thatdarncat
Overlord of Chat
hmmmm
mysterious cloaked figure
any guesses who this is?
mysterious cloaked figure
any guesses who this is?
-
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The Liberation of Tenh (updated April 24)
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Ancalagon
Dusty Dragon
I am fully comfident in Trommel's ability to lead a hundred battle-hardened verterants in battle against 10 blind kobolds, and suffer less than 60% casualty*. Give the lad some credit!
*In no way shape or form do I predict less than 50% casualty, no matter the opponent
Ancalagon
*In no way shape or form do I predict less than 50% casualty, no matter the opponent
Ancalagon
Squire James
First Post
What They Say to the King: "Prince Thrommel led a force of 100 men into battle, and defeated the enemy with only 6 casualties!"
Thr Truth: "The Prince died 6 times in one battle, and all the enemies fell down laughing. The 100 men killed them as they lay helpless in mirth."
Thr Truth: "The Prince died 6 times in one battle, and all the enemies fell down laughing. The 100 men killed them as they lay helpless in mirth."
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Explorer
Schmoe said:
The first thing I would do is to make sure that I have an understanding of the basic politics of the world around the PCs. Deific, temporal, what have you. I don't feel like I've ever "locked down" a particular dynamic or relationship untill the PCs actually play through that element-- I allow things to change over time.
(Belvor, for example, was nowhere near this grandfatherly when I first envisioned him, but the PCs really responded to that aspect of his character, so I played it up.)
The second thing is to tie the PCs goals into political happenings. In the case of the LoT, this is pretty easy to do, because my players wanted to nation-build. But politics could (and does) happen at the level of the Wizard's guild, prestige class organization, or even innkeeper's family!
Third, remember that even if the characters ignore them, the political tides in your world have consequences. Things change when the new king comes into power, and your job is to project that change in a believable way, and figure out how it filters down to the PCs.
Piratecat's SH is also an excellent example of politics in the game world, and you really can't go wrong with Sepulcrave's story hour at any level, political being one of them. Also keep your eye out for Barastrondo's SH-- he crafts an extremely consistent game-world which is another must for a political campaign.
In the case of the LoT, I use the Greyhawk world, so my players already have a good idea of the basic political landscape (Nyrond is broke, Duke Eyeh converted to the worship of Pholtus, etc). I personally think that this is one of the best reasons to use a pre-gen world, as it can be difficult to get the players up to speed with 'character knowledge' in a homebrew.
I hope that helps!
(contact)
Explorer
43: A Noble Exchange, continued.
Heydricus stands in the main hall at Cur’ruth, his hands on his hips. “So maybe we just kill the halfling.” Dabus nods sagely.
“You are so impetuous,” Prisantha says. “And you can both stop looking at me like that, it’s not my fault the boy was killed.”
“You’re the one who teleported an assassin into the midst of Nyronesse Nobles!” Heydricus exclaims.
“Yes, yes, we’ve been over that. Everyone makes mistakes.” Pris frowns at Heydricus. “What I want to know is what is wrong with his family? Why not raise the boy?”
Dabus examines a plate of left-over pastries, and grimaces. “To call someone back from the dead, you need the body to lure the soul.”
Prisantha shakes her head, “No, no—a corpse could be raised without a body.”
“Yes, in theory. But the spells required are extremely powerful, and very few clerics even possess them, nonetheless cast them for the whim of Nyrondeese Nobility.”
“Or for cash,” Heydricus says.
“Well, and what of that?” Pris asks. “There is always someone willing to cast a spell if the price is right. Who are these Talnith, do they have money? Have they fallen on hard times?”
Heydricus laughs, “Everyone in Nyrond has fallen on hard times. The nation was bankrupted fighting the Pale, the Great Kindgom and the armies of Iuz. There are rumors that the throne is unstable.”
“Which is why they sent Eyeh packing,” Dabus says.
“Feh,” Heydricus scoffs. “Eyeh scurried under the skirts of his masters at Wintershiven once the well proved dry in Nyrond. He converted to Pholtus to drum up support for his campaign.”
“They could say the same about you, Heydricus,” Pris says.
Dabus intercedes. “No, no, the Liberator is a chosen position. Tritherion must call a Holy Liberator to service. There are many of the faithful, like myself or young Anon, who spend their whole lives praying for this honor in vain. Make no mistake, Heydricus was called.” Dabus looks at his master. “And that is why I will follow him blindly.”
Heydricus smiles and places a hand on Dabus’ shoulder. “Your fanaticism is a warm comfort during trying times like these, my friend. We are glad to have you with us.” Heydricus releases his cohort, and clasps his hands behind his back. “But the choice remains, do we go to the Lord and just demand the boy’s corpse, or do we go around the Lord, and retrieve it ourselves? When the Lord was euphemizing the massacre, did we ask him what he did with the bodies?”
“Of course not,” Prisantha says, “It would not have been polite.”
“We’re considering killing him, but we balk at offending his sensibilities?” Heydricus asks. “Look, he’s a squirmy little fella, but it would take all of three strikes, and all that would be left is a pair of booted stumps. No, no, he’s terrified of us, and well he should be.”
“Oh, that’s fantastic diplomacy, Heydricus. Is that your ‘Three strikes, two stumps’ doctrine?”
Prisantha and Heydricus stare at one another. Dabus speaks up, “Really, you two. You sound like Jespo and his cat, the way you carry on.”
“We do?” Heydricus asks. “I sound like Jespo?”
“No, you’re more like the cat. I can commune with Tritherion, and perhaps our Lord of Freedom will shed some light on our dilemma.”
-----
As Dabus prepares himself for the draining trance that must precede a commune, Heydricus and Prisantha seek out Jespo Crim. They walk together across the grand hall that once was the room where Suel and Martak built their gargantuan zombie-golems, so inured to the ever present chill in the place that they no longer notice it.
“You know, I have my doubts about Thrommel's capacities,” Prisantha says.
“As do I,” Heydricus says. “But he is the Crown Prince." Heydricus pauses, lost for a moment in thought. "You know Pris, we really need more people with access to resurrection magic. Thrommel could get killed sacking a preschool.”
Heydricus stands in the main hall at Cur’ruth, his hands on his hips. “So maybe we just kill the halfling.” Dabus nods sagely.
“You are so impetuous,” Prisantha says. “And you can both stop looking at me like that, it’s not my fault the boy was killed.”
“You’re the one who teleported an assassin into the midst of Nyronesse Nobles!” Heydricus exclaims.
“Yes, yes, we’ve been over that. Everyone makes mistakes.” Pris frowns at Heydricus. “What I want to know is what is wrong with his family? Why not raise the boy?”
Dabus examines a plate of left-over pastries, and grimaces. “To call someone back from the dead, you need the body to lure the soul.”
Prisantha shakes her head, “No, no—a corpse could be raised without a body.”
“Yes, in theory. But the spells required are extremely powerful, and very few clerics even possess them, nonetheless cast them for the whim of Nyrondeese Nobility.”
“Or for cash,” Heydricus says.
“Well, and what of that?” Pris asks. “There is always someone willing to cast a spell if the price is right. Who are these Talnith, do they have money? Have they fallen on hard times?”
Heydricus laughs, “Everyone in Nyrond has fallen on hard times. The nation was bankrupted fighting the Pale, the Great Kindgom and the armies of Iuz. There are rumors that the throne is unstable.”
“Which is why they sent Eyeh packing,” Dabus says.
“Feh,” Heydricus scoffs. “Eyeh scurried under the skirts of his masters at Wintershiven once the well proved dry in Nyrond. He converted to Pholtus to drum up support for his campaign.”
“They could say the same about you, Heydricus,” Pris says.
Dabus intercedes. “No, no, the Liberator is a chosen position. Tritherion must call a Holy Liberator to service. There are many of the faithful, like myself or young Anon, who spend their whole lives praying for this honor in vain. Make no mistake, Heydricus was called.” Dabus looks at his master. “And that is why I will follow him blindly.”
Heydricus smiles and places a hand on Dabus’ shoulder. “Your fanaticism is a warm comfort during trying times like these, my friend. We are glad to have you with us.” Heydricus releases his cohort, and clasps his hands behind his back. “But the choice remains, do we go to the Lord and just demand the boy’s corpse, or do we go around the Lord, and retrieve it ourselves? When the Lord was euphemizing the massacre, did we ask him what he did with the bodies?”
“Of course not,” Prisantha says, “It would not have been polite.”
“We’re considering killing him, but we balk at offending his sensibilities?” Heydricus asks. “Look, he’s a squirmy little fella, but it would take all of three strikes, and all that would be left is a pair of booted stumps. No, no, he’s terrified of us, and well he should be.”
“Oh, that’s fantastic diplomacy, Heydricus. Is that your ‘Three strikes, two stumps’ doctrine?”
Prisantha and Heydricus stare at one another. Dabus speaks up, “Really, you two. You sound like Jespo and his cat, the way you carry on.”
“We do?” Heydricus asks. “I sound like Jespo?”
“No, you’re more like the cat. I can commune with Tritherion, and perhaps our Lord of Freedom will shed some light on our dilemma.”
-----
As Dabus prepares himself for the draining trance that must precede a commune, Heydricus and Prisantha seek out Jespo Crim. They walk together across the grand hall that once was the room where Suel and Martak built their gargantuan zombie-golems, so inured to the ever present chill in the place that they no longer notice it.
“You know, I have my doubts about Thrommel's capacities,” Prisantha says.
“As do I,” Heydricus says. “But he is the Crown Prince." Heydricus pauses, lost for a moment in thought. "You know Pris, we really need more people with access to resurrection magic. Thrommel could get killed sacking a preschool.”
(contact)
Explorer
44: Thank Pelor for the charitable.
Wealsun 14, CY 593
44: Cry ‘scry’ and let loose the devil-wolves of war.
Heydricus and Prisantha find Jespo in his room under the stairs, trying to study with pieces of cloth stuffed into his ears. Fräs bounds off the thin-sheeted cot and wraps herself around Prisantha's leg, purring loudly.
“Crim! Good news!” Heydricus says. “Thrommel’s been called up.”
“What? To the Liberators?” Jespo says hopefully as he removes the cloth from his ears.
“No, no—better than that. We’re giving him a command. Effective immediately, he’s to take a contingent of men and canvas the Tenha communities to the South and West of here, give them word about our presence, and start recruiting for the Tenha Liberation Army.”
“You jest.”
“No, no, by Belvor’s request. Thrommel needs a command, Jespo.”
“Yes, but must he have such a piddling one? I am offended, Heydricus. Offended. This endeavor is a waste of my talent!” Jespo says. “Give us a target for the love of Pelor, or something worthwhile, not passing out recruitment tracts to emaciated peasants.”
“He’s perfect for the job, Jespo. He’s handsome.”
“He is handsome,” Pris says.
“And more importantly, it’s safe,” Heydricus continues. “Belvor requested it personally. It is what must be.”
Prisantha and Heydricus leave Jespo to pout alone, and return to Dabus. The tall cleric is muttering to himself, lost in communion with his god. After his spell concludes, there is a passage of silence, then Dabus begins to speak. “Yes. No. Yes. Maybe. He is. Yes. No. Thank you, sir. Yes. Yes.”
Dabus emerges from his trance, a look of shock on his face. “Tritherion,” he says to Heydricus. “He asked about you.”
“Really?” Heydricus says, blushing.
“He asked about all of us. He sounded concerned.”
-----
Dabus lays out what he learned from his commune. The boy is not retrievable by resurrection. Not because he is evil, undead or unwilling to return—his soul is trapped. The Lord of Stoink has not personally trapped his soul, but the boy’s soul is trapped by some creature. The creature is known to the Lord, but not in his employ. The Lord is aware that the boy’s soul is trapped. The creature in question has no political status in Stoink, but is presently in Stoink, and intends to use the boy’s soul for some evil purpose. The Lord sold the boy’s soul, along with all the souls of the victims. In fact, it was the Lord’s intention that all the witnesses be killed.
“That’s it,” Heydricus says, “this guy’s got to go.”
“One other thing,” Dabus says, “the Lord suspects treachery from us.”
“We should just make the Lord tell us where this creature is,” Prisantha says. “I can make him talk.”
“No,” Heydricus says, “threatening him will just backfire on us. I say we find this creature, and kill it.”
Dabus prepares himself to divine Tritherion’s take on the group’s planned action, and Heydricus turns to Prisantha.
“You really think Thrommel’s that good looking?” he whispers.
“He has a certain boyish charm,” she replies. “Plus, he also has other non-boyish qualities.”
Before Heydricus can respond, Dabus says, “Great Tritherion, if we confront the Lord of Stoink, and force him to reveal the creature that has taken the soul of the young Talnith, what say you?”
Then, in a whispering voice, he says, “You may travel through a field of weeds to pluck a single weed from the center.”
“And if we track the creature through magical means?”
“That which you leap over can be more easily trampled.”
“Okay, we kill the creature, then we deal with the Lord,” Heydricus says.
“That’s the best answer we can get?” Prisantha says. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“We kill the creature, then we deal with the Lord,” Heydricus says.
“If you think you can do better,” Dabus says, “use your own divinations.”
“I think I will,” Prisantha snaps, removing her crystal ball from its pouch.
-----
Heydricus takes Dabus aside. “Do you think Thrommel has a boyish charm?”
“I’ve never understood ‘boyish’,” Dabus says. “He is a man. In fact, he is older than any of us, even if he has spent much of his life in temporal stasis.”
“Yeah. What about that drow ranger, Elenthal? Don’t you think he’s kind of creepy?”
“Be at ease, sir. I have spoken with Tritherion about him. He is loyal as anyone here, save myself.”
-----
Thus comforted, Heydricus gathers Elijah, C’min and Elenthal together. “I have a mission for you,” he says. “You three are to travel to Nevond Nevnend, and bring our enemies there down.”
“What!” C’min says. “Three of us?”
“We can do it.” Elijah says.
“It’s impossible!” C’min says. “An orcish army surrounds the place!”
“Don’t listen to her, Heydricus,” Elijah says. “We can do it, we will do it. It’s as good as done.”
“What do you think, Elenthal?” Heydricus asks.
“I think I will run away from any fight that cannot be won, but I will not run from any fight.”
“Hm. Okay.” Heydricus rubs his chin, as he regards the drow ranger. “Tell me—what do you think about Tritherion? Have you given any thought to converting?”
“The gods do not interest me,” Elenthal says. “But you can tell Tritherion this; the next giant I fight, if I kill it in one blow, I will take that as a sign that I am to convert.”
-----
“He’s creepy,” Heydricus tells Dabus as they leave the newly appointed guerilla strike team. “Definitely creepy.”
“Tritherion approves of him nonetheless,” Dabus says.
They track down Thrommel, and tell him the news.
“We saw your father today, Thrommel,” Heydricus says through a winning smile. “You’re to have a command with us,” Heydricus says.
“At last!” Thrommel crows. “Good news!”
“You are to travel to the South and West, and spread the word about our presence.”
“It shall be done with vigor and zeal!” Thrommel exclaims. “I will take one hundred of your best men, and set out immediately.”
Heydricus represses a smile. “You must leave me some of the good ones, Thrommel. I need men here to stand guard over our operations.”
“How about I leave you Crim? He’s a great wizard—why, if anyone attacks us, he’ll fireball them!”
Heydricus demurs, “That would hurt Jespo’s feelings, Thrommel. You know how fond he is of you.”
“This is war, Heydricus! Men bleed, and men die! Feelings are hurt! We suck it up and do our duty.”
“Still, I need good men here. Take Crim, and listen to him.”
“Very well,” Thrommel grumbles. “But I’m taking Urin. I’ll need a solid adjunct to coordinate logistics. And if we do well for ourselves to the West, we’ll press on and take Nevond Nevnend for you!” Thrommel laughs, his good humor returning at the prospect.
“You would retake the capitol?” Dabus asks.
“For my good friend Heydricus? Of course!” Thrommel clasps Heydricus’ shoulder. “Someday we will sit in your chambers there and talk man to man, and King to King. I have seen it, Heydricus. I have seen it . . .”
-----
Heydricus pulls Elijah aside. “When you destroy the defenses at Nevond Nevnend,” he begins.
“Yes?”
“Don’t tell anyone of your presence there!”
Elijah looks into his eyes, horrified. “What do you take me for, Heydricus? I thought we understood one another.”
-----
Prisantha stares into her crystal ball, looking for the being in possession of the Talnith heir’s soul. Slowly, a scene becomes visible through the mists:
A run-down and decrepit dining hall becomes visible, a long wooden table and benches forming the centerpiece of the room. A score of threadbare young children sit at the table, gloomily spooning mouthfuls of a bland-looking gruel from crude wooden bowls; human, halfling, half-orcish and even goblinoid children are present, every one of them looking unwell and morose. A gap-toothed old woman, wrinkled and bent, shuffles from child to child, ladling dollops of mush into their bowls and entreating them, “Eat up. Eat up now, dear. You must finish your supper if you are to become well. Eat up now.” Pacing beside the table, his hands clasped sternly behind his back, a Pholtan priest glowers at the children. Behind him, wooden plaques hang on the wall, with short phrases exclaiming the virtues of Obedience burned into them with a childlike script.
“Pholtans? Let’s just kick in the door,” Heydricus says.
“I hate kicking in the door,” Prisantha says. “Hush!”
The goblin children are likewise disguised. But even more incongruously, their true forms are seen to be huge beasts—some hellish cross between a wolf and a human—fifteen feet long from snout to tail, with slavering teeth the size of knives, and cruel, sharpened fingernails at the end of six-fingered hands.
“Eat up my child,” the woman-thing says to one reluctant young tyke. “You are sick, and this will help you grow well.”
The Pholtan fixes the child in his gaze and says, “Boy, what did I tell you about dinner?”
“Yes, sir.” The boy wrinkles his nose and takes a mouthful of the cannibal’s stew.
Wealsun 14, CY 593
44: Cry ‘scry’ and let loose the devil-wolves of war.
Heydricus and Prisantha find Jespo in his room under the stairs, trying to study with pieces of cloth stuffed into his ears. Fräs bounds off the thin-sheeted cot and wraps herself around Prisantha's leg, purring loudly.
“Crim! Good news!” Heydricus says. “Thrommel’s been called up.”
“What? To the Liberators?” Jespo says hopefully as he removes the cloth from his ears.
“No, no—better than that. We’re giving him a command. Effective immediately, he’s to take a contingent of men and canvas the Tenha communities to the South and West of here, give them word about our presence, and start recruiting for the Tenha Liberation Army.”
“You jest.”
“No, no, by Belvor’s request. Thrommel needs a command, Jespo.”
“Yes, but must he have such a piddling one? I am offended, Heydricus. Offended. This endeavor is a waste of my talent!” Jespo says. “Give us a target for the love of Pelor, or something worthwhile, not passing out recruitment tracts to emaciated peasants.”
“He’s perfect for the job, Jespo. He’s handsome.”
“He is handsome,” Pris says.
“And more importantly, it’s safe,” Heydricus continues. “Belvor requested it personally. It is what must be.”
Prisantha and Heydricus leave Jespo to pout alone, and return to Dabus. The tall cleric is muttering to himself, lost in communion with his god. After his spell concludes, there is a passage of silence, then Dabus begins to speak. “Yes. No. Yes. Maybe. He is. Yes. No. Thank you, sir. Yes. Yes.”
Dabus emerges from his trance, a look of shock on his face. “Tritherion,” he says to Heydricus. “He asked about you.”
“Really?” Heydricus says, blushing.
“He asked about all of us. He sounded concerned.”
-----
Dabus lays out what he learned from his commune. The boy is not retrievable by resurrection. Not because he is evil, undead or unwilling to return—his soul is trapped. The Lord of Stoink has not personally trapped his soul, but the boy’s soul is trapped by some creature. The creature is known to the Lord, but not in his employ. The Lord is aware that the boy’s soul is trapped. The creature in question has no political status in Stoink, but is presently in Stoink, and intends to use the boy’s soul for some evil purpose. The Lord sold the boy’s soul, along with all the souls of the victims. In fact, it was the Lord’s intention that all the witnesses be killed.
“That’s it,” Heydricus says, “this guy’s got to go.”
“One other thing,” Dabus says, “the Lord suspects treachery from us.”
“We should just make the Lord tell us where this creature is,” Prisantha says. “I can make him talk.”
“No,” Heydricus says, “threatening him will just backfire on us. I say we find this creature, and kill it.”
Dabus prepares himself to divine Tritherion’s take on the group’s planned action, and Heydricus turns to Prisantha.
“You really think Thrommel’s that good looking?” he whispers.
“He has a certain boyish charm,” she replies. “Plus, he also has other non-boyish qualities.”
Before Heydricus can respond, Dabus says, “Great Tritherion, if we confront the Lord of Stoink, and force him to reveal the creature that has taken the soul of the young Talnith, what say you?”
Then, in a whispering voice, he says, “You may travel through a field of weeds to pluck a single weed from the center.”
“And if we track the creature through magical means?”
“That which you leap over can be more easily trampled.”
“Okay, we kill the creature, then we deal with the Lord,” Heydricus says.
“That’s the best answer we can get?” Prisantha says. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“We kill the creature, then we deal with the Lord,” Heydricus says.
“If you think you can do better,” Dabus says, “use your own divinations.”
“I think I will,” Prisantha snaps, removing her crystal ball from its pouch.
-----
Heydricus takes Dabus aside. “Do you think Thrommel has a boyish charm?”
“I’ve never understood ‘boyish’,” Dabus says. “He is a man. In fact, he is older than any of us, even if he has spent much of his life in temporal stasis.”
“Yeah. What about that drow ranger, Elenthal? Don’t you think he’s kind of creepy?”
“Be at ease, sir. I have spoken with Tritherion about him. He is loyal as anyone here, save myself.”
-----
Thus comforted, Heydricus gathers Elijah, C’min and Elenthal together. “I have a mission for you,” he says. “You three are to travel to Nevond Nevnend, and bring our enemies there down.”
“What!” C’min says. “Three of us?”
“We can do it.” Elijah says.
“It’s impossible!” C’min says. “An orcish army surrounds the place!”
“Don’t listen to her, Heydricus,” Elijah says. “We can do it, we will do it. It’s as good as done.”
“What do you think, Elenthal?” Heydricus asks.
“I think I will run away from any fight that cannot be won, but I will not run from any fight.”
“Hm. Okay.” Heydricus rubs his chin, as he regards the drow ranger. “Tell me—what do you think about Tritherion? Have you given any thought to converting?”
“The gods do not interest me,” Elenthal says. “But you can tell Tritherion this; the next giant I fight, if I kill it in one blow, I will take that as a sign that I am to convert.”
-----
“He’s creepy,” Heydricus tells Dabus as they leave the newly appointed guerilla strike team. “Definitely creepy.”
“Tritherion approves of him nonetheless,” Dabus says.
They track down Thrommel, and tell him the news.
“We saw your father today, Thrommel,” Heydricus says through a winning smile. “You’re to have a command with us,” Heydricus says.
“At last!” Thrommel crows. “Good news!”
“You are to travel to the South and West, and spread the word about our presence.”
“It shall be done with vigor and zeal!” Thrommel exclaims. “I will take one hundred of your best men, and set out immediately.”
Heydricus represses a smile. “You must leave me some of the good ones, Thrommel. I need men here to stand guard over our operations.”
“How about I leave you Crim? He’s a great wizard—why, if anyone attacks us, he’ll fireball them!”
Heydricus demurs, “That would hurt Jespo’s feelings, Thrommel. You know how fond he is of you.”
“This is war, Heydricus! Men bleed, and men die! Feelings are hurt! We suck it up and do our duty.”
“Still, I need good men here. Take Crim, and listen to him.”
“Very well,” Thrommel grumbles. “But I’m taking Urin. I’ll need a solid adjunct to coordinate logistics. And if we do well for ourselves to the West, we’ll press on and take Nevond Nevnend for you!” Thrommel laughs, his good humor returning at the prospect.
“You would retake the capitol?” Dabus asks.
“For my good friend Heydricus? Of course!” Thrommel clasps Heydricus’ shoulder. “Someday we will sit in your chambers there and talk man to man, and King to King. I have seen it, Heydricus. I have seen it . . .”
-----
Heydricus pulls Elijah aside. “When you destroy the defenses at Nevond Nevnend,” he begins.
“Yes?”
“Don’t tell anyone of your presence there!”
Elijah looks into his eyes, horrified. “What do you take me for, Heydricus? I thought we understood one another.”
-----
Prisantha stares into her crystal ball, looking for the being in possession of the Talnith heir’s soul. Slowly, a scene becomes visible through the mists:
A run-down and decrepit dining hall becomes visible, a long wooden table and benches forming the centerpiece of the room. A score of threadbare young children sit at the table, gloomily spooning mouthfuls of a bland-looking gruel from crude wooden bowls; human, halfling, half-orcish and even goblinoid children are present, every one of them looking unwell and morose. A gap-toothed old woman, wrinkled and bent, shuffles from child to child, ladling dollops of mush into their bowls and entreating them, “Eat up. Eat up now, dear. You must finish your supper if you are to become well. Eat up now.” Pacing beside the table, his hands clasped sternly behind his back, a Pholtan priest glowers at the children. Behind him, wooden plaques hang on the wall, with short phrases exclaiming the virtues of Obedience burned into them with a childlike script.
“Pholtans? Let’s just kick in the door,” Heydricus says.
“I hate kicking in the door,” Prisantha says. “Hush!”
- Meta-game note: At this point, Angie says to me, “Does this scene hold up under true seeing?” I say, “I let you create a crystal ball with true seeing?” They assure me that I did. What was I thinking?
The goblin children are likewise disguised. But even more incongruously, their true forms are seen to be huge beasts—some hellish cross between a wolf and a human—fifteen feet long from snout to tail, with slavering teeth the size of knives, and cruel, sharpened fingernails at the end of six-fingered hands.
“Eat up my child,” the woman-thing says to one reluctant young tyke. “You are sick, and this will help you grow well.”
The Pholtan fixes the child in his gaze and says, “Boy, what did I tell you about dinner?”
“Yes, sir.” The boy wrinkles his nose and takes a mouthful of the cannibal’s stew.
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