Plane Sailing
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Darklone said:
Nope, I never change guessed which I rolled with my holy dice
You have 7-sided dice? Holy ***!!!
Stories from the Steppes
- Thread starter Plane Sailing
- Start date
You have 7-sided dice? Holy ***!!!
Plane Sailing
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Erythday dawns grey and overcast, and the rain dampens collective spirits lower than enemy action. Deviations have to be made around areas of wet ground, and valuable time is lost. The camp is quiet, and again the Bards are unable to lift the atmosphere much. Perhaps their styles are just too different, Troy’s cultured ways too refined for the more woodsy Katarn.
Most people are long abed when the spontaneous appearance of a truly huge boar in the middle of the camp tears the night apart. The wretched squealing monster rips a soldier in twain, apparently seeing all signs of movement as a threat. Shocked and exhausted, the company yank their wits together and engage this unexpected challenge with gritted teeth Where on Sirrapenta did it come from? Never mind, the mighty flanks of the creature heave as it lunges forward with terrifying tusks. Mischa is there, but his touch spell fizzles as he punches into the rank bristly hide. Alavarielle feels the creature’s breath on her face as she gabbles off a defensive spell, throws caution to Corellan and wades in with a mace. Dariol summons a flaming sphere that raises a scorched pork smell from the vile thing’s hide, while Fareena stares wildly about trying to find a hint of the shady humanoid of previous night attacks. Her eye lights on Annia’s wagon across the camp where Annia’s hunched form can be clearly seen holding down a flailing wailing Stefan. Dariol switches to magic detection, motes of essence glowing to his eyes only on friends, the creature and atop Annia and Stefan’s wagon. Troy feels renewed vigour flow through him as Mischa’s shield-other spell takes effect. Everyone pounds at the creature, and it finally collapses from one of Clint’s arrows, neatly lodged between its mighty shoulder blades. The form dissipates in magical whisps.
Suspicious eyes glance about, and many linger at Annia’s wagon. Alavarielle approaches, clambers up the side of the wagon and peeps over. Poor old Stefan lies weeping in a tousled pallet, Annia bent over him, hugging him closely and weeping. Alavarielle’s gentle enquiry brings an impassioned rebuke, and she backs away. Arrogantly confident that his own charms will not be turned away so easily Troy swaggers up and asks if he might have a chat. Strangely, Annia seems more convinced by this overdressed elf, and bids him come aboard. Winking nonchalantly to his inadequate cohorts Troy skips up the ladder to sit by Annia’s side.
In a short while he has most of Annia’s tale, but even more interestingly much of Stefan’s too. Annia seems at times to use both the words father and grandfather in relation to Stefan. He certainly looks old enough to be her grandfather. It seems that she is a troublesome youngster, given to acts of independence and disobedience. Her patient father (?), has intervened to help her (always unwanted) on many occasions, and many have been the dread arguments that follow. The last time he stepped in though, it went horribly wrong. Annia admits that she really was in trouble this time, and her poor grandfather (?) did what he could. He’s a summoner you see, earns his keep by either calling creatures forth or sending them back again. This time she says that something got him. There’s ‘something within’ that steals poor Stefan’s senses, speaks with another voice, something awful. The best sages and priests in Vjelpamiri could not help, or at least they said they could not without risking killing Stefan in the process. Apparently however, there is a place in the Eternal Forest, a grove, where fabulous natural things grow that have supernatural powers. There is one that Annia knows only as ‘Tifflebane’ that will apparently do the trick. If she can keep Stefan subdued long enough to get him to this place then she can save him. Perhaps Troy can help, he’s an elf after all?
Troy chooses to take the tale to Fareena rather than his priest Alavarielle, wondering if the cook has magic knowledge that could shed light on the situation. Fareena claims it is not a cooking herb and Dariol the druid would probably have a better idea, but on hearing the tale Dariol seems unaware of Tifflebane. Perhaps it is known as something else in the Elven tongue. Humans never could get their tongues round the lilting Elven language.
Most people are long abed when the spontaneous appearance of a truly huge boar in the middle of the camp tears the night apart. The wretched squealing monster rips a soldier in twain, apparently seeing all signs of movement as a threat. Shocked and exhausted, the company yank their wits together and engage this unexpected challenge with gritted teeth Where on Sirrapenta did it come from? Never mind, the mighty flanks of the creature heave as it lunges forward with terrifying tusks. Mischa is there, but his touch spell fizzles as he punches into the rank bristly hide. Alavarielle feels the creature’s breath on her face as she gabbles off a defensive spell, throws caution to Corellan and wades in with a mace. Dariol summons a flaming sphere that raises a scorched pork smell from the vile thing’s hide, while Fareena stares wildly about trying to find a hint of the shady humanoid of previous night attacks. Her eye lights on Annia’s wagon across the camp where Annia’s hunched form can be clearly seen holding down a flailing wailing Stefan. Dariol switches to magic detection, motes of essence glowing to his eyes only on friends, the creature and atop Annia and Stefan’s wagon. Troy feels renewed vigour flow through him as Mischa’s shield-other spell takes effect. Everyone pounds at the creature, and it finally collapses from one of Clint’s arrows, neatly lodged between its mighty shoulder blades. The form dissipates in magical whisps.
Suspicious eyes glance about, and many linger at Annia’s wagon. Alavarielle approaches, clambers up the side of the wagon and peeps over. Poor old Stefan lies weeping in a tousled pallet, Annia bent over him, hugging him closely and weeping. Alavarielle’s gentle enquiry brings an impassioned rebuke, and she backs away. Arrogantly confident that his own charms will not be turned away so easily Troy swaggers up and asks if he might have a chat. Strangely, Annia seems more convinced by this overdressed elf, and bids him come aboard. Winking nonchalantly to his inadequate cohorts Troy skips up the ladder to sit by Annia’s side.
In a short while he has most of Annia’s tale, but even more interestingly much of Stefan’s too. Annia seems at times to use both the words father and grandfather in relation to Stefan. He certainly looks old enough to be her grandfather. It seems that she is a troublesome youngster, given to acts of independence and disobedience. Her patient father (?), has intervened to help her (always unwanted) on many occasions, and many have been the dread arguments that follow. The last time he stepped in though, it went horribly wrong. Annia admits that she really was in trouble this time, and her poor grandfather (?) did what he could. He’s a summoner you see, earns his keep by either calling creatures forth or sending them back again. This time she says that something got him. There’s ‘something within’ that steals poor Stefan’s senses, speaks with another voice, something awful. The best sages and priests in Vjelpamiri could not help, or at least they said they could not without risking killing Stefan in the process. Apparently however, there is a place in the Eternal Forest, a grove, where fabulous natural things grow that have supernatural powers. There is one that Annia knows only as ‘Tifflebane’ that will apparently do the trick. If she can keep Stefan subdued long enough to get him to this place then she can save him. Perhaps Troy can help, he’s an elf after all?
Troy chooses to take the tale to Fareena rather than his priest Alavarielle, wondering if the cook has magic knowledge that could shed light on the situation. Fareena claims it is not a cooking herb and Dariol the druid would probably have a better idea, but on hearing the tale Dariol seems unaware of Tifflebane. Perhaps it is known as something else in the Elven tongue. Humans never could get their tongues round the lilting Elven language.
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The next day is clearer and the caravan makes good time towards the ford over the river Nepri. Dariol espies a number of birds of prey around the caravan and calls one to him with a little magic. The animal is well disposed towards him, and soon Dariol can be seen riding out with the bird perched on his arm. It is dubbed ‘sharpeye’ by the Druid, no doubt in the hope that this will encourage the bird to be a useful scout.
As they reach the Nepri ford, it becomes clear that it is in use by a large number of horse tribesmen. Vladimar observes for a while and consults with Mischa. They agree that these folk appear to be Pechenki-Mul, much less aggressive than the notorious Pechenki-Vel. Nevertheless, they are crossing the ford much earlier than expected, and Vladimar is curious. Trusting to his previous encounters with these nomads, Vladimar rides out on his own to meet them The party wonders on this apparent rashness, but the difference between this and Katarn’s earlier behaviour is that Vladimar knows these people!
He return after nearly two hours to explain that he has agreed to let the Pechenki pass over the ford first, and the caravan will cross just before dusk to pitch camp on the South side. The time passes pleasantly as the tribesmen drift by within 200 yards. They are some 300 in number, and have a great stock of cattle, dogs, and of courses horses with them. Most of their goods appear to be pulled on travois. As Pelor’s glory kisses the horizon the caravan is organised into a column and led across the ford. Although it is quite broad in late Spring, the early campaign means a narrower passage. Nevertheless, things are progressing well, if slowly when a soldier in the distance suddenly spurs his horse forward. Dariol thought that the vague thumping he could hear was coming from someone kicking a wagon, but now he’s not so sure. He sends sharpeye aloft to scout over the soldier and tries to focus on where that sound is coming from. Others can clearly hear it too, and several of the waggoners appear to have trouble controlling their oxen.
In the distance the soldier shouts, raises his hand for the caravan to stop, and canters to a halt looking down into the grass. The thumping sound is quite loud now, coming in threes, very very low. The soldier dismounts and drawing his sword prods at something unseen in the grass. Arcane fire sparkles on his blade, up his arm and over his head momentarily and a sharp ‘snap’ sound crackles over the bass thumping. The soldier jerks once, twice, and collapses backwards out of sight. His horse bolts away to the South. Sharpeye returns to Dariol’s arm as the various party members start somewhat nervously to arm themselves and start out into the plain . Sharpeye describes a ‘shiny thing with legs, many legs, moving, making noise’. Dariol has not heard of anything like this before, but along with others can now see a trail of grass being bent over by the passage of some low thing towards them in the grass. The thumping comes again, very low, very loud. Oxen snort in discomfort, and horses lift their feet coquettishly to escape the queasy vibration through their hooves. The thing scrambles almost up to the side of a wagon, and thumps again still unseen. This time the sound is so loud that teeth buzz and stomachs flip.
As they reach the Nepri ford, it becomes clear that it is in use by a large number of horse tribesmen. Vladimar observes for a while and consults with Mischa. They agree that these folk appear to be Pechenki-Mul, much less aggressive than the notorious Pechenki-Vel. Nevertheless, they are crossing the ford much earlier than expected, and Vladimar is curious. Trusting to his previous encounters with these nomads, Vladimar rides out on his own to meet them The party wonders on this apparent rashness, but the difference between this and Katarn’s earlier behaviour is that Vladimar knows these people!
He return after nearly two hours to explain that he has agreed to let the Pechenki pass over the ford first, and the caravan will cross just before dusk to pitch camp on the South side. The time passes pleasantly as the tribesmen drift by within 200 yards. They are some 300 in number, and have a great stock of cattle, dogs, and of courses horses with them. Most of their goods appear to be pulled on travois. As Pelor’s glory kisses the horizon the caravan is organised into a column and led across the ford. Although it is quite broad in late Spring, the early campaign means a narrower passage. Nevertheless, things are progressing well, if slowly when a soldier in the distance suddenly spurs his horse forward. Dariol thought that the vague thumping he could hear was coming from someone kicking a wagon, but now he’s not so sure. He sends sharpeye aloft to scout over the soldier and tries to focus on where that sound is coming from. Others can clearly hear it too, and several of the waggoners appear to have trouble controlling their oxen.
In the distance the soldier shouts, raises his hand for the caravan to stop, and canters to a halt looking down into the grass. The thumping sound is quite loud now, coming in threes, very very low. The soldier dismounts and drawing his sword prods at something unseen in the grass. Arcane fire sparkles on his blade, up his arm and over his head momentarily and a sharp ‘snap’ sound crackles over the bass thumping. The soldier jerks once, twice, and collapses backwards out of sight. His horse bolts away to the South. Sharpeye returns to Dariol’s arm as the various party members start somewhat nervously to arm themselves and start out into the plain . Sharpeye describes a ‘shiny thing with legs, many legs, moving, making noise’. Dariol has not heard of anything like this before, but along with others can now see a trail of grass being bent over by the passage of some low thing towards them in the grass. The thumping comes again, very low, very loud. Oxen snort in discomfort, and horses lift their feet coquettishly to escape the queasy vibration through their hooves. The thing scrambles almost up to the side of a wagon, and thumps again still unseen. This time the sound is so loud that teeth buzz and stomachs flip.
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Fareena says the little charm which she uses to protect hersefl from fire each morning, but changes the wording slightly to ward off lightning. The waggoner on the lead wagon is straining at the traces to his oxen when the ground erupts like a volcano to his right. Soil, stones, and grass are hurled skywards 40 feet or more as a huge boney carapace bursts out of the ground, slams into the wagon and clamps mighty jaws into the wooden sides. The wagon teeters on two wheels and falls sideways as the waggoner jumps clear. A soil covered beast of immense but sleek proportions heaves itself onto the surface spitting pieces of shattered wood and rounding on the oxen. A shiny object spins lazily in the air for a moment before thudding back down into the grass nearby.
Clint, Alavarielle and Troy rip out weapons and charge towards the monster, eyeing it’s substantial carapace and soil tearing talons with alarm. What on earth IS this thing and why did it attack NOW? Dariol summons a flaming sphere in the grass next to the beast and scorches it’s hide. Fareena tosses her torch at the creatures feet and calls forth the familiar pyrotechnic smoke over the downed wagon, concealing the beast momentarily, while Alavarielle curses it with Corellan’s Doom.
The beast lurches out of the smoke, all flailing claws and snapping jaws. Too far away and wobbling on a midstream wagon, Katarn commences a battle song, boosting his companion’s spirits as they make contact. The armour is thick, but several telling blows are landed in quick succession. Drooling uncontrollably and watering mightily from it’s beady eyes, the great creature snaps and bites at these buzzing gnats, ripping through armour and tearing vicious wounds with ease. A shiny multi-legged object clatters out of the grass into the burnt out soil strewn area near Dariol, and thumps the ground loudly. A gem glows at the front of this strange thing; seemingly scanning it’s surroundings Cyclops like. Dariol calls another flame sphere into being and rolls it over the coppery spider, apparently to no effect, and Fareena’s crossbow bolt also skips harmlessly off its armour.
The landshark heaves forward with tremendous force, ripping another oxen open as it fixes it’s jaws in the side of the second wagon. It’s legs lock against the ground and this wagon too is quickly wobbling. The party redouble their efforts and weapons bite deep into the hide. Blood spurts forth but still the creature heaves. As this wagon topples, Dariol draws his scimitar and clouts the shiney construct solidly on top. A large dent rocks the thing on it’s sprung legs and blue fire coruscates up Dariol’s blade. His electricity endurance saves him from injury, and Fareena joins in with her favourite cast iron pan, swinging it wildly like a club.
Clint is sorely hurt now and tumbles out of the fray as Vladimar arrives on horseback. He charges in as Alavarielle too steps back to heal her terrible injuries. The creature seems to regain some awareness, and springs into the air, lashing out with all four feet. Alavarielle is caught badly, as is Vladimar’s horse. The normally consummate rider is instantly unhorsed and laid prone at the Bulette’s feet, but Clint, Troy and Alavarielle re-engage with renewed vigour, and the deluge of frantic blows finally brings the monster crashing to a halt.
The construct seems only capable of self-defence, and Dariol and Fareena pound it to bits in short order, Fareena’s pan apparently breaking some delicate internal working that sends springs and wheels flying into the air. The thing sags and whirres to a stop.
Breathing hard, the party survey the carnage. Oxen lie torn and kicking in the grass, two wagons are turned over, battered and helpless like beached whales. As Katarn’s battle song echoes away across the plains Dariol and Fareena gaze at the shattered machine, then at each other and wonder, who makes THESE?
Clint, Alavarielle and Troy rip out weapons and charge towards the monster, eyeing it’s substantial carapace and soil tearing talons with alarm. What on earth IS this thing and why did it attack NOW? Dariol summons a flaming sphere in the grass next to the beast and scorches it’s hide. Fareena tosses her torch at the creatures feet and calls forth the familiar pyrotechnic smoke over the downed wagon, concealing the beast momentarily, while Alavarielle curses it with Corellan’s Doom.
The beast lurches out of the smoke, all flailing claws and snapping jaws. Too far away and wobbling on a midstream wagon, Katarn commences a battle song, boosting his companion’s spirits as they make contact. The armour is thick, but several telling blows are landed in quick succession. Drooling uncontrollably and watering mightily from it’s beady eyes, the great creature snaps and bites at these buzzing gnats, ripping through armour and tearing vicious wounds with ease. A shiny multi-legged object clatters out of the grass into the burnt out soil strewn area near Dariol, and thumps the ground loudly. A gem glows at the front of this strange thing; seemingly scanning it’s surroundings Cyclops like. Dariol calls another flame sphere into being and rolls it over the coppery spider, apparently to no effect, and Fareena’s crossbow bolt also skips harmlessly off its armour.
The landshark heaves forward with tremendous force, ripping another oxen open as it fixes it’s jaws in the side of the second wagon. It’s legs lock against the ground and this wagon too is quickly wobbling. The party redouble their efforts and weapons bite deep into the hide. Blood spurts forth but still the creature heaves. As this wagon topples, Dariol draws his scimitar and clouts the shiney construct solidly on top. A large dent rocks the thing on it’s sprung legs and blue fire coruscates up Dariol’s blade. His electricity endurance saves him from injury, and Fareena joins in with her favourite cast iron pan, swinging it wildly like a club.
Clint is sorely hurt now and tumbles out of the fray as Vladimar arrives on horseback. He charges in as Alavarielle too steps back to heal her terrible injuries. The creature seems to regain some awareness, and springs into the air, lashing out with all four feet. Alavarielle is caught badly, as is Vladimar’s horse. The normally consummate rider is instantly unhorsed and laid prone at the Bulette’s feet, but Clint, Troy and Alavarielle re-engage with renewed vigour, and the deluge of frantic blows finally brings the monster crashing to a halt.
The construct seems only capable of self-defence, and Dariol and Fareena pound it to bits in short order, Fareena’s pan apparently breaking some delicate internal working that sends springs and wheels flying into the air. The thing sags and whirres to a stop.
Breathing hard, the party survey the carnage. Oxen lie torn and kicking in the grass, two wagons are turned over, battered and helpless like beached whales. As Katarn’s battle song echoes away across the plains Dariol and Fareena gaze at the shattered machine, then at each other and wonder, who makes THESE?
Plane Sailing
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OK, no more story until the DM writes the next installment.
Regarding my earlier "competition", I have to reveal that the winner is... nobody!
I play Fareena, the red-headed stepchild who was regularly beaten and then sold to an orphanage, and thence as a kitchen drudge. She used to make up little childrens rhyming charms to protect her from the heat of the kitchen cookfires, and as she reached her teenage years they seemed to gain some real efficiency. She also got a real knack for starting fires.
To start with, she refused to tell anyone what "class" she was, maintaining that she was "a cook". Indeed, her primary weapon for melee combat is a heavy iron frying pan (treated as a light mace in this case).
Fareena is currently a Sorcerer 3, and I plan on taking her all the way as a sorcerer given the chance. I also plan to eschew all of the traditional "must have" spells... so she has no magic missile, no mage armour or shield, no invisibility (and she won't be getting fly or haste either!). I'm centering her on spells which involve fire or charm/compulsions.
It's been great fun so far, even though one of the companions dies in the next adventure (in a maximum no-fun way).
p.s. please don't tell anyone from that fiery thread on cross-gender roll playing about this, eh?
Regarding my earlier "competition", I have to reveal that the winner is... nobody!
I play Fareena, the red-headed stepchild who was regularly beaten and then sold to an orphanage, and thence as a kitchen drudge. She used to make up little childrens rhyming charms to protect her from the heat of the kitchen cookfires, and as she reached her teenage years they seemed to gain some real efficiency. She also got a real knack for starting fires.
To start with, she refused to tell anyone what "class" she was, maintaining that she was "a cook". Indeed, her primary weapon for melee combat is a heavy iron frying pan (treated as a light mace in this case).
Fareena is currently a Sorcerer 3, and I plan on taking her all the way as a sorcerer given the chance. I also plan to eschew all of the traditional "must have" spells... so she has no magic missile, no mage armour or shield, no invisibility (and she won't be getting fly or haste either!). I'm centering her on spells which involve fire or charm/compulsions.
It's been great fun so far, even though one of the companions dies in the next adventure (in a maximum no-fun way).
p.s. please don't tell anyone from that fiery thread on cross-gender roll playing about this, eh?
Plane Sailing
Astral Admin - Mwahahaha!
The party gazes down at the wreck of the construct in amazement. Even in its bashed-in condition it is still a thing of beauty and strangeness. A large crystal at the front slowly dims as the magical power that gave it life rapidly ebbs away. Vladimar stares at the wreckage of the two wagons knocked over like toys by the incredible strength of the landshark. Shaking his head in despair he strolls over to the small circle of musing adventurers. ‘What then do we have here’ he demands, pushing into the group. Carefully the party turn the object over, striving to find a way in. After a few minutes Troy stabs with a fine elven finger, pointing out a barely visible indentation.
Careful manipulation with fine tools of questionable functionality soon have the object open, the torn carapace lying to one side in the scorched grass. Close examination of the inner workings of the machine reveal little beyond incomprehensible complexity, although a large gem in the centre is soon extracted as a potential device for incorporation into some future project. However, the inside of the carapace shows a fine tracery of strange script which after some study is translated as gnomish for ‘here is the fine work of his eminent artisanship Grobble-nar of Gorovia’. Aha, a gnomish invention from nearby Gorovia.
Vladimar nods, knowingly, speculating that his arch-enemies in trade, the League of Gor may be behind this. The League are a powerful association of merchant nobles from the divided city of Gorovia, reputedly led by the Duke of Gorovia himself. The League has a virtual monopoly on products crafted from ore torn from the open cast mine that eats into the Black mountain looming over the city. One entire ward of the city is given over to a gnomish population, established in the city from it’s earliest history. These gnomes are tricksy, wily folk, much given to the crafting of strange devices and machines using ancient knowledge brought from places in the deep too long ago to remember. Human mining and gnomish crafting is a grievous insult to the Dwarves of the Black mountain. As a result, they refuse to treat with the people of the city, or anyone who deals with them. Vladimar and his mercantile allies see Dwarvish goods as a valuable generator of revenue, leading naturally to association with Bisigrad where the human relation with Dwarves is altogether much better. This closes his group to trade with Gorovoia and makes the powerful League of Gor an inevitable foe. The League is known to sharpen its competitive edge with direct action against trading opposition from time-to-time, using the services of a shadowy organisation known only as ‘the chain’. This group is based in the begrimed southern part of the city called Gorovia Bas, within which sit the gnomish workshops. Perhaps a team of Chain members using gnomish inventions is trying to destroy them?
As they contemplate this information, it dawns on them that this object may well have been controlled from nearby and Dariol sends Sharpeye aloft to spy out possible miscreants. His search reveals little beyond the obvious trail though the grass left by the construct as it led the innocent landshark into unwitting confrontation. Resolving to chase down the source of the machine immediately, the party wave goodbye to Vladimar who remains to manage the clean-up operation as they head into the setting sun.
Maintaining an intense pace the party trots through the descending gloom, following the infallible nose of Dariol’s wolf. The jingling of horse-harness and armour becomes hypnotic as they press on through the endless plain and pale moonlight turns the grass into a waving sea of grey stalks. In loose line-ahead the party, still led by the implacable wolf blunders straight into a circle of trodden grass with horses looming in the shadows, an unexpected camp. Crossbow bolts thud into the party from left and right as a landshark thunders out of the ground in the centre of the camp, fountaining a great gout of soil into the air...
Careful manipulation with fine tools of questionable functionality soon have the object open, the torn carapace lying to one side in the scorched grass. Close examination of the inner workings of the machine reveal little beyond incomprehensible complexity, although a large gem in the centre is soon extracted as a potential device for incorporation into some future project. However, the inside of the carapace shows a fine tracery of strange script which after some study is translated as gnomish for ‘here is the fine work of his eminent artisanship Grobble-nar of Gorovia’. Aha, a gnomish invention from nearby Gorovia.
Vladimar nods, knowingly, speculating that his arch-enemies in trade, the League of Gor may be behind this. The League are a powerful association of merchant nobles from the divided city of Gorovia, reputedly led by the Duke of Gorovia himself. The League has a virtual monopoly on products crafted from ore torn from the open cast mine that eats into the Black mountain looming over the city. One entire ward of the city is given over to a gnomish population, established in the city from it’s earliest history. These gnomes are tricksy, wily folk, much given to the crafting of strange devices and machines using ancient knowledge brought from places in the deep too long ago to remember. Human mining and gnomish crafting is a grievous insult to the Dwarves of the Black mountain. As a result, they refuse to treat with the people of the city, or anyone who deals with them. Vladimar and his mercantile allies see Dwarvish goods as a valuable generator of revenue, leading naturally to association with Bisigrad where the human relation with Dwarves is altogether much better. This closes his group to trade with Gorovoia and makes the powerful League of Gor an inevitable foe. The League is known to sharpen its competitive edge with direct action against trading opposition from time-to-time, using the services of a shadowy organisation known only as ‘the chain’. This group is based in the begrimed southern part of the city called Gorovia Bas, within which sit the gnomish workshops. Perhaps a team of Chain members using gnomish inventions is trying to destroy them?
As they contemplate this information, it dawns on them that this object may well have been controlled from nearby and Dariol sends Sharpeye aloft to spy out possible miscreants. His search reveals little beyond the obvious trail though the grass left by the construct as it led the innocent landshark into unwitting confrontation. Resolving to chase down the source of the machine immediately, the party wave goodbye to Vladimar who remains to manage the clean-up operation as they head into the setting sun.
Maintaining an intense pace the party trots through the descending gloom, following the infallible nose of Dariol’s wolf. The jingling of horse-harness and armour becomes hypnotic as they press on through the endless plain and pale moonlight turns the grass into a waving sea of grey stalks. In loose line-ahead the party, still led by the implacable wolf blunders straight into a circle of trodden grass with horses looming in the shadows, an unexpected camp. Crossbow bolts thud into the party from left and right as a landshark thunders out of the ground in the centre of the camp, fountaining a great gout of soil into the air...
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Fang is terrified out of his wits and flees the camp in an instant. Everyone struggles to dismount and engage unseen foes in the grass, except Alavarielle who reverses course and retreats as fast as possible to the rear, a crossbow bolt projecting from her shoulder. Dariol gabbles off an entangle spell as Drucilla takes on a foe charging from the left with sword in hand. Troy is charged from the right and tangles with his foe long enough to give Clint a chance to slam a sword viciously into the fellow’s back wounding him severely.
The Bulette heaves forward into Dariol’s horse, biting it near in half as other mounts, friends and foes alike scatter in all directions. Drucilla notes a gnome-sized mount amongst the enemies horses and knowing their predilections is convinced that the creature is an illusion, but who’s going to take that risk? Fareena ignites the grass around her for protection with burning hands, standing in a sea of flame of her own making. Drucilla’s foe is quickly paralysed by a Ghoul touch spell. Troy stares past his badly wounded opponent in horror as Clint suddenly screams, clutching at his face, arches his back violently and crashes backwards into the grass with cold staring eyes. The foe uses the moment to sink a potion that visibly seals his terrible injuries. As Drucilla and Fareena move to finish off their foe, another previously concealed enemy springs from the grass to sink a dagger viciously into Dariol who sags bleeding to the ground. The party is reeling in shock, suddenly only three standing, two of whom are weak spellcasters!
Fareena trusts to her magic and wraps the new opponent in flame with a Burning hands spell, as Troy faces his rejuvenated foe, barely scratching him with his rapier. Drucilla circles the paralysed soldier keeping a wary eye on the mysterious knife man who seems determined to kill Fareena but is kept back by the flames while keeping Drucilla in knife range. Fareena takes a chance and ducks past the knifeman to treat Dariol with her healing potion which saves his life. Dariol groans back to action from the effects of healing magic, realising that the bulette in fact IS an illusion as an arrow plunges from the sky into the ground through the creature. He rolls to his feet as the steppe wind fans Fareena’s conflagration in his direction. Fareena takes the opportunity to blast the flames into a full pyrotechnic magical effect, blinding the knifeman momentarily.
Troy fences the soldier, standing protectively over Clint’s upsettingly still and supine body. The bulette finally disappears as the illusionist levitated in the distant grass struggles with the entangling stems that hold him in place. Dariol moves towards Troy’s enemy but is wary due to his weak condition. Alavarielle cannot see that her speculative arrow has resulted in the disappearance of the illusion as conflicting flame and magical light dances in the distance. She can see Troy struggling off to her right and targets his foe as the best option. Troy is taking progressive chunks from his opponent who refuses to go down despite multiple wounds. Drucilla strikes at the knifeman, using the ghoul touched foe as cover but is stabbed back with uncanny accuracy in the swirling chaos.
It seems that Fareena’s pyrotechnics has not been as effective as normal as the knifeman dodges nimbly around the ghoul touched foe after Drucilla. Fareena’s voice croons across the space as flames crackle at her feet, enticing him to ‘join us’, a charm spell backing up the idea. Amazingly the fellow appears momentarily confused, perhaps the charm has worked despite the adverse circumstances? Fareena continues talking, to maintain his attention.
Drucilla finally slashes the throat of the ghoul touch victim moments before the magic wears off, and the knifeman stabs out at her in rage, still apparently struggling with inner conflicts. Fareena flames him anyway and he collapses in burning agony. Alavarielle is still not getting the range, although she is shooting from over 200 feet away so this is no surprise. Troy spikes through the soldier’s armour, again not enough to floor him, and the fellow decides that discretion is the better part of valour now the boss is down. Arrows plummet round him ineffectually as he flees into the night.
The trapped illusionist appears not to have been able to target any more spells in the whirling confusion, but surrounds himself in mist to confound the searching party. Troy bends in cold anticipation to confirm that Clint is dead. Angered by this loss the party frantically grope their way into the mist until Fareena’s flaming fingers burn the vapour off in a flash. A shape freed at last from its entangling bonds collapses to the ground smouldering but still unseen due to invisibility magic. Close by, a small domed brass object on four spindly legs spins aggressively with lethal blades projecting from every edge. Another construct! It scoots towards the party who stand mesmerisied until the blades sink into flesh and bone with startling ease. Dariol collapses once more as the party pound the object with various weapons. The carapace takes some nasty dents but the blades spin redly on. Troy resolves to turn the thing over and use his new-found knowledge of constructs to turn it off, taking a terrible wound to his arms for his efforts. Finally however he succeeds, and the guts of the machine are soon exposed. The gem is wrenched rudely from its mountings and terminates the machine’s mission. Somewhat sheepishly Fang trots back into the camp to rub his head against Dariol’s forgiving hand.
The enemy’s goods are soon distributed among the party who having recovered their mounts set off disconsolately for the distant caravan with Clint’s body slung over a saddlebow.
The Bulette heaves forward into Dariol’s horse, biting it near in half as other mounts, friends and foes alike scatter in all directions. Drucilla notes a gnome-sized mount amongst the enemies horses and knowing their predilections is convinced that the creature is an illusion, but who’s going to take that risk? Fareena ignites the grass around her for protection with burning hands, standing in a sea of flame of her own making. Drucilla’s foe is quickly paralysed by a Ghoul touch spell. Troy stares past his badly wounded opponent in horror as Clint suddenly screams, clutching at his face, arches his back violently and crashes backwards into the grass with cold staring eyes. The foe uses the moment to sink a potion that visibly seals his terrible injuries. As Drucilla and Fareena move to finish off their foe, another previously concealed enemy springs from the grass to sink a dagger viciously into Dariol who sags bleeding to the ground. The party is reeling in shock, suddenly only three standing, two of whom are weak spellcasters!
Fareena trusts to her magic and wraps the new opponent in flame with a Burning hands spell, as Troy faces his rejuvenated foe, barely scratching him with his rapier. Drucilla circles the paralysed soldier keeping a wary eye on the mysterious knife man who seems determined to kill Fareena but is kept back by the flames while keeping Drucilla in knife range. Fareena takes a chance and ducks past the knifeman to treat Dariol with her healing potion which saves his life. Dariol groans back to action from the effects of healing magic, realising that the bulette in fact IS an illusion as an arrow plunges from the sky into the ground through the creature. He rolls to his feet as the steppe wind fans Fareena’s conflagration in his direction. Fareena takes the opportunity to blast the flames into a full pyrotechnic magical effect, blinding the knifeman momentarily.
Troy fences the soldier, standing protectively over Clint’s upsettingly still and supine body. The bulette finally disappears as the illusionist levitated in the distant grass struggles with the entangling stems that hold him in place. Dariol moves towards Troy’s enemy but is wary due to his weak condition. Alavarielle cannot see that her speculative arrow has resulted in the disappearance of the illusion as conflicting flame and magical light dances in the distance. She can see Troy struggling off to her right and targets his foe as the best option. Troy is taking progressive chunks from his opponent who refuses to go down despite multiple wounds. Drucilla strikes at the knifeman, using the ghoul touched foe as cover but is stabbed back with uncanny accuracy in the swirling chaos.
It seems that Fareena’s pyrotechnics has not been as effective as normal as the knifeman dodges nimbly around the ghoul touched foe after Drucilla. Fareena’s voice croons across the space as flames crackle at her feet, enticing him to ‘join us’, a charm spell backing up the idea. Amazingly the fellow appears momentarily confused, perhaps the charm has worked despite the adverse circumstances? Fareena continues talking, to maintain his attention.
Drucilla finally slashes the throat of the ghoul touch victim moments before the magic wears off, and the knifeman stabs out at her in rage, still apparently struggling with inner conflicts. Fareena flames him anyway and he collapses in burning agony. Alavarielle is still not getting the range, although she is shooting from over 200 feet away so this is no surprise. Troy spikes through the soldier’s armour, again not enough to floor him, and the fellow decides that discretion is the better part of valour now the boss is down. Arrows plummet round him ineffectually as he flees into the night.
The trapped illusionist appears not to have been able to target any more spells in the whirling confusion, but surrounds himself in mist to confound the searching party. Troy bends in cold anticipation to confirm that Clint is dead. Angered by this loss the party frantically grope their way into the mist until Fareena’s flaming fingers burn the vapour off in a flash. A shape freed at last from its entangling bonds collapses to the ground smouldering but still unseen due to invisibility magic. Close by, a small domed brass object on four spindly legs spins aggressively with lethal blades projecting from every edge. Another construct! It scoots towards the party who stand mesmerisied until the blades sink into flesh and bone with startling ease. Dariol collapses once more as the party pound the object with various weapons. The carapace takes some nasty dents but the blades spin redly on. Troy resolves to turn the thing over and use his new-found knowledge of constructs to turn it off, taking a terrible wound to his arms for his efforts. Finally however he succeeds, and the guts of the machine are soon exposed. The gem is wrenched rudely from its mountings and terminates the machine’s mission. Somewhat sheepishly Fang trots back into the camp to rub his head against Dariol’s forgiving hand.
The enemy’s goods are soon distributed among the party who having recovered their mounts set off disconsolately for the distant caravan with Clint’s body slung over a saddlebow.
Plane Sailing
Astral Admin - Mwahahaha!
How grotty is that, eh? Poor old Clint, wiped out in a single round by a fourth level 2-saves-or-die spell. Not what 3rd/4th level characters like to face!
Plane Sailing
Astral Admin - Mwahahaha!
Pre-dawn sees the group gathered in discussion of what to do about Clint. Was he a religious man? No-one seems to know. Mischa resolves to find out, and passing behind the screen that protects the corpse’s dignity from prying eyes, lays a hand upon Clint’s chest. His message reaches across the endless planes to the left hand of Death where Clint’s unbound soul awaits judgement. In a brief and unsettling conversation with the unquiet soul Mischa determines that Clint feels his purpose in life unfulfilled. He does not accept this fate and would prefer to walk the earth again. He knows that to do so he must bind his soul to Mischa’s God, Fharlanghn, and that he can only return if others are prepared to sacrifice a small part of their souls to appease Death. This deity of the distant horizon appeals to Clint’s sense of fate, and perhaps that trickery domain is strangely compelling too.
In the watery light of a distant rising sun a disparate group gathers round Clint’s corpse. The Corellonites have abstained from this show on principle and look on from a distance. Beyoncay, Vladimar, Mischa, Drucilla, Dariol, and Fareena stand in a circle, left hand resting on the shoulder of the next in the circle, right hand on Clint’s body. Mischa intones a disturbing dirge that sends a chill down the spine, and an unseen cloud passes briefly across the rim of the rising sun. A moment of inner pain and light shocks the company momentarily, leaving each of them feeling slightly empty, and Clint’s body heaves a breath. He is with them again, diminished but not defeated, bound now yet free once more. He gazes at each of his companions in turn, nods to Mischa and turns away to inner contemplation. They leave him to his thoughts.
While Clint sleeps to regain the strength lost on the long journey from death’s domain, the caravan rumbles on. Three days pass uneventfully, (other than a few mad midnight ravings from poor Old Stefan) until contact is made with a great column of beasts led by Dirkan-Var. Dirkan is another of Vladimar’s cohorts, this time out of Bisigrad, who tells of a journey plagued by strife. A spy in their group has slaughtered a number of beasts with a plague of some kind. He was discovered and chased, but managed to swallow poison before they could question him. Dirkan is a dour individual but clearly rugged and capable. His Barbarian origins are less clear from his garb which is clearly Gorovadian in style, than from his mannerisms and accent that are entirely steppe like the hardy pony he rides.
The caravan is now enormous, stretching nearly half a mile in length across the plain and comprising near two hundred beasts, ten great wagons, and over a hundred people. Groups of riders are now needed in all directions and Vladimar sends his best to the fore in the shape of the party members. As the sun rises to its apogee on Korday of Foreweek in the last stretch of Low Spring, a cloud of dust can be seen directly in the caravan’s path. The party spurs forward to investigate, Sharpeye circling high above. The keen eyed hawk reports a number of ‘daylight two legs’, some riding ‘four legs’, and in battle with ‘hard shells’. Finally through the dust the party can see a surging swirling melee to their front, two Pechenki horsemen have lassoed an angry Ankheg, but cannot pull it from its feet. Why they’d want to capture rather than kill an Ankheg is a mystery! The spitting creature is lunging at a single unhorsed figure on the ground who flips to his feet in an instant, a scimitar springing into its hand as if by magic. This fellow’s practised swings bite hard through the creature’s carapace, flying ichor visible to the onlookers even at distance. Interesting enough, and a fair fight perhaps, until the ground erupts behind the lone figure and a swarm of Ankhegs engulf him in a cloud of dust.
What should they do?
In the watery light of a distant rising sun a disparate group gathers round Clint’s corpse. The Corellonites have abstained from this show on principle and look on from a distance. Beyoncay, Vladimar, Mischa, Drucilla, Dariol, and Fareena stand in a circle, left hand resting on the shoulder of the next in the circle, right hand on Clint’s body. Mischa intones a disturbing dirge that sends a chill down the spine, and an unseen cloud passes briefly across the rim of the rising sun. A moment of inner pain and light shocks the company momentarily, leaving each of them feeling slightly empty, and Clint’s body heaves a breath. He is with them again, diminished but not defeated, bound now yet free once more. He gazes at each of his companions in turn, nods to Mischa and turns away to inner contemplation. They leave him to his thoughts.
While Clint sleeps to regain the strength lost on the long journey from death’s domain, the caravan rumbles on. Three days pass uneventfully, (other than a few mad midnight ravings from poor Old Stefan) until contact is made with a great column of beasts led by Dirkan-Var. Dirkan is another of Vladimar’s cohorts, this time out of Bisigrad, who tells of a journey plagued by strife. A spy in their group has slaughtered a number of beasts with a plague of some kind. He was discovered and chased, but managed to swallow poison before they could question him. Dirkan is a dour individual but clearly rugged and capable. His Barbarian origins are less clear from his garb which is clearly Gorovadian in style, than from his mannerisms and accent that are entirely steppe like the hardy pony he rides.
The caravan is now enormous, stretching nearly half a mile in length across the plain and comprising near two hundred beasts, ten great wagons, and over a hundred people. Groups of riders are now needed in all directions and Vladimar sends his best to the fore in the shape of the party members. As the sun rises to its apogee on Korday of Foreweek in the last stretch of Low Spring, a cloud of dust can be seen directly in the caravan’s path. The party spurs forward to investigate, Sharpeye circling high above. The keen eyed hawk reports a number of ‘daylight two legs’, some riding ‘four legs’, and in battle with ‘hard shells’. Finally through the dust the party can see a surging swirling melee to their front, two Pechenki horsemen have lassoed an angry Ankheg, but cannot pull it from its feet. Why they’d want to capture rather than kill an Ankheg is a mystery! The spitting creature is lunging at a single unhorsed figure on the ground who flips to his feet in an instant, a scimitar springing into its hand as if by magic. This fellow’s practised swings bite hard through the creature’s carapace, flying ichor visible to the onlookers even at distance. Interesting enough, and a fair fight perhaps, until the ground erupts behind the lone figure and a swarm of Ankhegs engulf him in a cloud of dust.
What should they do?
