(Cydra) The Year 271 Campaign (Low Magic experiment)
the Jester
Legend
Question to the players: given the nature of the arc from what you can tell so far, should Arc 2 have its own story hour thread? Or should I just continue this thread?
Question to the readers: given that Arc 2 will be dramatically, drastically different from Arc 1- should it have its own thread? Or should I just continue this thread?
Question to the readers: given that Arc 2 will be dramatically, drastically different from Arc 1- should it have its own thread? Or should I just continue this thread?
Rikandur Azebol
First Post
Do as You deem more apporiate, Jester. But if You decide to create new thread ... leave link here. 
Baron Opal
First Post
Breadcrumbs would be appropriate. But still, I think continuing it here would be appropriate as they are the same characters in the same meliu.
Tony Vargas
Legend
I think you should keep it in this thread - having it bumped to the top periodically might attract new readers, and the 1st Arc was well worth reading.
You might want to change or add to the title, though, to let people know there's new stuff.
You might want to change or add to the title, though, to let people know there's new stuff.
the Jester
Legend
Wow- pretty much a consensus so far. I'll continue the story in this same thread.
I'll post the next update after work tonight; though I'm almost done writing the second one to come, I want to go back, reread and edit a lil bit before posting.
I'll post the next update after work tonight; though I'm almost done writing the second one to come, I want to go back, reread and edit a lil bit before posting.
the Jester
Legend
ARC 2 BEGINS HERE: An Age of Madness!
It feels like it has been seconds. It feels like it has been weeks. It feels like it has been years.
Slowly, our heroes begin to open their eyes. Groaning, Sir Jorgen and Sir Colder are first. They ache from their wounds, but they feel worse than just that. Something feels wrong- crawling up and down their skin, itching and burning.*
Dahlia’s eyelids flutter and she slowly inhales very deeply, then opens her eyes- and gasps. She is quite disoriented; her companions are scattered around the ground, outside in the Ghost Tower of Inverness’ courtyard. Crushed and shattered rock all around seems to indicate that some sort of massive explosion or detonation took place below ground. Overhead, the sky is a dull red color, and it makes her eyes watery and sore to look at it. Neither sun nor stars are visible in the firmament.
Suddenly, in the distance, an intense flash of maroon light washes across the entire sky. The itching, burning sensation that our heroes are feeling across their exposed skin increases notably, all over all of their bodies, only to gradually subside back to its initial disconcerting level as the sky resumes its abnormal red color. The mysterious elf that rescued the party from Sir Harth’s clutches, whom they followed here, lies senseless and moaning on the ground. She appears to be bleeding from the nose and ears. As the sky flashes, she gives a cry of pain.
“Oh no!” exclaims Dahlia, dragging herself upright. Otis and Sir Cedric remain unconscious nearby, lying senseless, but the elf is in terrible shape. The strange hermit begins checking her for signs of poison or disease, and cries, “What’s wrong with you??”
“The sky... the flashes...” the elf gasps. She coughs; her spittle is bloody. She winces, then says, “Stop him. You must stop him. He’s... a fool. Weapons are forbidden... with good reason.” She moans.
“What is the sky?” asks Goer- er, Sir Fwaigo. “I mean, how is it hurting you? It’s not hurting us...”
“It’s... a weapon... spell so... powerful... it wiped out... the elves of this island.”
“Would it help if we could get you under cover?” Dahlia asks. The elf nods and responds faintly.
“Extend... my life... a few more minutes...”
Immediately the party begins checking the area for any kind of available cover. The Ghost Tower itself is far from featureless, but it has no obvious doors or windows; so there is no way in. However, the courtyard (which now consists of broken rubble) does have one area that is torn up pretty badly, beneath which Dahlia finds a remnant of the old dungeon. Together, then, Sir Jorgen and Sir Colder haul the elf down into what remains- a 20’ wide, 40’ long length of hallway ending in one of the metal doors that required the four-part metal key. Fortunately, Jorgen notices that all four parts of the key are in the door. A stroke of luck, the sheriff thinks.
Dahlia, meanwhile, has administered a few goodberries to both Sir Cedric and Otis. Slowly, they both stir and come to; neither feels very well. Both are badly wounded; but then, the entire party is ragged and worn and barely standing. “My goodneth!” Sir Cedric sputters. “Quickly, my former thquire!” he calls to Sir Fwaigo, who is already pulling out a bottle of brandy. “A drink!”
“What’s going on?” Otis groans as awareness returns to him. Quickly, our heroes fill him in on the elf’s condition and her words so far. “We must hurry!” the wizard declares immediately. “Sir Harth is out there somewhere!” Then he pauses and exclaims, “Salt!”
“Salt?” asks Colder.
“Yes, the so-called ‘elves’- remember, we defeated at Goblin Gorge them with weapons coated in salt. Remember that goblin, Zeem, and her temple, after the weird creatures- the elves- had brought their cyst in?”
“Of course,” Sir Fwaigo replies.
“We must be prepared-” Otis stops as he notices the condition of the elf. Sir Cedric and Dahlia are already leaning over her.
“What can we do?” entreats Cedric.
“Nothing,” the elf whispers. “Nothing for me. But... stop Sir Harth. You must defeat him!”
“What ith he doing? Where ith he going?” Sir Cedric queries.
“Can’t be sure... I know... he is seeking weapons from this time. He wants... to use them... to take over your homeland. Thankfully... he does not... realize how meager... his ambitions are.” The elf groans again.
“Who can help us here?” Sir Fwaigo demands. “Who can aid us?”
The elf fixes him with a dying eye. “You don’t understand...”
“Are we in the future or the past?” Otis inquires.
“The past... at the height of... the Age of Madness. The elf-slayer is... just one powerful weapon... of many.”
“Which one is Sir Harth after?” asks Colder.
”Can’t be sure... doesn’t matter.”
“What kind of weapons are we talking about here?” asks Kyle.
“Many... different, powerful... magical weapons. Some of them can even... draw moons down from the sky... to crush entire islands. Some of them... make the air unbreathable for miles.”
Sir Colder and Kyle exchange a glance.
“So who can help us?” Fwaigo- Goer- asks again.
The elf fixes her eyes on him. With a groan, she says, “You... don’t understand. There isn’t anyone... at least, not many. Most... gone. All the elves, maybe... by now. You may not find... ANY... friendly folk. This is... a very dark time.”
“Did you live through it before?” Kyle asks. When the elf manages a weak nod, he asks, “How? Surely some of your people made it...”
“Not... here. On Island... of the Elves.”
“But what about the dragons?” Kyle inquires. “Surely they weren’t slain here...”
“Some... some slain, some fled... bad time... very dark...”
“And how do we get back home?” Fwaigo demands. “We followed you here- guide us! Who can help us? Surely there’s someone... or a way back...”
The elf says nothing.
“We must find Harth,” Otis states. “There is no time to waste.”
“Great,” murmurs Jorgen. “But how?”
“I can check for tracks,” Dahlia offers.
“It’s dangerous up there,” Kyle shivers. “And we need to rest first.”
“I don’t think that you comprehend the magnitude of our situation,” Otis sniffs. “Time is of the essence. We dare not delay.”
“We’re in no shape to go exploring,” Colder argues back. “You and Cedric- hell, and myself- can barely stand!”
“We don’t even know where we’re going, or where Sir Harth went,” adds Jorgen. “We need to know where to go before we head out.”
“We could always check the Ghost Tower,” Sir Colder suggests.
The group debates for a few minutes, and in the end they decide that Dahlia will go look for tracks while the others guard the poor elf. It is then that they realize that, while they were talking, she has died.
Somberly, our heroes look at each other. They are alone, now, in a world blasted by magic far more powerful than anything they have ever seen.
“Great,” groans Kyle.
Next Time: Our heroes look for clues- and decide what to do!
*Everyone woke up with 1 point of con damage. This was enough to knock Otis and Cedric unconscious, given their wounds from our previous adventure.
It feels like it has been seconds. It feels like it has been weeks. It feels like it has been years.
Slowly, our heroes begin to open their eyes. Groaning, Sir Jorgen and Sir Colder are first. They ache from their wounds, but they feel worse than just that. Something feels wrong- crawling up and down their skin, itching and burning.*
Dahlia’s eyelids flutter and she slowly inhales very deeply, then opens her eyes- and gasps. She is quite disoriented; her companions are scattered around the ground, outside in the Ghost Tower of Inverness’ courtyard. Crushed and shattered rock all around seems to indicate that some sort of massive explosion or detonation took place below ground. Overhead, the sky is a dull red color, and it makes her eyes watery and sore to look at it. Neither sun nor stars are visible in the firmament.
Suddenly, in the distance, an intense flash of maroon light washes across the entire sky. The itching, burning sensation that our heroes are feeling across their exposed skin increases notably, all over all of their bodies, only to gradually subside back to its initial disconcerting level as the sky resumes its abnormal red color. The mysterious elf that rescued the party from Sir Harth’s clutches, whom they followed here, lies senseless and moaning on the ground. She appears to be bleeding from the nose and ears. As the sky flashes, she gives a cry of pain.
“Oh no!” exclaims Dahlia, dragging herself upright. Otis and Sir Cedric remain unconscious nearby, lying senseless, but the elf is in terrible shape. The strange hermit begins checking her for signs of poison or disease, and cries, “What’s wrong with you??”
“The sky... the flashes...” the elf gasps. She coughs; her spittle is bloody. She winces, then says, “Stop him. You must stop him. He’s... a fool. Weapons are forbidden... with good reason.” She moans.
“What is the sky?” asks Goer- er, Sir Fwaigo. “I mean, how is it hurting you? It’s not hurting us...”
“It’s... a weapon... spell so... powerful... it wiped out... the elves of this island.”
“Would it help if we could get you under cover?” Dahlia asks. The elf nods and responds faintly.
“Extend... my life... a few more minutes...”
Immediately the party begins checking the area for any kind of available cover. The Ghost Tower itself is far from featureless, but it has no obvious doors or windows; so there is no way in. However, the courtyard (which now consists of broken rubble) does have one area that is torn up pretty badly, beneath which Dahlia finds a remnant of the old dungeon. Together, then, Sir Jorgen and Sir Colder haul the elf down into what remains- a 20’ wide, 40’ long length of hallway ending in one of the metal doors that required the four-part metal key. Fortunately, Jorgen notices that all four parts of the key are in the door. A stroke of luck, the sheriff thinks.
Dahlia, meanwhile, has administered a few goodberries to both Sir Cedric and Otis. Slowly, they both stir and come to; neither feels very well. Both are badly wounded; but then, the entire party is ragged and worn and barely standing. “My goodneth!” Sir Cedric sputters. “Quickly, my former thquire!” he calls to Sir Fwaigo, who is already pulling out a bottle of brandy. “A drink!”
“What’s going on?” Otis groans as awareness returns to him. Quickly, our heroes fill him in on the elf’s condition and her words so far. “We must hurry!” the wizard declares immediately. “Sir Harth is out there somewhere!” Then he pauses and exclaims, “Salt!”
“Salt?” asks Colder.
“Yes, the so-called ‘elves’- remember, we defeated at Goblin Gorge them with weapons coated in salt. Remember that goblin, Zeem, and her temple, after the weird creatures- the elves- had brought their cyst in?”
“Of course,” Sir Fwaigo replies.
“We must be prepared-” Otis stops as he notices the condition of the elf. Sir Cedric and Dahlia are already leaning over her.
“What can we do?” entreats Cedric.
“Nothing,” the elf whispers. “Nothing for me. But... stop Sir Harth. You must defeat him!”
“What ith he doing? Where ith he going?” Sir Cedric queries.
“Can’t be sure... I know... he is seeking weapons from this time. He wants... to use them... to take over your homeland. Thankfully... he does not... realize how meager... his ambitions are.” The elf groans again.
“Who can help us here?” Sir Fwaigo demands. “Who can aid us?”
The elf fixes him with a dying eye. “You don’t understand...”
“Are we in the future or the past?” Otis inquires.
“The past... at the height of... the Age of Madness. The elf-slayer is... just one powerful weapon... of many.”
“Which one is Sir Harth after?” asks Colder.
”Can’t be sure... doesn’t matter.”
“What kind of weapons are we talking about here?” asks Kyle.
“Many... different, powerful... magical weapons. Some of them can even... draw moons down from the sky... to crush entire islands. Some of them... make the air unbreathable for miles.”
Sir Colder and Kyle exchange a glance.
“So who can help us?” Fwaigo- Goer- asks again.
The elf fixes her eyes on him. With a groan, she says, “You... don’t understand. There isn’t anyone... at least, not many. Most... gone. All the elves, maybe... by now. You may not find... ANY... friendly folk. This is... a very dark time.”
“Did you live through it before?” Kyle asks. When the elf manages a weak nod, he asks, “How? Surely some of your people made it...”
“Not... here. On Island... of the Elves.”
“But what about the dragons?” Kyle inquires. “Surely they weren’t slain here...”
“Some... some slain, some fled... bad time... very dark...”
“And how do we get back home?” Fwaigo demands. “We followed you here- guide us! Who can help us? Surely there’s someone... or a way back...”
The elf says nothing.
“We must find Harth,” Otis states. “There is no time to waste.”
“Great,” murmurs Jorgen. “But how?”
“I can check for tracks,” Dahlia offers.
“It’s dangerous up there,” Kyle shivers. “And we need to rest first.”
“I don’t think that you comprehend the magnitude of our situation,” Otis sniffs. “Time is of the essence. We dare not delay.”
“We’re in no shape to go exploring,” Colder argues back. “You and Cedric- hell, and myself- can barely stand!”
“We don’t even know where we’re going, or where Sir Harth went,” adds Jorgen. “We need to know where to go before we head out.”
“We could always check the Ghost Tower,” Sir Colder suggests.
The group debates for a few minutes, and in the end they decide that Dahlia will go look for tracks while the others guard the poor elf. It is then that they realize that, while they were talking, she has died.
Somberly, our heroes look at each other. They are alone, now, in a world blasted by magic far more powerful than anything they have ever seen.
“Great,” groans Kyle.
Next Time: Our heroes look for clues- and decide what to do!
*Everyone woke up with 1 point of con damage. This was enough to knock Otis and Cedric unconscious, given their wounds from our previous adventure.
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the Jester
Legend
“Well, I guess I still may as well look for tracks,” Dahlia grumbles to herself, and so she ascends the pile of broken rocks that leads up to the surface. As she emerges, the sky flashes again, and the druidess feels a flare of crawling itch scrawl itself across her skin. She shudders. Something is profoundly unnatural here... profoundly.
She is wary and cautious, but there are no real signs of life that she can see. An eerie, distant rumbling noise comes periodically from the distance all around, and there is still no sign of stars or sun. Dahlia bites her lip; this time is terrible, terrifying... shattered.
Spiraling out about half a mile from the Ghost Tower of Inverness, she begins to search for signs of Sir Harth and his cultists- or anybody else. Any clue as to how long ago the villains arrived, any sign of other life- anything.
Meanwhile, most of the rest of the party carries the dead elf up to the surface and begins building a cairn of the shattered stones over her. It is a slow process; the rocks are difficult to walk over, requiring that our heroes painstakingly pick their way over the uneven ground. Carelessness could cost a broken ankle- and here, in this hostile world, that could be enough to doom the entire party.
Only Sir Colder and Sir Jorgen wait down below, in the short piece of hallway that our heroes have found. Sir Jorgen studies the metal door at the end. “I wonder what’s behind this,” he muses aloud, approaching it.
“I don’t know if that’s a good-” Colder begins, but it’s too late. Jorgen pushes on the metal door. He is looking intently at the four-part key, already impressed into- and fused with- the door’s face.
It swings freely open.
The party has seen the chamber before; it is where they were nearly sacrificed by the dastardly Sir Harth and his black magic cultists. It is where the Gate of Fire, or whatever they went through to get here, was located, and activated after Harth’s spilling of elven blood. But now, there is no portal. Jorgen grunts sourly. Sir Colder sighs and follows him as he enters the room. “I’m pretty wounded, you know,” he comments off-handedly.
Sir Jorgen nods. “We’ll be careful.”
Colder sighs and the two look around. The walls, floor and ceiling of the chamber are all made of the same smooth, blue-gray metal that the key and the doors were fashioned from. The room has three other doors leading into it, but they are buckled and damaged beyond opening by the force of whatever titanic explosion destroyed so much of the dungeon level below the tower itself. The room itself shows signs of having been in use in relatively recent times; an old fire pit, with a considerable buildup of ashes, is near the entrance. A pile of refuse in one corner seems less than ancient, as well. In the ceiling, near the center of the chamber, is a 5’ diameter hole. Neither the refuse nor the fire pit nor the hole were in the room when our heroes were here before- although, Sir Jorgen reflects, that time is technically yet to come, at least from what he can tell. It’s all so confusing... but there is work to be done!
Sir Jorgen pulls out a rope and grappling hook while Sir Colder merely shakes his head.
***
While the rest of the party works on the elf’s cairn, Me- Sir Percival- pulls out his spyglass and surveys the scene. Standing on a particularly high pile of rubble, Me turns in a full circle. It is impossible to know which way is north; there is nothing to orient on. So he starts by looking in the direction of the flashes. Distantly, he can see mountains. The Ghost Tower is located in a range of hills running perpendicular to the direction of the elf-killing flashes. Left, as Me turns, is a smudge of mountains, then an area that is glowing red and covered with some kind of haze or smoke. Turning further, Me sees what looks like fire for miles and miles- covering perhaps a sixth or fifth of his entire viewing arc. Frowning, he keeps turning; there are a couple of forests further along, the hills... back to the flashes.
Sir Percival- Me- frowns. He doesn’t understand what he sees, but he certainly doesn’t like it.
He goes back to piling stones on the corpse of the elf.
***
Dahlia, meanwhile, has hit paydirt. Well, something like that; she’s found traces of someone, all right. Poop. Poop from humans- and there is a lot of it all around. A couple of months old, she figures. If it’s from Sir Harth and his group, at least that will give us a clue as to how far behind them we are, she considers. There were fourteen of them, plus the weird eyeball-monster. Together, they would generate a lot of poop. Enough to leave clues for us- hopefully a lot of clues.
She keeps searching for signs, but though she finds obvious signs of human presence, the trail is cold enough that she cannot discern a trail. Shrugging to herself, she returns to the Ghost Tower deep in contemplation. There is very little alive here, she thinks. The thought makes her cold. We have to eat. We must be very careful.
***
Meanwhile, Jorgen, after several attempts, manages to catch his grappling hook on something up the shaft. After tugging it several times to ensure that it is solid, he begins to climb. Sir Colder, weak from his wounds, watches anxiously as Sir Jorgen vanishes up the shaft. Uneasily, Colder realizes that everyone else is out on the surface- and they are unlikely to hear any sound of trouble.
But a moment later, his fears are assuaged, at least momentarily, when Jorgen’s voice floats down to him: “There’s a ladder up here!” Though muffled, the sheriff is completely comprehensible. “I’m going to climb it.”
“Wait a minute!” Sir Colder protests. He grits his teeth and grasps the dangling rope. “Mangle dangle,” he moans, and begins pulling himself up the shaft. About 20’ above the ceiling of the room below, he discovers that Sir Jorgen is right: there are bronze rungs anchored in the wall of the shaft.
Above Colder, Sir Jorgen emerges from the top of the chute. The air is full of a warm, thick, rolling mist that limits his vision severely. The ground is broken and uneven, with loose rock all around. He can see no ceiling, but the entire area is suffused with a dim light for which Jorgen can discern no source. “If we can’t see more than about ten feet, we’d best be very careful about moving too far from the shaft. We’d better tie off if we’re going to do that,” he mutters to himself.
“We’d better wait for the others,” Colder says as he pulls himself out of the shaft and stands up in the misty area. He glances around. “I can’t see a thing.”
Jorgen lights a torch, giving them some brighter light; but the thick, cloying fog does not recede, and the majority of the room remains masked from view. A moment after the torch begins to burn, however, a strange loud sound issues from somewhere in the mist: like a screech mixed with a loud, violent exhalation. It is a strange cry, unlike anything the two heroes have ever heard before.
Fwoosh, fwoosh...
“Wings,” whispers Jorgen.
The two draw their swords.
***
Dahlia picks a small piece of cloth from a jagged stump of burned brush. This has not been out in the weather- if there is weather anymore- for more than a couple of months. And it’s the same color as the cultists’ robes. It isn’t conclusive, but it’s enough; I’m convinced. It was Harth’s group. But if only there was some way to track them! She glances back over in the direction of the Ghost Tower and sighs. Perhaps there are clues in the tower,[/] she reflects. Either way, we have lost the elf- A momentary poignant sorrow wells up in her breast- but we still have her mission. We have to stop Sir Harth.
Dahlia begins walking back towards the Ghost Tower of Inverness. When she reaches them, most of the others are finishing the cairn, but there is no sign of Sir Colder or Sir Jorgen. They must still be down below, Dahlia thinks.
“Hey, Dahlia,” Kyle nods to her. “Did you find anything?”
“Lots of poop,” she replies.
***
Skree!! Skree!!!
The beasts swoop in at Jorgen and Colder: three weird, winged creatures, with long, pick-like heads. They are like something from a previous era, some terrible precursor to birds, and they are as big as horses.
Alone, our two wounded heroes brace themselves.
Next Time: Colder and Jorgen, outnumbered and alone, against a trio of pteranodons!
She is wary and cautious, but there are no real signs of life that she can see. An eerie, distant rumbling noise comes periodically from the distance all around, and there is still no sign of stars or sun. Dahlia bites her lip; this time is terrible, terrifying... shattered.
Spiraling out about half a mile from the Ghost Tower of Inverness, she begins to search for signs of Sir Harth and his cultists- or anybody else. Any clue as to how long ago the villains arrived, any sign of other life- anything.
Meanwhile, most of the rest of the party carries the dead elf up to the surface and begins building a cairn of the shattered stones over her. It is a slow process; the rocks are difficult to walk over, requiring that our heroes painstakingly pick their way over the uneven ground. Carelessness could cost a broken ankle- and here, in this hostile world, that could be enough to doom the entire party.
Only Sir Colder and Sir Jorgen wait down below, in the short piece of hallway that our heroes have found. Sir Jorgen studies the metal door at the end. “I wonder what’s behind this,” he muses aloud, approaching it.
“I don’t know if that’s a good-” Colder begins, but it’s too late. Jorgen pushes on the metal door. He is looking intently at the four-part key, already impressed into- and fused with- the door’s face.
It swings freely open.
The party has seen the chamber before; it is where they were nearly sacrificed by the dastardly Sir Harth and his black magic cultists. It is where the Gate of Fire, or whatever they went through to get here, was located, and activated after Harth’s spilling of elven blood. But now, there is no portal. Jorgen grunts sourly. Sir Colder sighs and follows him as he enters the room. “I’m pretty wounded, you know,” he comments off-handedly.
Sir Jorgen nods. “We’ll be careful.”
Colder sighs and the two look around. The walls, floor and ceiling of the chamber are all made of the same smooth, blue-gray metal that the key and the doors were fashioned from. The room has three other doors leading into it, but they are buckled and damaged beyond opening by the force of whatever titanic explosion destroyed so much of the dungeon level below the tower itself. The room itself shows signs of having been in use in relatively recent times; an old fire pit, with a considerable buildup of ashes, is near the entrance. A pile of refuse in one corner seems less than ancient, as well. In the ceiling, near the center of the chamber, is a 5’ diameter hole. Neither the refuse nor the fire pit nor the hole were in the room when our heroes were here before- although, Sir Jorgen reflects, that time is technically yet to come, at least from what he can tell. It’s all so confusing... but there is work to be done!
Sir Jorgen pulls out a rope and grappling hook while Sir Colder merely shakes his head.
***
While the rest of the party works on the elf’s cairn, Me- Sir Percival- pulls out his spyglass and surveys the scene. Standing on a particularly high pile of rubble, Me turns in a full circle. It is impossible to know which way is north; there is nothing to orient on. So he starts by looking in the direction of the flashes. Distantly, he can see mountains. The Ghost Tower is located in a range of hills running perpendicular to the direction of the elf-killing flashes. Left, as Me turns, is a smudge of mountains, then an area that is glowing red and covered with some kind of haze or smoke. Turning further, Me sees what looks like fire for miles and miles- covering perhaps a sixth or fifth of his entire viewing arc. Frowning, he keeps turning; there are a couple of forests further along, the hills... back to the flashes.
Sir Percival- Me- frowns. He doesn’t understand what he sees, but he certainly doesn’t like it.
He goes back to piling stones on the corpse of the elf.
***
Dahlia, meanwhile, has hit paydirt. Well, something like that; she’s found traces of someone, all right. Poop. Poop from humans- and there is a lot of it all around. A couple of months old, she figures. If it’s from Sir Harth and his group, at least that will give us a clue as to how far behind them we are, she considers. There were fourteen of them, plus the weird eyeball-monster. Together, they would generate a lot of poop. Enough to leave clues for us- hopefully a lot of clues.
She keeps searching for signs, but though she finds obvious signs of human presence, the trail is cold enough that she cannot discern a trail. Shrugging to herself, she returns to the Ghost Tower deep in contemplation. There is very little alive here, she thinks. The thought makes her cold. We have to eat. We must be very careful.
***
Meanwhile, Jorgen, after several attempts, manages to catch his grappling hook on something up the shaft. After tugging it several times to ensure that it is solid, he begins to climb. Sir Colder, weak from his wounds, watches anxiously as Sir Jorgen vanishes up the shaft. Uneasily, Colder realizes that everyone else is out on the surface- and they are unlikely to hear any sound of trouble.
But a moment later, his fears are assuaged, at least momentarily, when Jorgen’s voice floats down to him: “There’s a ladder up here!” Though muffled, the sheriff is completely comprehensible. “I’m going to climb it.”
“Wait a minute!” Sir Colder protests. He grits his teeth and grasps the dangling rope. “Mangle dangle,” he moans, and begins pulling himself up the shaft. About 20’ above the ceiling of the room below, he discovers that Sir Jorgen is right: there are bronze rungs anchored in the wall of the shaft.
Above Colder, Sir Jorgen emerges from the top of the chute. The air is full of a warm, thick, rolling mist that limits his vision severely. The ground is broken and uneven, with loose rock all around. He can see no ceiling, but the entire area is suffused with a dim light for which Jorgen can discern no source. “If we can’t see more than about ten feet, we’d best be very careful about moving too far from the shaft. We’d better tie off if we’re going to do that,” he mutters to himself.
“We’d better wait for the others,” Colder says as he pulls himself out of the shaft and stands up in the misty area. He glances around. “I can’t see a thing.”
Jorgen lights a torch, giving them some brighter light; but the thick, cloying fog does not recede, and the majority of the room remains masked from view. A moment after the torch begins to burn, however, a strange loud sound issues from somewhere in the mist: like a screech mixed with a loud, violent exhalation. It is a strange cry, unlike anything the two heroes have ever heard before.
Fwoosh, fwoosh...
“Wings,” whispers Jorgen.
The two draw their swords.
***
Dahlia picks a small piece of cloth from a jagged stump of burned brush. This has not been out in the weather- if there is weather anymore- for more than a couple of months. And it’s the same color as the cultists’ robes. It isn’t conclusive, but it’s enough; I’m convinced. It was Harth’s group. But if only there was some way to track them! She glances back over in the direction of the Ghost Tower and sighs. Perhaps there are clues in the tower,[/] she reflects. Either way, we have lost the elf- A momentary poignant sorrow wells up in her breast- but we still have her mission. We have to stop Sir Harth.
Dahlia begins walking back towards the Ghost Tower of Inverness. When she reaches them, most of the others are finishing the cairn, but there is no sign of Sir Colder or Sir Jorgen. They must still be down below, Dahlia thinks.
“Hey, Dahlia,” Kyle nods to her. “Did you find anything?”
“Lots of poop,” she replies.
***
Skree!! Skree!!!
The beasts swoop in at Jorgen and Colder: three weird, winged creatures, with long, pick-like heads. They are like something from a previous era, some terrible precursor to birds, and they are as big as horses.
Alone, our two wounded heroes brace themselves.
Next Time: Colder and Jorgen, outnumbered and alone, against a trio of pteranodons!
the Jester
Legend
Sir Jorgen and Sir Colder are as prepared as they can be for the approach of the enemy. Colder’s foot braces the butt of his longspear; he is readied for a charge. Jorgen’s sword is held out as well, ready to stab and fend any approaching foe. Then, with a terrifying shriek, the three pteranodons swoop in! Each of our heroes slashes out as an enemy comes within reach. Blood spews where Colder’s spear strikes home, impaling the beast! It roars and struggles, but when he yanks his spear free from it, it dies in a shower of gore. Sheriff Jorgen hacks into one of the flying reptiles as well. The beasts skree loudly as they fly by, trailing blood. In seconds they have swung back around, and there is another brief clash. Colder’s spear bites one into the shoulder of one of the beasts, and Sir Jorgen throws himself across its path and hews out its neck; unfortunately, the other monster bites Colder savagely across the shoulder. He screams as flesh tears and bones grind, and then he drops limply to the ground.
“We could use some help up here!” shouts Sir Jorgen, desperately trying to keep the beast located by sound as it vanishes into the mist. “Hey, guys!”
Unfortunately for Jorgen, the rest of the party is too far away to hear his cries. They are outside of the little section of dungeon that remains after the devastating blast that did so much damage to the earth around the tower.
Jorgen is alone, as Colder slips closer to death, and so he takes a deep breath, firms up his resolve, and readies his attack. A moment later, when the flying reptile swoops in again, he cuts it down! With a final loud skree, the beast plows into the ground and rolls to a bloody stop.
Jorgen hurries to his fallen companion and begins bandaging him. He continues to shout down the hole, hoping someone will hear. When the sheriff is satisfied that his companion is stable and is unlikely to slip away, he sets to the task of pushing the pteranodon bodies down the hole. “We have to eat something,” he mutters to himself.
Outside, meanwhile, the rest of our heroes are just starting to wonder what Jorgen and Colder have found, and they clamber back down into the blasted remains of the dungeon beneath the Ghost Tower of Inverness and mosey over to the strange metal door with the key set into it. Peering through the doorway, they are surprised to notice the corpses of three strange reptilian winged creatures. “Those weren’t there before,” comments Dahlia.
”Me!” Me says.
Jorgen’s voice drifts down from above. “Hey, you guys, come help! Colder’s hurt! Wait, I’ll drop a rope...”
Realizing that something bad has happened, our heroes hurry to aid Sir Jorgen with Colder’s unconscious form. Soon the messenger has been lowered to the metal-walled room by rope, and a few moments later Jorgen has rejoined his companions.
“What did you find up there?” asks Goer- Sir Fwaigo.
Jorgen gestures at the pteranodons. “Those things. The chamber up there is all misty; I couldn’t see far enough to really know what’s up there. The flying lizard things seemed to have plenty of room to fly about, though, so it must be a pretty big area.” He turns to Dahlia. “What about you?”
“There were people here, but the most recent signs are weeks old,” she answers.
“Sir Percy took a look around with his spyglass, too, didn’t you, Percy?” Goer prompts Me.
“Me! Fire... red haze... woods...” The dumb half-orc shakes his head. “Me,” he finishes solemnly.
“I guess the real question,” Kyle says, “is: what do we do next?”
“We must find Sir Harth,” Otis opines.
“But we don’t know where he is,” Kyle points out.
“There might be some clues in the Ghost Tower,” Sir Jorgen suggests. “I say that we explore that first, and see what we can find out. In fact, there’s already this fire pit down here, and the refuse. There’s bound to be a clue or two in here!”
Dahlia, Kyle and Jorgen get to work examining the area more thoroughly. The trash includes feces, discarded food remnants (such as pig bones, onion husks, etc), a few broken arrows, discarded bits of worn clothing, the stubs of a couple of torches, etc. The evidence is circumstantial, but our heroes believe that the fire and trash were from Sir Harth and his cronies. Dahlia’s skill with tracking allows her to ascertain that there were about a dozen figures that traveled around the area, probably for quite some time before leaving. Still, the trail is cold- about as cold as the traces she found outside.
“Well, I know thith,” Sir Cedric declares. “In order to purthue and defeat the thcoundrelth with Thir Harth, we mutht firtht retht and recover our thtrength.” A melancholy look crawls onto his face. “In thith terrible land- I only hope that there are children thomewhere.”
“Here, my lord, have a drink,” Goer interrupts his liege, passing him a bottle.
“Ah! Well thaid, Goer!” Cedric exclaims.
“And regardless of the other part, I must agree with Cedric as far as we should rest.” Kyle groans. “I can barely stand!”
“Time is of the essence,” Otis warns direly.
“So is our strength,” replies Sir Jorgen.
***
The party manages to rest undisturbed in the central room beneath the Ghost Tower of Inverness. Their careful watches are peaceful. Upon waking and poking their heads above ground, they find that the sky remains maroon, and the jagged flashes of maroon radiance continue. They seem to be the only feature distinct enough to orient on. The debate- strike out overland or explore the tower- reignites briefly, but Otis is the only one arguing for an immediate departure. Scowling, he gives in, especially as he has no idea of where to go.
So it is that our heroes ascend the rope and the shaft to the misty area where Jorgen and Colder fought the pteranodons. The meat from the beasts is laid out in strips on the rocks below, drying out for use as rations; even without a fire, there is a certain amount of preservation that can be done. At the top of the shaft, the party uneasily spreads out a little bit, but if spread apart more than about 10’ they can’t see each other. “It’s like pea soup,” Jorgen mutters to himself, then turns to the task at hand. He runs another rope from the top rung of the shaft, and the party clings to it and heads off into the mist in a random direction. They run out of rope before they run into a wall.
“Room big,” comments Me.
The party begins a sweep of the radius of the rope, moving steadily to the left. Soon a wrought iron staircase becomes visible in the mist ahead. It spirals up out of sight. It seems to have a significant amount of some form of guano layered on it, and the pervasive fog has made the whole thing quite moist
Skree!
Suddenly, with a terrifying screech, another pteranodon flies at our heroes from out of the mist, obviously coming from some kind of roost above on the stairs! Cedric gives a cry of surprise but manages to ward off its pick-like beak attack. The beast flaps out of sight, vanishing into the thick fog.
“Make ready!” cries Goer, and a moment later the beast reappears.
This time Cedric is ready, and in a mighty pair of blows, he severs the creature’s head from its body! “By the power of my pinky finger,” he intones solemnly.
“Look there!” cries Kyle. Where he points, a mound of... something... is just barely visible through the mist.
“Let’s check it out,” urges Sir Jorgen. The party carefully makes their way over to the strange nest.
A large mound of earth and stone, stained with blood and scattered with bits of dried grass, straw and hay, looms out of the mist as our heroes approach. The corpse of some kind of large beast is rotting atop it, festooned with arrows and showing the signs of stab and chop wounds. From the smell, it has been here for a month or more. After a brief examination, Otis pronounces it a type of sphinx, specifically a hieraco-sphinx. Then he busily explains to his apprentice, Kyle, how he could tell. (“It’s all about the head,” Otis elaborates.)
“I wonder if there are any clues on it,” murmurs Sir Jorgen. “Perhaps the fletching of those arrows will tell us something.” He moves onto the mound and approaches the corpse- when suddenly, an ugly brown beetle erupts from the body! It is about 2 ½’ in length. The back of its carapace has markings that suggest a skull on it. It has vicious looking mandibles and short, fuzzy antennae. It appears to have been burrowing through the sphinx’s corpse. Jorgen cries out in disgust, pulls out his sword and cuts the bug in two. “Be careful,” he calls, and as he speaks, another beetle chews its way out of the body to see what all the fuss is.
“What’s going on?” Dahlia cries. From her position, she is too far removed to see anything through the mist. “I can hear noise, but...” Frustrated, she draws her scimitar.
Indeed, most of the party is in largely the same boat as Dahlia. The mist curtails visibility so severely that only a few of our heroes have a chance to see what they are being attacked by. More beetles burrow up, but between Sir Jorgen and Sir Colder, they are cut down almost as fast as they arrive. Me squishes one easily as well, when it comes close enough for him to see it, but otherwise it is Colder and Jorgen that carry the day. The beetles are slow, stupid and uncoordinated; thus, our heroes easily defeat them.
“Now let’s check that fletching!” Jorgen chuckles, and indeed, a close examination reveals it to be very similar to that used in our heroes’ time. “It’s not conclusive,” the sheriff muses aloud, “but it’s persuasive.”
“Me!” agrees Sir Percival.
“Looks like the nest has already been looted,” announces Sir Colder, after inspecting it.
“Well, we can go up the stairs,” Kyle points out.
“Yeth!” declares Sir Cedric. “We mutht athend the thtairth!”
“Very well,” nods Sir Jorgen, taking the lead. The others fall in behind him, Cedric pausing to take a gulp from Goer’s wineskin on the way.
The party ascends about 20’ to the ceiling, and then continues up through another shaft. The staircase leads up into a well-lit area free of the mists. Instead- oddly, for being inside a tower- the group appear to have come to an area of thick forest, with trees and dense undergrowth all around. The ground is rich loam, soft and dark brown. There is a narrow pathway twisting away through the otherwise daunting undergrowth. The air is hot and humid, and the ceiling 30’ overhead is brushed by several of the trees.
“What the hell is all this?” Dahlia blurts out. “A forest?? Indoors?? That makes no sense!”
In the trees, something hears our heroes and moves to observe, discretely. At least for now it will not reveal itself.
Next Time: Our heroes play with monkeys!
“We could use some help up here!” shouts Sir Jorgen, desperately trying to keep the beast located by sound as it vanishes into the mist. “Hey, guys!”
Unfortunately for Jorgen, the rest of the party is too far away to hear his cries. They are outside of the little section of dungeon that remains after the devastating blast that did so much damage to the earth around the tower.
Jorgen is alone, as Colder slips closer to death, and so he takes a deep breath, firms up his resolve, and readies his attack. A moment later, when the flying reptile swoops in again, he cuts it down! With a final loud skree, the beast plows into the ground and rolls to a bloody stop.
Jorgen hurries to his fallen companion and begins bandaging him. He continues to shout down the hole, hoping someone will hear. When the sheriff is satisfied that his companion is stable and is unlikely to slip away, he sets to the task of pushing the pteranodon bodies down the hole. “We have to eat something,” he mutters to himself.
Outside, meanwhile, the rest of our heroes are just starting to wonder what Jorgen and Colder have found, and they clamber back down into the blasted remains of the dungeon beneath the Ghost Tower of Inverness and mosey over to the strange metal door with the key set into it. Peering through the doorway, they are surprised to notice the corpses of three strange reptilian winged creatures. “Those weren’t there before,” comments Dahlia.
”Me!” Me says.
Jorgen’s voice drifts down from above. “Hey, you guys, come help! Colder’s hurt! Wait, I’ll drop a rope...”
Realizing that something bad has happened, our heroes hurry to aid Sir Jorgen with Colder’s unconscious form. Soon the messenger has been lowered to the metal-walled room by rope, and a few moments later Jorgen has rejoined his companions.
“What did you find up there?” asks Goer- Sir Fwaigo.
Jorgen gestures at the pteranodons. “Those things. The chamber up there is all misty; I couldn’t see far enough to really know what’s up there. The flying lizard things seemed to have plenty of room to fly about, though, so it must be a pretty big area.” He turns to Dahlia. “What about you?”
“There were people here, but the most recent signs are weeks old,” she answers.
“Sir Percy took a look around with his spyglass, too, didn’t you, Percy?” Goer prompts Me.
“Me! Fire... red haze... woods...” The dumb half-orc shakes his head. “Me,” he finishes solemnly.
“I guess the real question,” Kyle says, “is: what do we do next?”
“We must find Sir Harth,” Otis opines.
“But we don’t know where he is,” Kyle points out.
“There might be some clues in the Ghost Tower,” Sir Jorgen suggests. “I say that we explore that first, and see what we can find out. In fact, there’s already this fire pit down here, and the refuse. There’s bound to be a clue or two in here!”
Dahlia, Kyle and Jorgen get to work examining the area more thoroughly. The trash includes feces, discarded food remnants (such as pig bones, onion husks, etc), a few broken arrows, discarded bits of worn clothing, the stubs of a couple of torches, etc. The evidence is circumstantial, but our heroes believe that the fire and trash were from Sir Harth and his cronies. Dahlia’s skill with tracking allows her to ascertain that there were about a dozen figures that traveled around the area, probably for quite some time before leaving. Still, the trail is cold- about as cold as the traces she found outside.
“Well, I know thith,” Sir Cedric declares. “In order to purthue and defeat the thcoundrelth with Thir Harth, we mutht firtht retht and recover our thtrength.” A melancholy look crawls onto his face. “In thith terrible land- I only hope that there are children thomewhere.”
“Here, my lord, have a drink,” Goer interrupts his liege, passing him a bottle.
“Ah! Well thaid, Goer!” Cedric exclaims.
“And regardless of the other part, I must agree with Cedric as far as we should rest.” Kyle groans. “I can barely stand!”
“Time is of the essence,” Otis warns direly.
“So is our strength,” replies Sir Jorgen.
***
The party manages to rest undisturbed in the central room beneath the Ghost Tower of Inverness. Their careful watches are peaceful. Upon waking and poking their heads above ground, they find that the sky remains maroon, and the jagged flashes of maroon radiance continue. They seem to be the only feature distinct enough to orient on. The debate- strike out overland or explore the tower- reignites briefly, but Otis is the only one arguing for an immediate departure. Scowling, he gives in, especially as he has no idea of where to go.
So it is that our heroes ascend the rope and the shaft to the misty area where Jorgen and Colder fought the pteranodons. The meat from the beasts is laid out in strips on the rocks below, drying out for use as rations; even without a fire, there is a certain amount of preservation that can be done. At the top of the shaft, the party uneasily spreads out a little bit, but if spread apart more than about 10’ they can’t see each other. “It’s like pea soup,” Jorgen mutters to himself, then turns to the task at hand. He runs another rope from the top rung of the shaft, and the party clings to it and heads off into the mist in a random direction. They run out of rope before they run into a wall.
“Room big,” comments Me.
The party begins a sweep of the radius of the rope, moving steadily to the left. Soon a wrought iron staircase becomes visible in the mist ahead. It spirals up out of sight. It seems to have a significant amount of some form of guano layered on it, and the pervasive fog has made the whole thing quite moist
Skree!
Suddenly, with a terrifying screech, another pteranodon flies at our heroes from out of the mist, obviously coming from some kind of roost above on the stairs! Cedric gives a cry of surprise but manages to ward off its pick-like beak attack. The beast flaps out of sight, vanishing into the thick fog.
“Make ready!” cries Goer, and a moment later the beast reappears.
This time Cedric is ready, and in a mighty pair of blows, he severs the creature’s head from its body! “By the power of my pinky finger,” he intones solemnly.
“Look there!” cries Kyle. Where he points, a mound of... something... is just barely visible through the mist.
“Let’s check it out,” urges Sir Jorgen. The party carefully makes their way over to the strange nest.
A large mound of earth and stone, stained with blood and scattered with bits of dried grass, straw and hay, looms out of the mist as our heroes approach. The corpse of some kind of large beast is rotting atop it, festooned with arrows and showing the signs of stab and chop wounds. From the smell, it has been here for a month or more. After a brief examination, Otis pronounces it a type of sphinx, specifically a hieraco-sphinx. Then he busily explains to his apprentice, Kyle, how he could tell. (“It’s all about the head,” Otis elaborates.)
“I wonder if there are any clues on it,” murmurs Sir Jorgen. “Perhaps the fletching of those arrows will tell us something.” He moves onto the mound and approaches the corpse- when suddenly, an ugly brown beetle erupts from the body! It is about 2 ½’ in length. The back of its carapace has markings that suggest a skull on it. It has vicious looking mandibles and short, fuzzy antennae. It appears to have been burrowing through the sphinx’s corpse. Jorgen cries out in disgust, pulls out his sword and cuts the bug in two. “Be careful,” he calls, and as he speaks, another beetle chews its way out of the body to see what all the fuss is.
“What’s going on?” Dahlia cries. From her position, she is too far removed to see anything through the mist. “I can hear noise, but...” Frustrated, she draws her scimitar.
Indeed, most of the party is in largely the same boat as Dahlia. The mist curtails visibility so severely that only a few of our heroes have a chance to see what they are being attacked by. More beetles burrow up, but between Sir Jorgen and Sir Colder, they are cut down almost as fast as they arrive. Me squishes one easily as well, when it comes close enough for him to see it, but otherwise it is Colder and Jorgen that carry the day. The beetles are slow, stupid and uncoordinated; thus, our heroes easily defeat them.
“Now let’s check that fletching!” Jorgen chuckles, and indeed, a close examination reveals it to be very similar to that used in our heroes’ time. “It’s not conclusive,” the sheriff muses aloud, “but it’s persuasive.”
“Me!” agrees Sir Percival.
“Looks like the nest has already been looted,” announces Sir Colder, after inspecting it.
“Well, we can go up the stairs,” Kyle points out.
“Yeth!” declares Sir Cedric. “We mutht athend the thtairth!”
“Very well,” nods Sir Jorgen, taking the lead. The others fall in behind him, Cedric pausing to take a gulp from Goer’s wineskin on the way.
The party ascends about 20’ to the ceiling, and then continues up through another shaft. The staircase leads up into a well-lit area free of the mists. Instead- oddly, for being inside a tower- the group appear to have come to an area of thick forest, with trees and dense undergrowth all around. The ground is rich loam, soft and dark brown. There is a narrow pathway twisting away through the otherwise daunting undergrowth. The air is hot and humid, and the ceiling 30’ overhead is brushed by several of the trees.
“What the hell is all this?” Dahlia blurts out. “A forest?? Indoors?? That makes no sense!”
In the trees, something hears our heroes and moves to observe, discretely. At least for now it will not reveal itself.
Next Time: Our heroes play with monkeys!
