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(Cydra) The Year 271 Campaign (Low Magic experiment)
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<blockquote data-quote="the Jester" data-source="post: 3303544" data-attributes="member: 1210"><p>“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... <em>profoundly.</em></p><p></p><p>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... <em>shattered.</em> </p><p></p><p>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- <em>anything.</em></p><p></p><p>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.</p><p></p><p>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.</p><p></p><p>“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.</p><p></p><p>It swings freely open.</p><p></p><p>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.</p><p></p><p>Sir Jorgen nods. “We’ll be careful.”</p><p></p><p>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!</p><p></p><p>Sir Jorgen pulls out a rope and grappling hook while Sir Colder merely shakes his head. </p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>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. </p><p></p><p>Sir Percival- Me- frowns. He doesn’t understand what he sees, but he certainly doesn’t like it. </p><p></p><p>He goes back to piling stones on the corpse of the elf.</p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>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. <em>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,</em> she considers. <em>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.</em></p><p></p><p>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. <em>There is very little alive here,</em> she thinks. The thought makes her cold. <em>We have to eat. We must be very careful.</em></p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>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. </p><p></p><p>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.”</p><p></p><p>“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. </p><p></p><p>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.</p><p></p><p>“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.”</p><p></p><p>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.</p><p></p><p><em>Fwoosh, fwoosh...</em></p><p></p><p>“Wings,” whispers Jorgen.</p><p></p><p>The two draw their swords.</p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>Dahlia picks a small piece of cloth from a jagged stump of burned brush. <em>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!</em> She glances back over in the direction of the Ghost Tower and sighs. <em>Perhaps there are clues in the tower,[/] she reflects. <em>Either way, we have lost the elf-</em> A momentary poignant sorrow wells up in her breast- <em>but we still have her mission. We have to stop Sir Harth.</em></em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em>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. <em>They must still be down below,</em> Dahlia thinks. </em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em>“Hey, Dahlia,” Kyle nods to her. “Did you find anything?”</em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em>“Lots of poop,” she replies.</em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em>***</em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em><em>Skree!! Skree!!!</em> </em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em>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.</em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em>Alone, our two wounded heroes brace themselves.</em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em><em><strong>Next Time:</strong></em> Colder and Jorgen, outnumbered and alone, against a trio of pteranodons!</em></p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="the Jester, post: 3303544, member: 1210"] “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... [i]profoundly.[/i] 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... [i]shattered.[/i] 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- [i]anything.[/i] 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. [i]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,[/i] she considers. [i]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.[/i] 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. [i]There is very little alive here,[/i] she thinks. The thought makes her cold. [i]We have to eat. We must be very careful.[/i] *** 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. [i]Fwoosh, fwoosh...[/i] “Wings,” whispers Jorgen. The two draw their swords. *** Dahlia picks a small piece of cloth from a jagged stump of burned brush. [i]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![/i] She glances back over in the direction of the Ghost Tower and sighs. [i]Perhaps there are clues in the tower,[/] she reflects. [i]Either way, we have lost the elf-[/i] A momentary poignant sorrow wells up in her breast- [i]but we still have her mission. We have to stop Sir Harth.[/i] 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. [i]They must still be down below,[/i] Dahlia thinks. “Hey, Dahlia,” Kyle nods to her. “Did you find anything?” “Lots of poop,” she replies. *** [i]Skree!! Skree!!![/i] 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. [i][b]Next Time:[/b][/i][b][/b] Colder and Jorgen, outnumbered and alone, against a trio of pteranodons![/i] [/QUOTE]
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