Upgrade your account to a Community Supporter account and remove most of the site ads.

Reply to thread

Message: <blockquote data-quote="MerakSpielman" data-source="post: 1232615" data-attributes="member: 7464">It's about time I updated this. If we met to play this campaign more often, I'd be dreadfully behind. As it is, I'm only one session behind after this update:  Session 3 Crystal rejoins the rest of the party, dragging a half-conscious Strak.   “Bloody Drow. Get off me, will you? I can walk, honestly. Save my life, will you then? That implies that it needed saving, and I resent that.”   “So?” asks Slash as Crystal deposits Strak on the ground.   “They’re dead. All of them.”   “Good. Looks like they did a number on you two.”   “Nothing we couldn’t handle, but it looks like they haven’t always been such incompetent raiders. See?” And he opens up a fold in his cloak and spills out a collection of items onto the cold stone. There is a small pile of wood coins, to which Zya adds what she has found on the nearby bodies, as well as two slender potion vials and a tightly rolled scroll of parchment.    Zya picks up the scroll and examines it. “Divine,” She announces, “I’ll figure out what spells later.”   Beltana picks up the potions. No labels, of course. Shrugging, she sets them back into the pile.   “Party treasure,” says Slash, “We should get those identified and figure out who wants them. Same with the scroll.”   “But only Zya can use it,” observes Crystal, “We might as well just give it to her.”   “We should sell it and divide the proceeds if she doesn’t purchase it out of the party treasure pool,” says Slash, “What’s the point of spending so much time working out an agreement if we just turn our backs on it the first chance we get?”   The party discusses the matter, and eventually they decide to let Zya keep the scroll without payment. Zya manages not to express a firm opinion on the subject, saying only that she’ll take it if they don’t want to sell it. Beltana says nothing, but watches the proceedings with interest.   The next day, the party reaches New Fifechester. None of them have been there before, but as the Canterway draws near there are clear signs indicating which way to go. The main Way continues on to the west, but a side way leads south, straight into the city. Just as in the cities with which the individuals were each familiar, they could smell the city far before they heard or saw it. A large number of people living in close proximity underground develop a particular smell, not particularly strong or foul, but unique. This leg of the Canterway is well traveled, and the party passes a number of travelers going the other way.   Finally the path leads into the city, becoming a road weaving its way between buildings in a small cavern. This cavern is clearly not the entire city, since few caves were large enough to house a city in its entirety. The road goes perhaps fifty yards before turning and heading east into what the companions assume is a larger cave. A guard in half-plate armor stops the party before they get ten feet into the cavern.   “Please state your business in New Fifechester.”   Slash steps forward, “Sir, we are a troupe of traveling entertainers, hoping to bring a bit of joy and excitement to your humble city!”   The guard eyes the group with professional suspicion. Mixed-race traveling companions are rare, but not so rare as to demand specific questioning. Shrugging, he makes a note on the parchment he carries.   “You will need to obtain a Performing License in that building,” he points, “in order to ply your trade legally. For a group of your size it will cost twenty wood pieces per week. You will be allowed to set up in any unoccupied space in the market. Please set down your possessions and stand over there so my men can inspect them for contraband.”   Surprised and a bit started, the party looks at each other, then, apparently deciding they haven’t done anything wrong (yet) and don’t possess anything illegal that they know of, they drop their packs and stand where the guard indicated. Several more guards approach and begin systematically going through their possessions, checking every flap and pouch.   “If you don’t mind me asking, sir,” says Slash tentatively, “what kind of contraband are you looking for?”   The guard captain, who is surveying the search, answers, “Illegal drugs mostly.”  “What sort of drugs?” asks Zya, remembering that they have several unidentified vials lying about in their bags, “What would they look like?”   The guard captain launches into a description of the various outlawed substances, seeming to enjoy educating the outsiders. “Well, there’s Agony. It’s the distilled, magically collected essence of a creature that has been slowly tortured to death. It’s a dark red, thick fluid. And baccaran, of course. It’s yellow, and kept as either a paste or a powder. Devilweed is probably the least bad of the lot, and looks almost like tobacco. Luhix, on the other hand, is the very worst. They say it grows on the Abyss, and is applied into self-inflicted wounds. It’s a flour-like powder that glows green. Dreammist is actually a poison, but addicts put it into boiling water and inhale the vapors. It looks like thin, finger-long leaves. Mushroom powder is grainy and blue, and has a reputation of being commonly abused by wizards. Redflower leaves looks like red leaves, and is used to cheat in martial competition. Then there’s sannish, but it’s easy to spot since the blue color stains the lips. It takes months to fade. Terran Brandy is the magically captured essence of dying Fey, and is abused by all stripes of spellcasters. Vodare is a bitter brown powder, commonly mixed with ale to cut the taste.”   (Note: The characters would probably know most of this, but since the players didn’t know anything about the drugs, I decided to have the guard be helpful rather than suspicious of their interest in the matter. The players took copious notes during this exchange.)   The party stands, thinking, and Zya finally says, “A lot of those seem to derive from plants. How are they…”   The guard answers, “We don’t know. Only the druids know how to grow plants on a large scale. We’ve inspected their gardens – with their permission of course – and found nothing amiss.”   “So you’re having trouble with drugs in town, then?” asks Triesste.  The guard looks at her levelly, and says firmly, “No.”   Strak lets out a low cackle, “Of course they’re not. That’s why their checking our bags, ‘cause they’re having no trouble at all.” The guard glares at him.   “If you require a map, you can purchase one over there,” the guard indicates a booth, “Your possessions have been determined to be free of contraband. Please enjoy your stay in New Fifechester.”   The party retrieves their things and Triesste purchases a map from the booth. Finding an out-of-the-way corner, they peruse it. Roughly, the city occupies four larger caverns and several smaller ones. Two of the larger caverns are labeled as Industry and Commerce. The other large caverns seem full of residences. A narrow river or stream runs through several caverns, becoming a large pool in the commercial district.   “What’s the plan?” whispers Triesste, “Where do you think Ziffendel Manor is?”   “Probably here,” Crystal points at the southwest large cavern, “the residences are larger. The rich people probably live there.”   “What, are we just going to march right up to the door?” asks Slash, “What would we say? ‘Um, a crate of killer-zombie-plant was to be shipped to this address, do you know anything about it?’ That isn’t exactly subtle.”   “Works for me,” shrugs Strak.   “We should probably keep up the appearance of an entertaining troupe,” suggests Zya, “This open place in the Commercial district looks like a market. We can set up there, and while Crystal and Slash perform, the rest of us can be poking around, finding out what we can find out.”   Nobody has any objections to this plan.   “I’m going to see what I can see around his manor,” Beltana says quietly and moves off.   Strak and Triesste move off to the side and start conversing in low tones. Slash and Crystal begin to set up an area for their act. Zya goes off to inquire about Lord Ziffendel in the bad section of town.   A few minutes later, since they don’t really have much in the way of supplies with which to set up, Crystal and Slash announce their weapons/acrobatics spectacle in loud voices. A few curious townsfolk pay attention, but a crowd fails to collect around them. Nonplussed, they launch into their routine, leapfrogging, doing handstands, and whirling their nunchukus impressively throughout. All in all, it’s an interesting performance, but most of the townspeople don’t seem particularly impressed. The bowl they put out collects a couple wood coins, but at this rate they will have to work hard just to break even on the cost of the entertainment license. Slash gives no indication that she is performing to anything other than a huge crowd of appreciative royalty, but Crystal looks a little disappointed.   Zya returns, having discovered only the usual grumblings one expects poor people to mutter about the rich.   Meanwhile, Triesste and Strak’s conversation has become more and more animated and noisy. Finally Triesste says loudly, “Oh yeah? Well your mother was a Drow!”   “You dare?” Growls Strak. Without hesitation he punches Triesste in the face. She stumbles backward, blood welling from her nose. A moment later, she launches herself back at the Derro, but gets thrown aside. Cursing, Triesste pulls out her crossbow and aims it at Strak. The bolt narrowly misses his head, flies up in a perfect arc to near the ceiling of the cavern, and clatters against the stone wall of a shop on the other side of the small lake.   “Okay, now that’s going a bit far,” says Zya, running up, “Fistfights are one thing, but you could have killed him with that…”   Strak draws his rapier, “You will regret that, mongrel,” and he moves up and slaps Triesste across the face with the flat of the blade. A pink welt springs up almost instantly on the half-Drow’s cheek and she cries out in pain. Strak smiles, “I’m going to enjoy this.”   Triesste draws her own rapier and thrusts directly at Strak’s chest. It is obvious that if the strike connects she will cause serious damage, but the Derro’s blade slaps hers aside casually.   The townspeople seem unsure what is going on. Is this part of the weapons act? Another wood piece clinks into the bowl.   Strak slaps Triesste again with the non-lethal side of his rapier, this time on the other side of her head. Triesste is caught off-guard, having expected her last blow to skewer her small opponent, and sees interesting sparkly things pop up, accompanying the stabbing pain. She falls, her head hitting the stone with a loud crack. She is unconscious, a pool of blood forming under her nose. The townspeople lose interest and wander off.   A few minutes later Triesste stirs, groaning, and sits up holding her throbbing head. “Let that be a lesson to you, half-breed,” says Strak, smiling, “not to insult or attack your betters.” It is uncertain whether Triesste even hears him as she tries to get the pounding behind her temples to settle down.   Beltana returns. She gives a little smile as she interprets Triesste’s condition and Strak’s smugness. The robed Drow gestures the group to her and walks off to the side, out of earshot of casual listeners. She speaks.   “I have spoken to Lord Ziffendel and received an invitation to return whenever I like,” she says casually. The others try to interject with questions, but she ignores them, “He is a senile old fool. I do not believe he had the wit to secretly arrange the delivery of that crate. However, there is definitely something suspicious going on in the Manor. He was married, an arranged marriage of course, to a young woman from New Sillar about ten years ago. She only got pregnant recently, but the baby was stillborn and she returned to New Sillar to be with her family in her time of grief. This was about six weeks ago.”  The others start talking, speculating, and scheming all at the same time, but again Beltana cuts them off, “I’m not finished. Another member of the household is also missing. Hubris, his name is, Lord Ziffendel’s pet cleric of Pelor. He arrived from New Sillar shortly after the woman. He left here shortly after she did. He did not tell Lord Ziffendel where he was going. He has been gone longer than is usual for his business trips. There has been no communication. It does not take a genius to come to a reasonable assumption here. Lord Ziffendel suspects nothing. He is worried that Hubris might have had an accident. He believes me to be a cleric of Pelor myself. I can return when I like just so he has somebody to talk to.”   The party thinks over this information. Zya says, “Okay, the obvious assumption is that Hubris and Lady Ziffendel were lovers, perhaps even back in New Sillar before the arranged marriage. He travels here to be with her. Years pass. He impregnates her, the baby isn’t really stillborn, and they run off to be with each other. Mom, Dad, and child. That all sounds reasonable. But what about that crate? Lord Ziffendel didn’t arrange it, unless he’s faking senility,” Beltana snorts as Zya continues, “so that leaves Hubris and Lady Ziffendel. If they’re lovers, I can see them attempting to kill her husband, but there are simpler ways then arranging a top-secret shipment of killer zombifying plants.”   Beltana shrugs, “That mystery remains unsolved.”   Zya replies, “I want to go with you when you return. If you can convince him a Drow is a cleric of Pelor, he shouldn’t be that surprised to see a kobold.”   Beltana shrugs again, “All right. I was planning on returning tomorrow. I see no reason why you can’t come.”   “I wonder,” says Crystal, “if Hubris was really a cleric of Pelor at all? If you could convince him, he probably could be made to believe anything.”   Pondering their new information (at great length) the party finds an inn and spends the night uneventfully. In the morning, Beltana returns to Ziffendel manor with Zya in tow.   A servant opens the door. Recognizing Beltana, he gestures them in. Eyeing the pair with obvious distaste, he hurries off to inform Lord Ziffendel that he has visitors. Soon, the two find themselves in a small sitting room with the frail old Lord himself. He looks like he could keel over dead at any time and can barely hold his head up and speak coherently. He cracks a toothless smile when Beltana enters, and wheezes, “I was wondering if you would return! I so enjoyed our conversation yesterday. And who is the little one?”   “This is Zya,” says Beltana, “another acolyte from the temple of Pelor. How’s your leg?” Zya is amazed at the change in Beltana’s voice. She no longer sounds annoyed, aloof, or quiet. She oozes genuine concern, interest, and friendliness. She looks directly into Lord Ziffendel’s eyes and smiles gently as she talks.   “Oh, fine, fine. You fixed it up just fine. Good as new. So you’re from the temple, too, are you? Did you ever meet Hubris?”   “No,” Zya almost yipped nervously.   “A pity. He was a wonderful man, just wonderful. You’d like him.”   The conversation continues for several minutes. Zya asks a few questions, but no new information comes up.   Finally, at what seems an opportune moment, Zya says, “At the temple we hear many things. I have often heard of the impressive chapel you have here at your manor.”   Ziffendel beams, “It is nice isn’t it? Wait, you haven’t seen it have you?”   “No, but I would dearly love to do so.”   Ziffendel rings a little bell and the servant who had answered the front door appears.   “Please show our guests the chapel.” “Yes, my Lord.”   Ziffendel stays in his chair, looking at nothing, while the servant leads Beltana and Zya down a hallway to a door emblazoned with the sun-symbol of Pelor. Pushing it open, he gestures for them to enter.   It is well appointed, with banners and murals depicting scenes from Pelor mythology. The altar and its appointments look unremarkable, and several candles are burning in sconces around the room. There is seating for perhaps ten people and one of the ubiquitous braziers provides warmth. Everything looks like it should.    They made admiring noises at the decoration, then Zya turns to the servant, “I would dearly love to be able to meditate in this wonderful chapel.”   “Go right ahead,” the servant says, leaning against the wall with his arms folded, “I’ll wait.”   “Well, I could be a while, and I don’t want to keep you from your work…”   The servant glares down at her, “My Lord is senile, not me.”   “Fair enough,” she mutters under her breath.   She makes a show of sitting to meditate, but is peering around the room intently. Suddenly she reacts as if surprised, stands up, and says, “Come, I think it is time for us to make our farewells.”   The servant leads them back to Lord Ziffendel, who is nearly asleep.    “My Lord,” says Beltana, “Your chapel is indeed impressive. I assure you the temple will look into the matter of your missing cleric.”  He looks up at them, eyes slowly focusing, “Oh, yes, of course. You will let me know if you discover anything, won’t you?”   “I’ll contact you in person if we hear anything.”   Zya and Beltana return to the others. Crystal and Slash are again putting on a performance in the marketplace, with no better luck than yesterday. When a free moment presents itself, they all gather around Beltana and Zya.   “Anything?” barks Slash.   “No,” says Beltana, “He didn’t say anything we didn’t already…”   “I found out something,” says Zya, “The chapel is phony. It’s not consecrated or hallowed.”   They turn to look at her.   “Are you sure?” Asks Crystal.   “Is that odd?” Asks Triesste.   “Yes, I am sure,” growls Zya, not explaining how she knows, “and yes, it is odd. All new chapels to Pelor are dedicated in a ceremony involving the nearest High Priest. It’s an expensive, time consuming ritual and includes the Hallowing of the new chapel.   “Keep up the performance,” advises Beltana, “I’m going to see if I can get access to the Civil Records. Things like marriages, births, and deaths should all be recorded there.”   “I’m going to go inquire at the Temple of Pelor,” says Zya.   There is a brief discussion. Crystal and Triesste want to join Zya so they could ask any questions they think of that perhaps she might not. Nobody wants to go with Beltana to the Civil Records building.    The Temple to Pelor is at the opposite end of the commercial district. It is an imposing structure with a white marble façade. Steps lead up to a broad main entrance, which itself is dominated by a very large brazier shaped like the sun and filled with brightly glowing coals. A pair of white-robed acolytes flank the entrance. Zya approaches to speak with one of the acolytes. Crystal and Triesste hang back, listening.    Unfortunately, little is learned during the conversation. The acolyte wouldn’t bring a high-ranking individual unless Zya could demonstrate a real need. He answered her questions somewhat primly, assuring her that all chapels to Pelor were sanctified soon after construction and the caretaker-priest would inform them if something went wrong. Hubris was educated in New Sillar and sent here to serve Lord Ziffendel as a resident cleric. This is not unusual, all rich people like to have their own cleric. His paperwork was in order when he arrived, showing that he was a legitimate priest of Pelor, or else he would never have been allowed to serve Lord Ziffendel in that capacity. Then Zya makes the mistake of asking whether that paperwork can be forged, and the acolyte stiffens, “I rather resent that question, Kobold.” She can’t get anything else out of him.   They gather up Strak and Slash and returned to their inn-room to wait for Beltana. She arrived about an hour later, smelling of book-dust. She was sporting a small, satisfied smile.   “The marriage between Lord Ziffendel and the maiden Tiny Krum is legitimate and on record,” she informed them, “There is not, however, any record of a recent death in the household. I checked, and stillborn children are always given a name and a proper burial. Their records are very thorough, and if a child had been stillborn at that manor, it would have been recorded.”   They debate this and decide that they will have to explore this mystery to its conclusion. They do not know how the deadly crate ties into the affair, but it is clear that something sinister is lurking underneath what would otherwise appear to be a simple romance story. They decide that, in the morning, they will travel to New Sillar and find Lady Ziffendel.     Next Session: A pointless random encounter, New Sillar, and Meeting the Krums.</blockquote>

Verification