Seldarn Empire - The Mega-Module Jam
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arwink
Clockwork Golem
Hey guys,
The dying capacity of Yips is mostly limited to the newly renamed St Cuthbert thread. The player lost two characters in two games (although one was a human ranger rather than a kobold monk), and we've only played three. Fortunately, Yip lived through tonights session, and actually came out of the entire thing as something of a hero.
In contrast, the Elemental Evil groups Yip is something of a giant among his brotheren. Not only was he a minor hero of the Trollmist wars, he's also gets some respect because, as one of my friends points out - "He brought down a dragon, that's gotta count for something." If one of them was ever close to learning the meaning of the word "Individual" it's going to be him
Around here, the touch of death leaves the kobold fist-slingers and seems to aim for those with healing spells and Heironous' symbol. Again, two deaths from three sessions, only surviving the most recent game intact. Somehow they just haven't captured the imagination like the scampering kobolds have
The dying capacity of Yips is mostly limited to the newly renamed St Cuthbert thread. The player lost two characters in two games (although one was a human ranger rather than a kobold monk), and we've only played three. Fortunately, Yip lived through tonights session, and actually came out of the entire thing as something of a hero.
In contrast, the Elemental Evil groups Yip is something of a giant among his brotheren. Not only was he a minor hero of the Trollmist wars, he's also gets some respect because, as one of my friends points out - "He brought down a dragon, that's gotta count for something." If one of them was ever close to learning the meaning of the word "Individual" it's going to be him
Around here, the touch of death leaves the kobold fist-slingers and seems to aim for those with healing spells and Heironous' symbol. Again, two deaths from three sessions, only surviving the most recent game intact. Somehow they just haven't captured the imagination like the scampering kobolds have
arwink
Clockwork Golem
Saturday, August 19th, 518 AF
Spring is creeping up on Hommlet, the traditonal summer rains starting several months early. The morning air is crisp, on the edge of coolness, with heavy clouds covering the sky.
Yip is awake first, ready to meet his compatriots in front of the Welcome Wench. It's a little before sun-up, and in the dim light coming over the horizon the dragon's skull looms like a dangerous shadow. Yip stares at the toothless smile and forces himself to smile back. A few second later, one of the village youths runs past on the end. Yip recognises him as Toth, the bakers son, and his forced grin turns real when he recognises the dragon's tooth hanging from a bit of string around the child's neck.
Warwind and Taranos arrive as the sun crest the horizon. Both look slightly better after a nights sleep, but there is still a haunted look to Taranos' eyes. Yip watches the dwarven priests semi-vacant stare carefully. It seems as though something about coming back from the afterlife has frightened the dwarf, and Taranos' protestations that he'd rather stay dead next time are taken seriously.
Durhon shows up a few minutes late, emerging from the Welcome Wench rather than the direction of his hut.
"A good night out?" Warwind asks.
Durhon burps at him.
"Right then," Warwind sneers. "Best get moving."
He holds a cake of soap up to Durhon's face, then grins widely.
"It looks like rain.
"Where'd ye get that?"
"They have a store in town," Warwind explains with a sigh, "and some of us don't blow all our wealth on ale."
"Feh, some of us spent all our gold keeping your worthless hand alive," Durhon snarls. "Keep that in mind when yer nose decides the soap may be worth the risk."
They take it easy on the trek back to the moathouse, setting up camp on the same hill they stopped at on their first trip out. As they eat dried trail rations around the small campfire, the rain starts. It pelts down heavily at first, but soon settles into a steady beat. The four Vetrans look at one another, wondering if anyone packed a tent. None have. They take what cover they can behind a rocky outcrop, then go back to their silent eating.
Lightening flashes, briefly illuminating the hills around them. Warwind's keen eyes spot something.
"What's that?" he asks.
"What?" Taranos asks. Lightening flashes again, the the shape of a human form can be seen dancing accross the hills in the rain.
"That," Warwind says, pointing.
A slightly crazed squeal cuts through the air.
"Del," Durhon grunts. He glances at Warwind.
"Seems he's like you when it comes to rain and showers."
Spring is creeping up on Hommlet, the traditonal summer rains starting several months early. The morning air is crisp, on the edge of coolness, with heavy clouds covering the sky.
Yip is awake first, ready to meet his compatriots in front of the Welcome Wench. It's a little before sun-up, and in the dim light coming over the horizon the dragon's skull looms like a dangerous shadow. Yip stares at the toothless smile and forces himself to smile back. A few second later, one of the village youths runs past on the end. Yip recognises him as Toth, the bakers son, and his forced grin turns real when he recognises the dragon's tooth hanging from a bit of string around the child's neck.
Warwind and Taranos arrive as the sun crest the horizon. Both look slightly better after a nights sleep, but there is still a haunted look to Taranos' eyes. Yip watches the dwarven priests semi-vacant stare carefully. It seems as though something about coming back from the afterlife has frightened the dwarf, and Taranos' protestations that he'd rather stay dead next time are taken seriously.
Durhon shows up a few minutes late, emerging from the Welcome Wench rather than the direction of his hut.
"A good night out?" Warwind asks.
Durhon burps at him.
"Right then," Warwind sneers. "Best get moving."
He holds a cake of soap up to Durhon's face, then grins widely.
"It looks like rain.
"Where'd ye get that?"
"They have a store in town," Warwind explains with a sigh, "and some of us don't blow all our wealth on ale."
"Feh, some of us spent all our gold keeping your worthless hand alive," Durhon snarls. "Keep that in mind when yer nose decides the soap may be worth the risk."
They take it easy on the trek back to the moathouse, setting up camp on the same hill they stopped at on their first trip out. As they eat dried trail rations around the small campfire, the rain starts. It pelts down heavily at first, but soon settles into a steady beat. The four Vetrans look at one another, wondering if anyone packed a tent. None have. They take what cover they can behind a rocky outcrop, then go back to their silent eating.
Lightening flashes, briefly illuminating the hills around them. Warwind's keen eyes spot something.
"What's that?" he asks.
"What?" Taranos asks. Lightening flashes again, the the shape of a human form can be seen dancing accross the hills in the rain.
"That," Warwind says, pointing.
A slightly crazed squeal cuts through the air.
"Del," Durhon grunts. He glances at Warwind.
"Seems he's like you when it comes to rain and showers."
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the Jester
Legend
Nice update- very moody rainstorm scene!
arwink
Clockwork Golem
Saturday, August 19th, 518 AF, Continued
The gaunt hermit comes charging up through the driving rain.
"Hello strangers," he calls, his voice full of undisguised glee. "Welcome back."
Del's wearing few furs that last time the group saw him. A simple loin-cloth and several uncured pelts over his shoulders. He crouches down to talk the four adventurers, putting himself at eye level as they huddle against the rock.
"Fine weather, isn't it?"
"It could be better," Taranos says sullenly. "What are you doing out in the storm?"
"Bathing," Del says. He stands for a moment and scrubs at his wirey body. "Nothing better than a rainstorm for getting clean."
Durhon grunts and edges away from Warwind when the elf grins and dips a hand towards the belt-pouch containing the soap cake.
"Why are you back in the hills?" Del asks. Taranos shrugs.
"Back to the ruins," he explains. "We killed the dragon, but we missed the robed men."
Del hisses slightly.
"Don't go, don't go," he says wildly. "The dead walk there, always walking, and..."
He squint's, eyeing the four adventurers carefully.
"Well, it's dangerous. To dangerous perhaps. Somebody would need furs to go in there, furs that lets them know what someone thinks they shouldn't. The merchant wont come this month, been staying away while the dragon was around. Strangers are lucky Del still has fresh furs..."
Durhon grunts again, spitting a small mouthful of rainwater.
"Everyone wants money," he grumbles. "Ferkin dragon didn't even have any gold."
Warwind glares at him and hands over the gold.
"What help can you give us?" he asks warily. Del hands over a partially cured and very damp rabbit pelt. Warwind picks it up by a corner, nose wrinkling in distaste.
"New strangers are there," Del hisses through the rainfall. "Strangers from town not two days ago. An ugly man with a black cloak, and another wearing robes. Dangerous, they look. Townsfolk working with robed priests. It's never been good for the hills before."
"How does the rabbit skin help us?" Warwind asks. Durhon chokes on a laugh.
"The information, Treehugger," he grunts. "Subtle though he was, it was the price for the information."
Warwind stops midway through a detect magic cantrip. Fortunately, it's hard to see the elf blush through the rain and darkness.
"Thanks," he says. "Are you sure you can't resell this?"
Del shakes his head as the elf offers the pelt.
"Nooo, no, no. It's yours now, fair and square. Remind you to be careful when you chase after the strangers. Maybe even keep you safe from the dead ones."
Warwind looks doubtful. Taranos thanks Del for his help and the Hermit nods in glee, biting down on the coppers Warwind gave him for the skins. After he's convinced they're real, he stands and starts skipping off into the rain.
"Good luck, strangers. Be careful. Come see me if ye ever need a pelt again."
There's a bright flash of lightening, and they see Del's scrawny cappering wilding down the hill.
"Crazy bastard," Durhon spits. They settle down to make the best of it, and discover Yip has already managed to find a comfortable and almost dry patch beneath an overhang of rock. The kobold is softly snoring, asleep.
The gaunt hermit comes charging up through the driving rain.
"Hello strangers," he calls, his voice full of undisguised glee. "Welcome back."
Del's wearing few furs that last time the group saw him. A simple loin-cloth and several uncured pelts over his shoulders. He crouches down to talk the four adventurers, putting himself at eye level as they huddle against the rock.
"Fine weather, isn't it?"
"It could be better," Taranos says sullenly. "What are you doing out in the storm?"
"Bathing," Del says. He stands for a moment and scrubs at his wirey body. "Nothing better than a rainstorm for getting clean."
Durhon grunts and edges away from Warwind when the elf grins and dips a hand towards the belt-pouch containing the soap cake.
"Why are you back in the hills?" Del asks. Taranos shrugs.
"Back to the ruins," he explains. "We killed the dragon, but we missed the robed men."
Del hisses slightly.
"Don't go, don't go," he says wildly. "The dead walk there, always walking, and..."
He squint's, eyeing the four adventurers carefully.
"Well, it's dangerous. To dangerous perhaps. Somebody would need furs to go in there, furs that lets them know what someone thinks they shouldn't. The merchant wont come this month, been staying away while the dragon was around. Strangers are lucky Del still has fresh furs..."
Durhon grunts again, spitting a small mouthful of rainwater.
"Everyone wants money," he grumbles. "Ferkin dragon didn't even have any gold."
Warwind glares at him and hands over the gold.
"What help can you give us?" he asks warily. Del hands over a partially cured and very damp rabbit pelt. Warwind picks it up by a corner, nose wrinkling in distaste.
"New strangers are there," Del hisses through the rainfall. "Strangers from town not two days ago. An ugly man with a black cloak, and another wearing robes. Dangerous, they look. Townsfolk working with robed priests. It's never been good for the hills before."
"How does the rabbit skin help us?" Warwind asks. Durhon chokes on a laugh.
"The information, Treehugger," he grunts. "Subtle though he was, it was the price for the information."
Warwind stops midway through a detect magic cantrip. Fortunately, it's hard to see the elf blush through the rain and darkness.
"Thanks," he says. "Are you sure you can't resell this?"
Del shakes his head as the elf offers the pelt.
"Nooo, no, no. It's yours now, fair and square. Remind you to be careful when you chase after the strangers. Maybe even keep you safe from the dead ones."
Warwind looks doubtful. Taranos thanks Del for his help and the Hermit nods in glee, biting down on the coppers Warwind gave him for the skins. After he's convinced they're real, he stands and starts skipping off into the rain.
"Good luck, strangers. Be careful. Come see me if ye ever need a pelt again."
There's a bright flash of lightening, and they see Del's scrawny cappering wilding down the hill.
"Crazy bastard," Durhon spits. They settle down to make the best of it, and discover Yip has already managed to find a comfortable and almost dry patch beneath an overhang of rock. The kobold is softly snoring, asleep.
arwink
Clockwork Golem
Sunday, August 20th, 508 AF
The rain lasts for the better part of the day. After a quick breakfast on soggy bread, the soaked and grumpy adventurers head once more along the path to the Moathouse.
It's a slow slog through the muddy track. Twice Durhon slips in a muddy patch, coating himself in a thick layer of brown that is slowly erroded by the pouring rain. After three or four hours of trecking through the downpour, even Warwind's threats to use soap and magehand to give the dwarf a good scrubbing fail to raise a reaction. The wizard swaps to whistful commentary on spells he'll craft in his future "Warwind's Dwarven Deodoriser" and "Warwinds Rain of a Thousand Soap Drops," but it's no good. The only reaction he gets is a snarl from Durhon after a slips a third time.
It's late evening by the time the rain lets up, and the four companions come to a halt on a hill-top overlooking the ruined structure. The sky starts to clear as the sun sets, showing a bare scattering of stars, and in the amber light they can see a number of changes in the wake of their defeat of the dragon. Utreshimon's corpse is laying outside the Moathouse's walls, pushed over a crumbling wall and left to rot next to the moat. Worse, a pair of familiar corpses hang rotting from the wall over the gate.
"Is that..." Warwind asks, but he doesn't get out anything more than that as he looks at his own dead body swinging in the gentle breeze. Taranos doesn't comment, just turns a pale white and sniffles. He's picked up a cold during the down-pour, and it's made him grumpier than even his normal dwarven self for the duration of the journey. No-one says anything, and they quickly break out a camp a little below the crest of the hill, out of sight of the Moathouse and it's new inhabitants.
"I don't know who or what's in there," Warwind snarls over dinner, "but we rest up, we replenish spells, and tomorrow they pay for that."
There is a silent murmer of agreement.
Dinner is finished, and watches are set for the night. Warwind, Durhon and Yip settle down in the dryest patches they can find, leaving Taranos to stand guard. The dwarven preist sits grimly on a rock, sword at the ready and watching the darkness past his blades dim radiance. His nose runs constantly, a steady drip that is wiped on a sleeve every few moments. He curses quietly the luck that lead him to being such a bad example of dwarven health.
Towards the end of his watch, the monotony of the dripping nose is broken by a loud sneeze and a gobbet of flem flying off into the darkness.
"Ferkit," Taranos grumbles quietly. "I need sleep and time in a warm bed."
Then he hears the splash of a footstep in a puddle, a strong arm looping around his neck, and the point of a dagger slicing through his neck. There is the breifest glance of a man in black leathers, his face covered by a cowl and kerchief over his nose, as the dwarfs lifeblood spills over the earth...
The rain lasts for the better part of the day. After a quick breakfast on soggy bread, the soaked and grumpy adventurers head once more along the path to the Moathouse.
It's a slow slog through the muddy track. Twice Durhon slips in a muddy patch, coating himself in a thick layer of brown that is slowly erroded by the pouring rain. After three or four hours of trecking through the downpour, even Warwind's threats to use soap and magehand to give the dwarf a good scrubbing fail to raise a reaction. The wizard swaps to whistful commentary on spells he'll craft in his future "Warwind's Dwarven Deodoriser" and "Warwinds Rain of a Thousand Soap Drops," but it's no good. The only reaction he gets is a snarl from Durhon after a slips a third time.
It's late evening by the time the rain lets up, and the four companions come to a halt on a hill-top overlooking the ruined structure. The sky starts to clear as the sun sets, showing a bare scattering of stars, and in the amber light they can see a number of changes in the wake of their defeat of the dragon. Utreshimon's corpse is laying outside the Moathouse's walls, pushed over a crumbling wall and left to rot next to the moat. Worse, a pair of familiar corpses hang rotting from the wall over the gate.
"Is that..." Warwind asks, but he doesn't get out anything more than that as he looks at his own dead body swinging in the gentle breeze. Taranos doesn't comment, just turns a pale white and sniffles. He's picked up a cold during the down-pour, and it's made him grumpier than even his normal dwarven self for the duration of the journey. No-one says anything, and they quickly break out a camp a little below the crest of the hill, out of sight of the Moathouse and it's new inhabitants.
"I don't know who or what's in there," Warwind snarls over dinner, "but we rest up, we replenish spells, and tomorrow they pay for that."
There is a silent murmer of agreement.
Dinner is finished, and watches are set for the night. Warwind, Durhon and Yip settle down in the dryest patches they can find, leaving Taranos to stand guard. The dwarven preist sits grimly on a rock, sword at the ready and watching the darkness past his blades dim radiance. His nose runs constantly, a steady drip that is wiped on a sleeve every few moments. He curses quietly the luck that lead him to being such a bad example of dwarven health.
Towards the end of his watch, the monotony of the dripping nose is broken by a loud sneeze and a gobbet of flem flying off into the darkness.
"Ferkit," Taranos grumbles quietly. "I need sleep and time in a warm bed."
Then he hears the splash of a footstep in a puddle, a strong arm looping around his neck, and the point of a dagger slicing through his neck. There is the breifest glance of a man in black leathers, his face covered by a cowl and kerchief over his nose, as the dwarfs lifeblood spills over the earth...
arwink
Clockwork Golem
Dungannon said:
Have to admit, I stole that idea from Wulf's storyhour (I think, could be someone elses). I'd been reading it a few hours before the game, and I just knew the Moathouses residences would be the type to use such nastiness to warn people off.
On another note, the Seldarn empire has recently taken over my webpage, and aquired it's own messageboards (links to both at the bottom of the sig). The messageboards are currently being used as a forum for the players to discuss things between games and play out events that occur between games, but has a space set aside for those with questions about the game or the world. Feel free to take a peek and chat if you feel so inclined.
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arwink
Clockwork Golem
Monday, August 21st, 508 AF
Very, very early
Yip is sleeping comfortably. His training had included some focus on becoming one with his surroundings, learning to take what rest he could in any situation. It had served him well the night before, when the rain was falling, but tonight it was almost a pleasure. A warm fire, several blissful hours of slumber before his turn at watch and the promise of smiting evil and vengance-taking in the name of St Cuthbert at dawn.
It is an easy sleep, and the kobolds head are filled with good dreams.
Then something intrudes. It starts as nothing, just a gentle tap...tap...tap of something against his snout. It feels like rainwater, dripping from an overhang, and he pays it no mind. The kobold rolls over, avoiding the drip but still dimly aware of something small falling onto the earth by his slumbering form. Something in his subconscious latches onto the drip, irritatingly telling him it's trouble.
Then he notices the chill. It shouldn't be cold. Even though it's a cool night, a brisk wind blowing after the rain and the hand of summer not yet snatching the chill from early spring, there was a small fire warming the campsite. Taranos was supposed to be tending that fire, keeping it large enough to warm the sleepers but small enough to avoid drawing attention. Yip rubs his scaly arms, trying to work some warmth into them.
Then his nose begins to twitch, picking up the stench of burning skin.
It takes less that a second for his eyes to fly open once he recognises the smell. He looks up into Tarano's gaping eyes, bulging from their sockets and staring blankly down at the kobold. Blood slowly drips from the severed neck, and a smear of the dwarfs life-force mar's Yip's black snout. Yip yelps in fear, scrambling backwards and tumbling to his feat. He notices the fire has been scattered, but several still warm coals are left to smoulder in the dead dwarves mouth. A slim trail of smoke trails up from Taranos's gaping mouth and nostrils.
Yip prepares to attack his former comrade's corpse, remembering Del's warning of the dead walking in the Moathouse. The head doesn't move. Whatever has slain the priest has merely tied the severed head to a stake and angled it to dangle over the kobolds bedroll. The body is gone.
Durhon and Warwind, both aroused by Yip's yelp, slowly rouse themselves and look eyes on Taranos' remains.
"Right," Durhon cursed, arm swinging to his axe immediately. "Ferkin bastards go down now."
Very, very early
Yip is sleeping comfortably. His training had included some focus on becoming one with his surroundings, learning to take what rest he could in any situation. It had served him well the night before, when the rain was falling, but tonight it was almost a pleasure. A warm fire, several blissful hours of slumber before his turn at watch and the promise of smiting evil and vengance-taking in the name of St Cuthbert at dawn.
It is an easy sleep, and the kobolds head are filled with good dreams.
Then something intrudes. It starts as nothing, just a gentle tap...tap...tap of something against his snout. It feels like rainwater, dripping from an overhang, and he pays it no mind. The kobold rolls over, avoiding the drip but still dimly aware of something small falling onto the earth by his slumbering form. Something in his subconscious latches onto the drip, irritatingly telling him it's trouble.
Then he notices the chill. It shouldn't be cold. Even though it's a cool night, a brisk wind blowing after the rain and the hand of summer not yet snatching the chill from early spring, there was a small fire warming the campsite. Taranos was supposed to be tending that fire, keeping it large enough to warm the sleepers but small enough to avoid drawing attention. Yip rubs his scaly arms, trying to work some warmth into them.
Then his nose begins to twitch, picking up the stench of burning skin.
It takes less that a second for his eyes to fly open once he recognises the smell. He looks up into Tarano's gaping eyes, bulging from their sockets and staring blankly down at the kobold. Blood slowly drips from the severed neck, and a smear of the dwarfs life-force mar's Yip's black snout. Yip yelps in fear, scrambling backwards and tumbling to his feat. He notices the fire has been scattered, but several still warm coals are left to smoulder in the dead dwarves mouth. A slim trail of smoke trails up from Taranos's gaping mouth and nostrils.
Yip prepares to attack his former comrade's corpse, remembering Del's warning of the dead walking in the Moathouse. The head doesn't move. Whatever has slain the priest has merely tied the severed head to a stake and angled it to dangle over the kobolds bedroll. The body is gone.
Durhon and Warwind, both aroused by Yip's yelp, slowly rouse themselves and look eyes on Taranos' remains.
"Right," Durhon cursed, arm swinging to his axe immediately. "Ferkin bastards go down now."
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