The Lost Boys vs The Sunless Citadel

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Noliar said:
NoOO! Not Dartamor, not the token sane person!

Who had decided at this point of the game to develop a carefree attitude towards Hit Points, more will be made of this later.


A big @ the Beastie Boys parody. Please tell me one of your players actually came up with that.

Alas no, the players are average age 12, James (Grand Alf) I remember did some funky dancing in the middle of the kitchen, but alas no Beastie Boys, I may have added that myself.

It gets worse of course... before it gets worserer.

Next Turn: Bernard bye-bye.

Meanwhile at the front of the fracas, just before the tree, the Outcast capers and points his twiggy wand towards the lurching looming Bernard the Bugbear Zombie, the grass reaches up and grasps the tottering creature bringing it to a complete stop.

“Oh yes, you would would you, well I didn’t get to where I am today without having to deal with the likes of you, all big and animated- back from the dead, and loving it- a new life, who are you kidding. Nature is the great leveller, primordial in its intelligence, in its effect- a combination of the strongest elements… by the way- catch.”

The Outcast winds up his heckle.

Bernard catches.

It’s a Flaming Sphere.

The Bugbear ignites, face, fur and one hand instantly charred and crisping.


Bernard’s fur burns, skin melts.

“Er. Marthta?”

Bernard tries to turn to look at Saradomin.

“Can I…”

Bernard drops the Flaming Sphere.

Actually that’s not the whole story, Bernard’s one good hand and arm combo burns through, drops to the dirt floor, still clutching the Flaming Sphere.

The Bugbear tries desperately to extricate himself from the clutching, now burning, plants at his feet.

“Marthta? I’m on fire Marthta. Permission to put myself out? Marthta? I’m on fire Marthta…”


Bernard ignites, a flaming Bugbear shaped pillar, bits of him crisp, crunch and slip away, tumble to the dirt floor- charcoal.

“Marthta. I have… failed you. Marthta?”

Bernard collapses. The plants at his feet now thoroughly burnt through. Smoke billows obscuring the Outcast who cackles with joy, for Bernard’s it too late though.

“Marthta I will always remember you. You were a good boss, the hours were good, and you respected me- that’s important for the Undead, Marthta. You made me feel… for the first time… feel… warm inside.”

Bernard implodes, the charcoal husk no longer strong enough to sustain the animus.

“What was that?” Aleso shrieks over the sound of battle.
“I didn’t hear anything.” Saradomin states and swings hard at Sir Bradford.

At that instant Grand Alf charges between the Holy pair, spade in hand- Aleso stumbles forward, brings his scimitar up just in time as Sir Bradford almost connects, Saradomin is sent sprawling, lands face first in the dirt.

The Priest of St. Cuthbert looks up to see the gnarling root-like legs of the last Twig Blight standing over him- the creature reaches down, rakes its ragged claws across the Priest’s face.

Saradomin screams like a little girl, and is almost blinded in the attack- he has plenty to scream about, the Twig Blight’s poisonous sap courses through him, he feels weak, ineffectual…

DMs Interlude- where’s your money- TPK? For the first time ever the lucky dice rolls have totally deserted them, they look like nothing more than an unprepared rag-tag bunch of neophytes who’ve bet the lot on a natural “20”.

Next Turn: Glory, glory Spadeinator.


Turn 8.8: Glory, glory Spadeinator

Grand Alf strikes.


Connects square-on with the side of the Paladin’s head, Sir Bradford is sent skittering back, engulfed in the rolling smoke, the remains of Bernard.

“Nice one. What’s with the smoke? Nice effect.” Aleso states.

Let’s go help Saradomin, the pair turn, then as swiftly turn back to stare, emerging from the swirling mist is Sir Bradford, the first Supplicant’s head is at a very disconcerting angle.

“He should be dead. Shouldn’t he?” Aleso asks.
“Mmm.” Grand Alf half-nods, half-shrugs and settles into a combat crouch, swishing Grand Alf’s Staff of Earth Moving around a bit.

Sir Bradford staggers forward some more.

“You can’t kill me.” Grand Alf states, full of menace, “for I am the chosen one, I am here to save the day, to rid the world from evil like you, there is nothing that you can do, my path is certain- it is written, no- said, no- written; it is written and said, has been said, saided- oh where was I? You may strike me down but I will only grow longer.”

Aleso and Sir Bradford stare at Grand Alf mesmerised momentarily, and latterly confused.

“Did I say longer? I meant stronger, I can only get stronger, if you strike me down- do you see, I will only strongerer, than I am now, if you strike me down.”

Aleso shrugs at Sir Bradford, the tree-plant-man-Paladin shrugs back.

“Can you feel the force?”

Grand Alf goes cross-eyed for a second or two, like he’s quietly farting.

Aleso and Sir Bradford continue to monitor the situation unsure of how to react; Aleso shakes his head to confirm that, indeed, he cannot feel the force. Sir Bradford puts his hand out, as if checking for rain, then shakes his head- the force is not being felt by him either.

“Well I can, it’s heavy, and smells of strawberries- so there. The force is strong within me, I have a badge- it says so, and a Shirt-T, it says, and I quote- ‘The Force is strong within this one’, I got it from a convention.”

Aleso and Sir Bradford nod, convinced of Grand Alf’s sincerity.

“I can lift things, with my mind- and my hands, my mind moves my hands… and vice-versa; that’s the Force, mystical, magical… Mmm… marvellous, and all wobbly round the edges to look at.”

Aleso and Sir Bradford attempt to see the wobbly around the edges Force, they’re disappointed.

“See. I can see the Force. You can’t. It’s as simple as that, only very complex, with equations, fractions and those things with the two little circles- percentages, it involves algorithms, biorhythms, logarithms… Yes, I got rhythms.”

Grand Alf does his crazy robot impression, you know one of those robotic techno style dance moves thingy- he’s… not very good.

Aleso and Sir Bradford exchange confused looks.

It goes quiet for a bit as Grand Alf dances on, the robot eating Magic Smash sandwich routine is followed by robot taking a mechanical poo.

Sir Bradford shakes his head, it kinda thwops around about a bit, his neck is very broken- it has the desired affect, whatever spell is not being cast is broken, he’s back in the room. The ex-Paladin lances his glowing longsword forward and shuffles towards the mad Sorcerer, looking for an opening.

“Wait. You don’t believe me? YOU DON’T BELIEVE ME?”

Grand Alf is apoplectic, “Doubters, unbelievers, heretics, nay-sayers- and I don’t mean horses. I will demonstrate- feel my power.”

Grand Alf drops his staff and puts his hands to his temples- projecting his minds will through his outstretched fingers.

“I am in your mind.”

He gravel-whispers at Sir Bradford, who shakes his floppy head some more.

Aleso watches on eager to believe.

“I am in the dark spaces, in the place that you dare not look- THE SPICE, ahem, ignore that. I am in the underpants of your mind, you cannot resist me, I am irresistible, like chocolate and dead people. Now… GIVVVEE MMMMEEEE YYYYOOOORRRREEE SSSWWWWOOOORRRDDD.”

Grand Alf’s voice is a raspy, smoke-too-much, whisper crossed with a kind of screamed yodel, it’s not pleasant.

And yet.

Sir Bradford steps forward, wooden-like, drawn inexorably towards Grand Alf, he creeps, stops, shudders and moves on.


Grand Alf repeats endlessly.

Sir Bradford struggles, shuffles forward some more, Aleso transfixed staggers backwards, almost drops his scimitar, the power of Grand Alf is revealed for all to see.

Sir Bradford’s googly-eyed stare flickers to take in Aleso for a moment and then locks back on Grand Alf- the Supplicant staggers forward some more- almost there.

“You cannot resist me, GIVVVEE MMMMEEEE YYYYOOOORRRREEE SSSWWWWOOOORRRDDD, I am using the Force, can you feel my Force- oh-oh-oh, can you feel my Force?”

Sir Bradford gives Grand Alf his magical glowing sword, his most beloved of possessions in life, he leaves it with the Sorcerer and staggers backwards.

“I…” Grand Alf begins.

“That’s…” Aleso offers.

“I…” Grand Alf tries once more.

“It’s…” Aleso counters.

“I…” Grand Alf collapses, lies there.

Sir Bradford’s blade sticking out of his chest.

Between the fifth and sixth rib, the heart area.

Grand Alf lies there.

Doing nothing.

Not even breathing.

Gory, gory the spadeinator is no more.

Next Turn: Three’s a crowd.


This story brings back alot of memories. I was about the Lost boys age when I started playing & our tactics were very similiar. Fun times.

I Dmed this module some time back, so I don't remember much. It wasn't as funny, that I remember. One thing I do remember is the fate of Meepo. The adventurers in my group adopted him as a mascot & lantern bearer. I can't remember how long they kept him with them, but Meepo was fun to play.

I've enjoyed this story alot so far & I'm looking forward the next installment.
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Mircoles said:
This story brings back alot of memories. I was about the Lost boys age when I started playing & our tactics were very similiar. Fun times.

I Dmed this module some time back, so I don't remember much. It wasn't as funny, that I remember. One thing I do remember is the fate of Meepo. The adventurers in my group adopted him as a mascot & lantern bearer. I can't remember how long they kept him with them, but Meepo was fun to play.

I've enjoyed this story alot so far & I'm looking forward the next installment.

Why thank you kindly, much appreciated.

Nearly at the end now...

Turn 8.9: Three’s a crowd.

“Dead. Dead. He can’t be, Noooooooooooooooooooooo.”

Aleso screams into the night, actually he’s no way of telling whether it’s day or night, regardless, he screams, and steps into the fray- makes swift work of the unarmed Paladin, stabs the foul miscreant through his face.

DMs Interlude in what other scenario does the LG Paladin get to stab a LG Paladin through the face and everything is okay, what do you mean it’s not okay, explain that to a twelve year old.

Saradomin smashes the last of the Twig Blights down.

The Holy pair drift together, clinch- they’re alone.

Smoke drifts towards them, clearing slightly, someone seems to have broken the fire-fuel-air triangle, by the sound of things they’re making water.

“Just us.”

The pair only have eyes for each other.

“I think Pelor is tops.” Saradomin states.
“St. Cuthbert rocks.” Aleso concedes.

The smoke continues to clear.

“Well this is it.” Saradomin states portentously.
“You could cure…” Aleso counters.
“Shhh. It’s just me and you now- the titanic battle to the very end, its fitting isn’t it, the heathen’s have been taken…”
“And Jerky.”
“He was pretty much a heathen.”
“Point taken.”
“No real commitment.”
“A coward.”
“And very small, did you notice- I didn’t want to say anything but… how rude.”
“I mean there’s small and there’s small, he was doing it on purpose.”
“Being small?”
“On purpose, I mean what’s the point of that- all self, self, self, oh notice me I’m so very small.”
“Exactly, small.”
“I don’t think St. Cuthbert really appreciates short people.”
“I know I don’t.”
“I see your point.”
“I think there’s a sign outside the Temple of St. Cuthbert in Freeport, y’know what it says?”
“You have to be this tall to worship here.”

Saradomin indicates how tall you would need to be to worship at the Temple of St. Cuthbert’s in Freeport, Jerky would have to be wearing stacked platform shoes to stand a chance.

“Not a chance.” Aleso confirms.

“Ahem.” The Outcast gets their attention, the smoke has cleared, the capering, gibbering loon is doing neither of the above, he seems all too relaxed.

Nothing happens.

Sweat drips down from Saradomin’s furrowed brow.

Sweat drips down from Aleso’s furrowed brow.

The Outcast grins.

More sweat drips down from Saradomin’s furrowed brow.

More sweat drips down from Aleso’s furrowed brow.

The Outcast grins.

And yet more sweat drips down from Saradomin’s furrowed brow.

And yet more sweat drips down from Aleso’s furrowed brow.

The Outcast grins.

“My armour’s…”

The Heat Metal spell begins to really take hold, the pairs armour, weapons; anything metal they have glows, burning their skin- they smoulder.

“For St. Cuthbert.” Aleso claims.
“For Pelor.” Saradomin counter-claims,

Saradomin gets half way, although the distance is not great, the Priest collapses, stumbles forward and grips the dirt, attempts to mouth divine words prayers to heal his hurts, but his voice is wrecked, his blood boils, the words a jumble- the spell broken, the Priest closes his eyes.

Next Turn: Last man standing.

Richard Rawen

First Post
Truly Glorious Overcoming of Adverity to SMITE The Evil One and thus Emerge Victorious!
ehrm... well... notsomuch, but hey, they got close!

Great reading, having fun :)


Richard Rawen said:
Truly Glorious Overcoming of Adverity to SMITE The Evil One and thus Emerge Victorious!
ehrm... well... notsomuch, but hey, they got close!

Great reading, having fun :)

I think lessons learnt = 0.

And so...

Turn 8.10 : Last man standing.

“Bring it on.” The Outcast offers and slashes before him with his sickle, Aleso gulps once, grips tight to the handle of his scimitar.
“Look maybe we can work this out.” The Paladin offers.
“Oh so you wish to replace Sir Bradford, to serve the Gulthias tree?”
“I was hoping you’d surrender?”

The Outcast spies the dead, or dying, bodies of the other members of the Lost Boys.

“No, I’m mad. Wheee-Whooo, NER-NER, Tiddleywinks. You know- Mad. But asking me to surrender? Well that’s hardly likely is it?”
“S’pose not.” Aleso shrugs.
“To the death?” The Outcast offers.
“S’pose.” Aleso shrugs back.

The two circle, wary- a few practice slashes and strokes, no hits, their feeling each other out. This continues for a while.

“Sorry, hang on.” The Outcast leans against the Gulthias tree, signals for a temporary halt to proceedings.
“What is it- stitch?” Aleso looks concerned.
“No, something’s rubbing.” The Outcast fishes in his pants.
“Chaffing?” The Paladin looks concerned, “you may need oinkment.”
“It’s ointment.”
“It’s oinkment how my mum used to make it, stops you scratching I can tell you.”
“Got it.” The Outcast retrieves a gnarled looking twig from his pants.
“No wonder, what’d you have that down…”

A brief wave of his wand and the plant life surrounding Aleso springs to life, grasps him, drags him down into a half-crouch, half-kneel pose- difficult to maintain, Aleso fights to stay on his feet.

“That’s not fair.” The Paladin states, less than calm.
“Fair, I’m the End-of-Game Super-Bad Guy, what’s fair got to do with it.”
“I just think…”

But Aleso doesn’t get to finish the sentence.

Next Turn- Dead End.


Next Turn 8.11- Dead End.

Hamstrung, the Outcast’s sickle rips through the tendons on the back of Aleso’s right leg; he twists, screams, and falls, throws out his arms as he flails, his sword and shield are sent flying.

The grass reaches up, over, around him, dragging him down, pinning him down; he writhes as the plant-life claws and gropes at his face, his eyes, his nose, his mouth- the plants are in his mouth.

He writhes some more, conscious that the blow will come soon, the coup de grace, the end of it all.

He fights the grass.

He fights it.

Fights it.


And, at last, with his strength all but gone tears himself free, the plants which formerly held him turn to straw as he watches, breaks and crumbles, soon to dust.

He looks up, around- where is…

Then he sees the Outcast.

Impaled upon the Gulthias tree, skewered by his sword, flung away in his fall.

Aleso blinks.

Then again.

The Outcast mouths words.

The Paladin gets himself up- woozy, staggers.

Slowly inches forward.

To the Outcast, a slick of blood- so much blood, Aleso staggers again almost fades.

The Paladin leans in, closer.

“What’re you saying?”

The Outcast mouths words he cannot hear.

He leans in closer still, till his ear is almost pressed against the Outcast’s lips.

“One ring to rule them all and in the darkness… “

Aleso lurches back, as if he’s been bitten.

“Kidding.” The Outcast winks, and dies.

Next Turn: The End.


That's it... no really, no more. The last session proved to be a nightmare, the players decided, more-or-less, to abandon the game for infighting, I appreciate that at age twelve these things happen but... Well my patience was at an end by the time we had wrapped it up, the players were content to walk into danger, even though they knew they were up against the big bad guy, no healing, no tactics just a bunch of kids that had fallen out sometime before I had even arrived. So, the Lost Boys, fun while it lasted... Thanks for reading.

Cheers Paul

Fun while it lasted indeed. Thanks for writing! :)

I feel for you as regards the final session. I've had similar problems DM'ing my two kids - and they were quite a bit older than the Lost Boys even when we first tried. The idea of co-operating as a party doesn't last long in the face of sibling rivalry!

Still, I've had some (slightly) more successful sessions with them since (although not always as often as I'd like - the other bane of being a DMing parent is feeling responsible and having to ask "Have you two got any homework you should be doing instead of this?" knowing full well that the answer, at least in the case of my son, was always "Yes"). So I hope you don't give up on the Lost Boys entirely - keep on trying to infect them with the roleplaying bug. ;)

See you in your other two storyhours!

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