobolds scattered from doorway and to back booth. Everyone shouts at one another, often in a mish-mashed pidgin of common and their racial tongue, and the furniture is almost as battle damaged as the exterior.
“Geoffrey,” Halgo whispers quietly, “this could take us a few days.”
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