Session 3 – Chapter 2
Regarding Shadowfell Keep
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The adventurers woke to the smell of bacon wafting under their door. They strapped on their armor, collected their things and wound down the stairs.
“That smells amazing,” Moltezom said, savoring the air.
Wrafton’s Inn in the morning was another affair. Dusty sunlight filtered through the windows, cut with lazily whickering shadows of the branches in the Imdrian wind. The haze of cooked food hung in the air and around the tavern sat a few quiet townsfolk eating breakfast.
They got plates of food and mugs of hot coffee and sat at a table. They ate fully, each feeding the ache in their muscles from the combat the day before.
“So what’s the plan?” Osivan asked.
Gloraen thought for a moment and said “I think we should split up. Lathon, you and I will head back to Padraig’s. We don’t seem to have a good handle on the spy situation. Perhaps if we speak to the Lord, he might have some good ideas. We should maybe show him the letter, too. Moltezom and Greldo are going to the smithy to further investigate Thair Coalstriker.”
Moltezom said “I have an idea to draw out the spy. Watch.” He cleared his throat and spoke loudly. “Golly, I had a dream last night about a man named Kalarel! I wonder who that could be?” He smiled broadly as heads turned around Wrafton’s to stare at the dwarf that had broken the silence.
Gloraen glowered at the fighter. “I wish you hadn’t done that. We could stand to play this a lot more subtly, you know.”
Moltezom’s eye had caught something, though. To his left, in the corner of the tavern, was an elf woman seated alone. Every patron of the Inn had stared at him, but only the elf woman had slowly lowered her drink when he’d said the name Kalarel. “I think I caught a fish,” he said excitedly. He gestured to the elf. “She seemed very interested.”
Lathon stood and walked to the elf. She was rather plainly dressed in woodland skins. She had an unstrung longbow strapped across her back. She had curtains of dark hair on either side of her head, and she noted the dragonborn’s approach with visible distaste.
“Good morning,” Lathon said.
“Mnn.”
“Did that name mean anything to you?”
“I have nothing to say to you. I’m trying to enjoy my drink.”
“I said did that name, Kalarel, mean…”
“Leave me alone before I’m forced to call for the town guard.”
Lathon walked back to the table. “She’s less than friendly.”
“Oh well.” Gloraen finished his coffee and stood up. “Let’s get moving. We’ll meet up later.”
A well-carved wooden sign hung on the front of the building.
Winterhaven Blacksmith Services
Thair Coalstriker, proprietor
Thair was banging rhythmically against some lump of hot metal laid on his anvil, whistling a tune while he worked in fresh air of the morning. He looked up to see Moltezom approaching, and he waved heartily. “Welcome, welcome. What have you got for me?” He scowled as he noticed that the halfling was watching from the distance.
Moltezom seemed unprepared for the question. “What?”
“To fix. You said you had items in need of repair, yes?”
“Oh! Yes. Umm… it’s… yes. My maul. Take a look.” He took out his battle maul and handed it across the Thair.”
The blacksmith turned it over in his hands. “This doesn’t seem broken.”
“It’s seen some battle, perhaps you can take the nicks out of it.”
“Certainly, I can. I’ll charge five gold pieces. It’ll be ready tomorrow.”
Moltezom gaped. “Tomorrow? Must it be so long?”
“Yes, metal takes time to heat and work. I have other commissions as well, that I must see to. I can’t just do it while you wait.”
“I’m afraid I can’t be without this until tomorrow.” He took the maul back and pulled out some daggers. “Can you fix these?”
Thair said “These look brand new. I doubt they’ve even been used yet!”
Moltezom put those away too. “One was,” he said sheepishly.
Greldo appeared and took out several well-used throwing knives. “Fix these, then.”
Thair grumbled and took the knives. He hadn’t seen the halfling approach. “Five gold. Each.”
Greldo smirked. “Isn’t that what you were charging my dwarven friend to fix one maul? Aren’t daggers considerably smaller?”
“Five gold or no deal,” Thair sniffed.
“Fine,” Greldo said. He walked casually around the shop and studied Thair’s trappings. Ironworking tools, piles of different ores, coal and kindling. Everything seemed to suggest that Thair was, indeed, a blacksmith. Nothing seemed put on or out of place.
This was all in keeping with the cover of an excellent spy, Greldo reminded himself. He would have to pay closer attention.
Gloraen, Osivan and Lathon arrived at Lord Padraig’s manor. They were allowed inside, and Padraig greeted them somewhat less enthusiastically than he had the day before. “Hello, hello. Good morning.” He seated himself behind his desk and steepled his fingers. “Now, what can I do for you? I’d thought our business finished yesterday.”
“Well,” Gloraen began. “We’ve begun looking into some matters going on here in town and were wondering if you could be of any assistance. We’re looking for an informant.”
“An informant?”
“Yes, a spy dedicated to someone named Kalarel. Do you know who that might be?”
“Mmm, no. Who is this Kalarel?”
“We don’t know yet. We merely know of the name, and that there is a spy in Winterhaven.”
Padraig leaned forward in his seat, clearly interested. “I see. How did you come upon this information?”
Gloraen handed Irontooth’s letter to the lord, who began reading. “Irontooth… spy in Winterhaven suggests… …in a few days, I’ll completely open the rift… …then Winterhaven’s people will serve as food for all those our lord sends to do my bidding??” Padraig looked up from the letter, his face aghast. “In a FEW DAYS?”
“Um, yes.” Gloraen shifted uncomfortably. It was only now occurring to him that the letter suggested a time-sensitive nature to its threat. He thought quickly.
Padraig gestured angrily with the letter, shaking it at the three adventurers. “Can you tell me why this wasn’t brought to my attention IMMEDIATELY?”
“I’m sorry, my lord. There was so much loot from Irontooth’s horde that we just bagged it up and brought it back to inventory. We only discovered the letter this morning among the goods. We brought it straight here, of course.” The cleric’s eyes quickly met Lathon’s and the paladin seemed to understand. Lies and diplomacy were sometimes not far removed. Sometimes one had more use than another. It wouldn’t do to have Padraig raging on them due to a mistake… the lie meant a more constructive use of whatever time was left.
Padraig seemed to buy the bluff. “Dammit,” he muttered. “This isn’t dated, we don’t even know when this was sent… this could happen today.”
Osivan said “I’m sorry my lord, what is this rift?”
“Valthrun will know. Come.” Padraig bolted from his chair and hurried out the door. His face was turning white even as he walked.
The four stalked through the village. They collected Greldo and Moltezom on their way to the granite tower that was Winterhaven’s tallest structure. The dwarf and the halfling watched the hurried way Padraig walked with some alarm.
At the tower, Padraig banged on the wooden door. “Go away,” a voice shouted from a high window.
“Come down here and let us in, Valthrun.”
“I’m busy.”
“NOW, VALTHRUN, IT’S IMPORTANT!” They heard the sound of a book being angrily slammed shut. As they waited, the adventurers noted the townsfolk milling around town, eyeing their lord uncomfortably. They clearly didn’t see him in such an excited state often. The door to the tower opened. The man standing there, shading his eyes against the rays of the sun, was the bald man in the purple robes from the tavern the night before.
Padraig handed Valthrun the letter, and he began reading as he led the group into his tower. The interior was a surprisingly dark and dust-covered collection of detritus; things he’d cast aside into storage and forgotten. Chairs, boxes, crates, barrels, assorted junk. A staircase spiraled up around the wall of the tower, and Valthrun read as he climbed.
The second story was likewise dark. Daylight filtered in through a small vertical window, lighting upon another collection of dusty relics. This pile was different, though. It included items like old swords, cobwebbed staffs in an uncapped barrel, a group of crystal orbs of varying size, a large draped shape that looked to be a mirror, a clutch of arrows whose tips glowed in varying colors.
Valthrun began to mutter as he walked. “Oh dear. Ohhh dear.” The third floor was sufficiently homier. Candles hung in the air and desks lay cluttered with well-read tomes. The portions of wall that weren’t blocked by the staircase’s ascent to the fourth floor were covered with bookshelves. Valthrun walked straight to one of the bookshelves and took down two books. He handed the letter back to Padraig.
“So? What does this mean?” Padraig demanded impatiently. “What is this rift?”
“The rift,” Valthrun said as he flipped through one of the books, “is at the bottom of Shadowfell Keep.”
“The old castle? The ruins a couple of miles northeast of town?”
“The very one. That castle was built for one reason, and that was to guard the rift… a doorway to another plane. It was opened once, several years back, in the time of the Nareth Empire. Undead and darker things streamed out into our world. Several villages were overrun and destroyed. Only through the brave actions of the Narethan military was the site secured, and several dozen wizards labored long and hard to close the rift. It remains closed today. The Keep was home to nobles for generations, until a curious incident. Then…”
“I’m sorry,” Osivan interrupted. “A curious incident?”
“Yes, um…” Valthrun flipped through a few more pages. “Ahh. Lord Keegan went mad and slew his family and most of his servants before being slain by his own men.”
“Oh.” Osivan looked sorry to have asked.
“After this, the Keep was abandoned. It was deemed haunted and it fell into disrepair, serving only as a haven for crows. The rift remains, though, far beneath the surface. It was assumed that only a scattered few even knew of the rift’s existence and so the Keep was left to molder. It seems someone has learned of its existence.”
“What is this other plane that the rift serves as a gate to?” Padraig asked.
Valthrun opened his other book and flipped through several pages until he found a full-page illustration. “The plane is the Shadowfell itself, specifically the realm of… him.” He turned the book and showed the group. The illustration was a pen and ink drawing of an enormous pig-man with wide bat wings and goat legs. He held a human spine topped with a skull. “Orcus, a malign god. Demon prince of the undead.”
The blood drained from the lord’s face. “A gate is being opened to that?”
“It appears that way. If it opens, wave after wave of undead horror will wash over us, wiping Winterfell and much of the civilized world from the map. How much time do we have?”
“We don’t even know. Days, at best.”
“What’s the plan?”
Gloraen spoke up. “If I may, I had an idea. We can lure the spy out into the open with an elaborate ruse. If we feign our arrest and a caravan trip away from town in shackles, the spy will be easier for us to observe. We have a few strong suspects already, and we can sneak back by night and observe, from the rooftops, the comings and goings of…”
“You don’t understand,” Padraig said. “We don’t have time for any of this. You need to go in. Now.”
This surprised Gloraen. “Into the Keep?”
“Yes. We don’t have much time, but we need to send you in while we summon an adventuring party.”
“Summon an adventuring party?” Greldo asked, sneering. “What are we?”
“Your group served just fine for eliminating a handful of kobolds. We don’t even know what we’re up against. Cultists? Undead? We don’t know! No offense, but you lot are obviously new to the game and we need an experienced team to investigate as soon as possible. Until then, we need you to go in and soften up the resistance as best you can.”
“How much?” Greldo asked coolly.
“How much what? Are you seriously angling for cash at a time like this?” Padraig looked to the other adventurers, but they watched mutely as Greldo worked.
“Why not? You wouldn’t want us to leave, you have no one else. Say we go in, we succeed and slay the cultists. What would that be worth?”
The lord threw his hands up. “I don’t know. Whatever’s in the town’s coffers, certainly.”
“Done. Let’s go.”
The group stood up to leave. Behind them, Padraig continued to plan on sending an urgent message for, as he put it, a real adventuring group. “Pompous jackass,” Greldo muttered.
“Ignore him,” Osivan said. “He’s under a great deal of stress.”
The group left the gates of Winterhaven behind and walked on the road to the northeast.
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Next time
TOTAL PARTY K... CLOSE CALL
, but I enjoy the candor so far between the characters and note how different we RP the same NPC's. Your a great DM from what I've seen/read and I'm taking notes, I just hope that you can get your games in faster than I can, so you pass where my group is. I'd like to "borrow" (ok... steal) some of your ideas.
