The Lost Boys vs The Sunless Citadel


Thanks Corran, much appreciated.

Turn 4.5


Meepo dashes ahead, diverts Dartamor, and the others.

They pass through a door they’ve not ventured through before, and into a corridor.

“Blimp out, there’s a trap ed de flare. ”

Meepo hugs the left wall skitters forward.

Dartamor translates, “Careful stay left, there’s a trap ahead.”

Aleso and Saradomin creep after, careful to hug the wall.

Grand Alf has other ideas; he jumps on the spot for a second or two.

“Jump. Jump. Jump around.”

And he’s off and running, he leaps.


The trapdoor opens, with Grand Alf still stood on it, he leaps again.

“JUMP Around.”

And lands on the far lip of the pit- just, claps his hands together, grins, and follows on.

The group reconvene at a locked door, Dartamor gets to work.

“We saw the Gnome, he’s getting better, another day and he’ll be up and about- I bet he has a story to tell. Pelor praise his lost soul.” Aleso adds to the mix.
Saradomin nods, “May St. Cuthbert save him.”

The door’s open, and the group head off into the huge vaulted dragon corridor, the Goblin’s patch.

Silently they sneak on- towards a half-open door, from which the sound of activity spills.


The door opens into chaos- Goblins dozens of them, women and children only, they scream and run pell-mell.

“They’re comin.”
“Don’t ea' uz.”
“Kill t' intruders.”
“Sev wee fra t' Goblin slayers.”

Grand Alf seizes the moment.

“I am Grand Alf the Once Lucid, if you’d just like to cease this running about… I said if you’d just like to stop this running about, and your infernal toottling… I can’t understand a word your saying.”

Grand Alf shrugs- no use.

Meepo dashes in and punches a Goblin kid, very brave.

Aleso and Saradomin grab him; he’s kicking air as they haul him out.

“You absolute cad and bounder…”
“There’s really no need for that…”
“I think you should be ashamed of yourself…”
“Say sorry.”

The pair shake Meepo.

“Tell deez two, me smash Goblins.”

Meepo shouts at Dartamor. The Half-Elf shakes his head- no.

“Listun ter them- yous did wrong, nah kill females and god-forbids.”

Aleso and Saradomin continue shaking Meepo.

“Say you’re sorry Meepo.”

“Say you’re sorry 'bout dat.” Dartamor translates.

Meepo looks forlorn, grizzles a bit.

“Say you’re sorry 'bout dat.” Dartamor repeats.


Aleso and Saradomin let Meepo down.

“Now think about what you’ve done.” Aleso states.
“You should be ashamed of yourself.” Saradomin finishes.

Meepo wanders off. Dartamor steps up to the plate, again, he can speak the Goblin tongue as well.

“Wea'ar not 'eear ta 'urt theur. Thy leada 'as abandoned theur. It 'ood be best if theur wor ta leev. Bur fust tell wee orl 'a' theur norrz abaht dis place.”

A large Goblin matriarch steps forward.

“Ah'm Trixie, concubine o' Durnn, t' bugga 'as scarpered. Gone bela teur t' Ahtcast. T' Ahtcast is mad-plant bloke wi' giant ‘Crowk’ as pet. It is dangerous bela, onny cleva or strong Goblins may nip on bela, 'n chief. Naw theur let wee nip on.”

Dartamor translates Trixie’s words to the others.

“Ask her where the adventurers went.”

Dartamor complies, Trixie replies.

“'E sent 'em bela, bea' 'em bad fust, 'appen killed 'un o' 'em. 'E 'as eur gurt chest, 'e keeps summa' i' theear, 'e sez it’s 'is food- it’s bloody.”

Dartamor translates again.

Aleso and Saradomin look sickened- angry.

“We should go now- below.” Aleso is eager.
“St. Cuthbert calls me.” Saradomin adds.

The divine duo make their way through the Goblins, to a set of large double doors- that stand open. They move inside.

Dartamor and a skipping Grand Alf follow on; Meepo stays a while- there are lots of Goblins staring at him, then thinks better of it and rushes to Dartamor’s side.

They enter a huge room, another smashed tower, all the floors above are missing, in the centre a gaping hole, twisted vines spill over the edge into the inky black.

Grand Alf spits down the hole- listens to see if he can hear the goober land.

At the far side of the chamber are the remains of a crude throne, obviously Durnn’s perch, before it a lake of blood with the stencil-shape of a treasure chest in it.

Saradomin tests a vine.

“It will be a difficult descent but St. Cuthbert will see us down safely.”

He starts to ready himself, Dartamor rushes over.

“No, we’ve got to get the Goblins out, the women and children, think what will happen if we go below and leave them here with the Kobolds?”

They Lost Boys turn to look at Meepo, he’s no idea what they’re talking about- he tries a mischievous grin, it has the desired affect.

“By Pelor he’s right.” Aleso states, and claps his hand to his brow for good measure- thinking, “but there’s only one way out- through the Kobolds.”

“I will broker a truce.” Saradomin states and strides off- the others exchange glances, Saradomin is coming out of his shell at last, they follow him out.

Ten minutes later a rag-tag army of screaming and bawling Goblins are waiting on their side of the pit, in the corridor to the Kobold’s stronghold.

The Lost Boys and Meepo head over to pave the way.

Dartamor has to do all the talking.

Back in the Kobold chamber the Guards et al are arriving, soon Isdrayl, and all the others are present- the meeting is quorate.

Dartamor explains the situation and they get down to plea bargaining.

“Tell them this-”, Saradomin starts, “that these feeble Goblins should be let through in order to make a new life for themselves with the aid of St. Cuthbert’s divine grace they will mend their wonton ways and live lives of calm, peace and inner tranquillity.”

Dartamor gulps, not sure there is a Kobold word for ‘tranquillity’. Saradomin nods for him to translate.

“Deez feeble Goblins should be let through in order ter make a nicked loife fe themselves wi' de aid o' St. Cuthbert’s divine grace dale mend their wonton ways and live lives o' cam, peace and inner tranquillity.”

The Kobolds huddle- whisper, there’s a quick show of hands, it seems the totalitarian regime is slipping.

Isdrayl steps forward.

“Norra chance, we eat dem.”

Kobolds cheer and lick their lips.

“Tell them”, Aleso tries, “that the Light of our Lord Pelor must guide our hand in all things, that the sunshine of existence, of life, is bestowed to all- ours is not to snuff out of that light… Unless they’re really nasty. Leave that last bit off though.”

Dartamor shrugs, repeats in Kobold.

“De Light o' us Lord Peler must guide us fork in all things, dat de sunshine o' existence, o' loife, is bestowed ter all- os is not ter snuff outi dat light.”

The Kobolds huddle again, a quick vote, here comes Isdrayl again.

“Nope, still nah chance, we eat dem.”

Kobolds cheer and lick their lips.

“I’ll sort this out.” Grand Alf steps into the spotlight.

“Translate- away.”

He draws himself up to his full height.

“You are sick.”
“Yer sick.”

“Sick in the head.”
“Sick in de barnet.”

“Sick in the head if you think that your strength is a tool to use.”
“Sick in de barnet if yous think dat yer strength is a tewl ter use.”

“To persecute the weak.”
“Ter persecute de weak.”

“Just because they’re different.”
“Juss because they’re different.”

“More Goblinie… or taller, even, than you.”
“More Goblinie… er taller, evun, than yous.”

“You are better than this.”
“Yer scutty than this.”

“You are the mighty Scousers.”
“Yer de mighty Scousers.”

“You are brave Kobolds- honourable.”
“Yer bruv Kobolds- 'onoable.”

“You bring shame to your ancestors.”
“Yous br'n shame ter yer ancestors.”

The big silence.

“Also they are right stringy and bad eating.”
“Also dee ay rite stringy and bad eat'n.”

The Kobolds cheer and shout, Isdrayl salutes and then nods.

A series of nods and the Goblin females and young are lead through, met only by Kobold cheers, there’s little animosity here, soon after the troop are ascending the switchback stone stairs and to the rope, and freedom.

“Good work Grand Alf.” Aleso trails an arm across the Sorcerers shoulders.
Grand Alf turns away and pretends he has something in his eye, it’s watering.

Next Turn: Dragon Key

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Turn 4.6

The Dragon Key​

The Lost Boys sans Meepo, he’s back with his kin, reassemble in the first tower.

“What’s it to be then?” Dartamor enquires.
“Treasure.” Grand Alf states.
“We’re pretty low on resources- maybe we should wait a while, I mean St. Cuthbert is strong but even he has to have a nice lie down every now and then.” Saradomin whines a little, knowing he has no spells left and is still nursing a wound.
“Ditto Pelor.” Aleso agrees trying to remove a bloody stain from his armour.


Grand Alf hops from foot to foot- barely able to contain his excitement.

Dartamor shrugs, “perhaps we could just take a peek, we’ll be careful this time- what do you say?”

“Pelor wants a sandwich.” Aleso states, and stamps his foot.


Grand Alf grabs the Dragon Key, which Dartamor has just recovered from his leather jerkin, the mad Sorcerer sprints to the Dragon Door, and when the others get there, flings the now unlocked door open.

A noise comes from the chamber beyond.

“Wur walkin in theeeeeee air
Wur floatin in thee moon-lit sky-iiiiiiiiii
Tha peepul far belowww R sleepin as we fly-iiiii.”

A terrible reedy voice, some pipsqueak adolescent, whispers the words.

The brave adventurers move in, the chamber is thick with a carpet of dust, three alcoves to the north, one to the south. Each of the alcoves holds a pedestal, on top of each is what looks to be a heavy circular stone, except for the alcove to the south, there the circular stone seems to be a glass ball, which glows with an inner light. Inside of the glowing orb is a miniature snowstorm, well that’s what it looks like, the singing seems to be coming from there also.

Grand Alf strides over to the thing, spots another stone door at the opposite side of the chamber.

As he does so the volume of the music increases dramatically.

“I'MMM holdin’ vereeeee tyte
I’MMM ridin’ in De midnYt blOOOO
I'MMMM findin’ aye Kan flIII sEW hY abUve withH yEW.”

Dartamor clutches his ears, staggers from the chamber, screaming- “Noooooooooooo. Not Clalad J-jones.

It is indeed a recording of the famous Gnome Bard Clalad J-jones famed far and wide for his inability to hold a tune, in fact it is said that Clalad J-jones couldn’t hold a tune in a bucket.

“FArR aKross thHHe wUrld
ThHe viLLaRges gEW bYE lYke dreEEEms
ThHe rivURrs aYnd De hYlls
De foRRests aYnd tHHe streEEms.”

The noise continues; a horrendous row.

Aleso and Saradomin rush from the room screaming, stuffing anything that will fit into their ears en route.

Which leaves Grand Alf, he sings along- of course, badly, of course again, and he doesn’t know the words- but that’s not going to stop him is it.

“ChiLLdreN gaYze opeRRn moWWthed.”
“MilKmeN GlaYZe ALpYne MoTHs.”

”TaYkeNN bII surPrYYse.”
“CHoKinG oN HoTT FrIeS.”

”NobodEEE dowUN beLowE belieVEs THEer EyES.”
“NoDDy eaTS Big EaRs PiEs, aND FrIeS.”

Grand Alf picks up the glass ball, the volume dial ratchets up to 23, ear-piercing.

He sings along some more as he waddles with the thing to the door, and his boon companions beyond, they seem to be waving at him.

Dartamor, Aleso and Saradomin signal desperately for Grand Alf to put the thing down, go away, he waddles on- they scatter, crunch-crouch and cry, Grand Alf’s still singing.

“WY'rE surFFin’ iN tHe aYr.”
“THeY deCIdE To hAVe A bEEr.”

”WY'rE swiMMin’ iN tHe frOWzeN sKy.”
“THeY’RE DrinKinG aS tHeY EaT tHeIR FrIeS.”

”WY'rE driFTin’ oVA iCy.”
“THeY’RE SniFFinG SoMeTHinG SPiCeY.”

”MoWTEn floWtin’ BY.”

And then it stops, Grand Alf is out the room, he shakes the glass snowstorm, which has clouded over- turned into a lump of rock like the others.

“Awww. That was good- I was enjoying that.”

Grand Alf turns and strides back into the room.

“Noooooo.” In chorus from the others.

But the thing is dead- no more sonorous music.

DMs interlude- For a full version of ‘The Snowman’, if you think you can stand it, go here, it sounded like the worst thing in the world when I was a kid, still does. Alas puberty cured Aled Jones of his delicate voice.

Back to the action.

Grand Alf drops the thing.


“Where do you think this goes?” And in an instant he’s over and wrenching the next door open.

“Noooooo.” Dartamor offers.

Aleso and Saradomin shake their heads.

“I thought we said we’d be more careful?” Saradomin questions.
Aleso tuts and strides over.

Dartamor has caught up with Grand Alf, there’s a short corridor to another door- more dust.

“Wait a minute, let me just check the area ahead.”

And true to his word, Dartamor shuffles in, looks hard at the floor.

And in a minute finds the trap ahead.

“Saradomin go get one of them stone balls.”

The Priest returns with a stone ball.

“Now bowl it at the far door.”

Saradomin assumes the position, semi-crouch, back bent over the thing, which he swings between his legs, like some great ape- he’s a natural.


A burst of crossbow bolts from hidden holes smash into the giant stone bowling ball.

Everyone grins- a job well done, Aleso pats Dartamor and Saradomin on the back, looks up and spots Grand Alf opening the next door. They rush after him.

Into a huge chamber, dust like snow on the ground, several inches deep, clouds of it fill the air as they step in. There are no other doors, only a statue of a dragon on a pedestal.

Grand Alf strides up to it, billowing clouds mask his tread.

The dragon cranes round to stare at Grand Alf, it works its jaw- speaks.

“We come at night without being fetched;
We disappear by day without being stolen.”

“Biscuits.” Grand Alf shouts.

“Is it a riddle?” Aleso strides in.
“St. Cuthbert prides himself in his riddling.” Saradomin comments.
“I heard he riddles in the street.” Aleso guffaws.
“Better than the Sun… Oh what do you worship, I worship the Sun- that’s all you are you know, primitive sun-worshippers. That’s why you’ve all got tans.”

The divine duo square up, again.

“Biscuits.” Grand Alf shouts again.

“Look Saradomin, St. Cuthbert is a drunk, it’s a well known fact, the other deities laugh at him, he wees in the street swigging from a bottle of Olde Perculiar.”
“Right that’s it, Pelor is only good for growing vegetables, like you.”

“Is it ‘Biscuits’? They come at night… from the Biscuit-Fairy, and then disappear again when you eat them. Is it… Biscuits?” Grand Alf’s developed a doubt.


“Is it ‘Biscuits’, do you think Dartamor?” Grand Alf looks forlorn, it may not be ‘Biscuits’ after all.


Dartamor states.

“BISCUITS.” Grand Alf yells and rushes over to the door that has popped open, and through, the others chase after him.

The next chamber is not quite as dusty; there are more alcoves, three north, three south- they each seem to hold a statue of a proud Elven warrior.

“Careful there may be a tr…” Dartamor calls, too late as usual.

Grand Alf is at the last of the northern alcoves, its empty- suspicious.

“Hey there’s a pit over here… and a light beyond.”

The three others gingerly head over to Grand Alf, at the far end of the chamber is a large archway into another chamber, however there’s an open pit between the two rooms, a sunrod illuminates the bottom of the pit- it’s full of fierce looking spikes.


Dartamor has a look around, there are some tracks in the dust- small clawed feet, he points them out.

“Here’s the thing, the tracks start from nowhere, as in they just begin.” Dartamor’s puzzled.

“Is it a chicken, they have clawed feet, and they’re little.” Grand Alf cuts to the chase.
“How could it be a chicken? Why do the tracks just… start?” Saradomin hands on hips.

Grand Alf thinks about it, “It flew.”

“Chickens don’t fly Grand Alf”, Aleso offers.
“Then it’s a magic chicken.”
“Where did it come from?” Saradomin enquires.

Grand Alf thinks some more, “Ah-hah. It was summoned, it’s a Magic Demon Chicken- fearsome creature, quite a bite, I mean peck.”

“Pelor save us.” Aleso whispers.
“Ditto St. Cuthbert.” Saradomin adds.

While the three are debating Dartamor gauges the distance across the pit, shouldn’t be that much of a problem, gives himself a good run-up, sprints forward and launches himself over.


And falls short, scrabbles at the lip of the pit on the far-side, manages to cling on- he’s dangling over the spikes.

“A little help please.”

The others panic- what to do. Grand Alf begins hopping on the spot.

“Jump, Jump, Jump around.”

But before he can leap a Magic Demon Chicken, actually not- a small winged humanoid, a miniature Demon in fact, appears standing on Dartamor’s hands. The creature grins, a barbed stinger darts down aiming for the Elf rogues hands.

“Thought you’d disturb the Dragon Far East’s slumber would ya, we’ll clock abaht that.”

The stinger misses, however only because Dartamor lets go of the side- and falls.


And is impaled on the spikes below- blood flows, he gasps once- more blood bubbles from his throat, he closes his eyes.

The Demon disappears, there’s the sound of fluttering- of tiny wings.

“Fear not for St. Cuthbert will rid us of this Demon-creature.” Saradomin swats the air with his heavy mace.

“PELOR bring forth thy shining countenance to vanquish this foul demon from our midst.” Aleso joins the league of swishers and swatters.

Grand Alf fumbles for a scroll.

The Demon blinks back into existence, back towards the entrance to the chamber.

“Orange Peel me terror.”

At this point it should be clear to the reader that the language of the Demons, incidentally also Devils, closely resembles Cockney rhyming slang, Orange Peel= Feel, that kind of thing.

A black mist shoots from the Demon’s fingertips and engulfs Saradomin. The cleric of St. Cuthbert stops swinging, and shouts, “St. Cuthbert hear my call… Nooooooooooooooo.” The black cloud fades out of existence.

“Bugger.” The Demon adds.


And is hit by two Magic Missiles courtesy of Grand Alf.

“Take that Magical Demon Chicken.”

The Demon disappears with a growl, flutters towards the exit, calling back.

“Ya Hearts of Oak (broke) the binding; me Kettle and Hob (watch, actually fob watch) on the Dragon Far East (Priest) is over. Curse ya.”

And is gone.

“Job well done.” Grand Alf nods.

The divine duo stare with trepidation at the still form of Dartamor.

Next Turn: In the Night

Thus ends the session.

I've been reading this over the last couple of days, and thoroughly enjoying it - in its authentic and unexpurgated regional flavour. So, Goonalan, I say, don't succumb to Yankee cultural imperialism - carry on boldly flying the flag for British idiocy ... err, creativity. :D ;)

By the way are all gnomes Welsh? It would certainly give me a new sympathy for Anne Robinson.


I'd not considered the Anne Robinson angle, which was an oversight I agree. I'd have to say that, and this is not about my own Welsh ancestry, in my considered opinion, after years of deep thought, debate, research, musing, idling and pondering that Anne "The Weakest Link" Robinson, in the idiom of my age, sucks the fat one.

Which still leaves the vexing, "Are all Gnomes Welsh?" question, a mystery wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a sudoku...

But thanks for the feedback- much appreciated.

See you, with my Dickie Davis Eyes, Back in the DHSS Again, I'll be the one in the Dukla Prague Away Kit.


Turn 5.1

In the night.​

“What’re we going to do?” Grand Alf flaps.

Aleso and Saradomin exchange glances, in unison take to one knee, begin their prayers.

“Sweet Pelor’s who’s fiery divine favour has sought refuge in the transient spirit of our young”, Aleso nods towards Dartamor, he can’t remember the Rogue’s name, “the one over there- on the spike, may his heavenly soul wing it’s way through the fundament to the arms of your warm embrace.”

“Lord, St. Cuthbert, whose rod of iron and mighty cudgel rules o’er us, whose divine judgement has speared, sorry spared, insert name here from the everlasting pain of life. Send winged angels to guide the spirit of this troublesome soul back to the great alehouse, I mean off-licence, in the sky.”

The two stop, stare at each other, and then…

Grand Alf tugs at both of them, hops from foot to foot, either he wants a wee or he’s got something to say.

“Hold on Alf.” Aleso states.
“A moment.” Saradomin concurs.

They continue with their sermons.

“I pray now, in the utter certainty, that Dartamor’s soul sits on your left side, righteous and awe full, erm… for he did mention to me that he was very fond of you and was thinking of converting to the ONE TRUE and JUST cause. Only the other day he said… Erm… he said, ‘sun’s up’, which is a sure fire indication of the devotion he felt for you.”

“I ask you mighty St. Cuthbert to accept this wanderer into the massed ranks of your spirit army, swell their holy pride, for Dartamor clearly indicated to me, in times of trouble- when he was sorely… sorely… something… low. Anyway, he said, and I quote- ‘I need a drink’, a clear indication of his devotion to the holy elixir of St. Cuthbert, the vessel through which thy voice speaks to us mere mortals, the ONE TRUE and JUST path to inebriation. Sorry… enlightenment… scratch that… erm… up there.” Saradomin indicates ‘up there’, by pointing.

Grand Alf tugs some more, he’s been up to it for a while now.

In unison the two turn to him, and say.

“What is it?”

“Um… Dartamor wants to know if he can get up now… Off the spike, has either of you got a rope.”

The divine duo turn to stare, Dartamor, still impaled upon the spike, waves at them.

“You mean he’s not dead?”

Grand Alf shakes his head, Dartamor does too, grits his teeth- the pain.

They whisper to each other as they fumble for rope.

“Bloody inconsiderate.”
“It’s a shame, and that’s all I’ll say on the matter.”

A minute later a stumbling Dartamor, held up on each side, shuffles his way out of the chamber, and from there all the way back to the Kobold empire, he needs a lie down.

The others agree to return to their task the next day, even Grand Alf is persuaded, he may look daft but he’s not stup… no, hang on, that doesn’t work.

And so while the other three adventurers snooze Dartamor fights unconsciousness again, and again… he gets help from two sources.

“Me bruv King wa' 'ast dough done ter thee, sorry 'bout dat dem done ter thou… you- whuz does it rag, shall ay rub it.”

Isdrayl slips her hands beneath the sheets.


Dartamor spasms and then slips into unconsciousness.

That’s the thing about Kobolds, lizard like creatures- reptiles- cold blooded makes for cold hands.

Isdrayl sheds a tear, several, wipes her snout on the blanket, leaving a silvery trail, and begins her soliloquy.

“Ay knew you’d come me custy, rescue me from this wasted loife, ay knew you’d find me- nah matti wa'. Yous see me sound, ay wasn’t meant fe this loife, and ay kun you’re a pointy-ears, and ay should be eat'n yous, but it’s not like dat, not fe me- beauty is only skin deep- ay see through yer dash'n sound as a pound lewks and flare, ay see de inner tmoil and tirer dat bubbles within yous. Ay kun, like me, dat yous love de thought o' smash'n firkin serene and tranquil, o' stamp'n ed picnics, kick'n 'Alflings into rivers. Ay, like yous, wanna force non-alcoholic drinks down Dwarves until dee bst, ter build 'ouses from de Dryad’s trees, ter puv de forest and tell all de bum Druids ter gerra job. We could be 'appy… smash'n things, and people. We could make a loife tergether; start afresh, a nicked dungeon, a 'Ydra… ay don’t kun why ay said a 'Ydra, ay guess ay juss like them- long necks, and they’d make an ace slide fe de god-forbids. We’d 'uv traps, ones dat rend and tear, there’d be viscera… oh think o' de viscera me love, think o' Wizards ed spikes, a Munk inna gibbet… I’ve always wanted an Oubliette… Do say ay tinnie 'uv an Oubliette .”

Her voice softens.

“We could evun kill de others, whun dee get back, if dee get back from kill'n de Outcast, we could make maracas from their 'eads, er 'ang'n baskets.”

She stops, Dartamor’s eyes blink, once… twice- he opens them wide.

Isdrayl leans in, puckers up, and plants a kiss on his forehead.

“Night Mum.” Dartamor sighs and turns over.


She shakes him, but he’s gone from this place.

Sound asleep.

Isdrayl gets up and wanders to the other side of the cavern, there’s a fragment from a mirror nailed to the wall. She stares at herself in it.

“Mirrer, mirrer…” She begins, and then thinks better of it.

She’s lost her looks, and she knows it, who’s she kidding- herself. She cries again, and then with a shaking hand reaches down for a small pot nestled on a crate, scratches the surface of the substance held within- with one taloned finger, and smears the tincture around her maw. Lipstick applied she turns back to spy her love, the door opens, and the nights second vertically challenged visitor arrives.

Isdrayl shakes her head, banishing the bad thoughts, and harrumphs out of the cavern- the taste of her lipstick, blood, in her mouth.

Jerky Timbers, the rescued Gnome walks in, and to Dartamor.

He places his hand, delicately, on the sleeping Half-Elf’s shoulder, whispers one word.


A blue glow shines from the Gnomes fingertips, and now, Dartamor’s shoulder, it spreads- and all is well, skin and bone knit and mend. Dartamor lives to fight another day.

Jerky turns to leave.

“Night Dad.”

Stops, grins for a while, and then heads off.

Early morning Aleso, Saradomin and Grand Alf are awoken… by a hale and hearty Dartamor.

“Pelor wants a lie in.” Aleso mumbles and turns over.
“St. Cuthbert says press snooze on the alarm.” Saradomin confirms.

Grand Alf is up in a trice, 0-60 in less than a second.

He pumps the Half-Elf’s hand.

“Glad to have you back. Thought you were a goner back there. Does it hurt.” Grand Alf touches the spot.

“No.” Dartamor fends his poking hand off.

“It was there wasn’t it.” Grand Alf lances his arm out again- trying to touch the spot.

“NO.” Dartamor again blocks the move.

Grand Alf’s not satisfied.

“It was right there.” He tries again, and is again rebuffed, with more violence this time. “NO.”

He digs Dartamor in the ribs, “THERE”, he punches this time. Dartamor is just quick enough to block it; he pushes Grand Alf away, “NO. For the last time…”

“I saw it. A great ruddy spike jammed through you… You…”

Grand Alf leaps at Dartamor, the two collapse to the hard stone floor, Dartamor has the wind knocked out of him. Grand Alf scrabbles at his leathers, ripping them aside. Dartamor fights back.


He uncovers the spot, there’s nothing there, no scar, no bruise- nothing.

Grand Alf rolls off Dartamor.

They seem to have gathered an audience; Kobolds stop to witness the exchange.

Even the divine duo are waking.

Grand Alf scrabbles further away, “don’t touch me…”, his arms out to fend Dartamor off, Dartamor looks on confused.

“You’re an impostor, a shape-changer, you’ve been possessed…” Grand Alf hisses the last part of the sentence.

Aleso and Saradomin simultaneously crouch to inspect the wound.

“By the pointy mace of St. Cuthbert I expel thee.”

Saradomin slaps Dartamor on the forehead, the Half-Elf falls back, clonks his head on the stone, and jolts back up again.

“May the fiery light quench the darkness of your soul.”

Aleso repeats the trick.


Grand Alf wrestles himself to his feet, grabs a spoon, it’s the closest thing, and moves to stand over Dartamor.

He points the spoon at the Half-Elf, in what could otherwise be construed as a threatening manner, if it wasn’t a spoon, and says in a powerful voice.

“By Hell’s Biscuit Barrel tell us how it came to pass that thou art removed of hurt…”

Dartamor looks confused, Jerky Timbers wanders over, holding his towel, having just been for a wash and brush up.

“What, what d’you mean removed from hurt?”

Grand Alf closes in for the kill, hisses.

“The spike-hole. Where’s the Spike-Hole gone? For I see it not, and that means you’re a horny demon of the nine pentangles, or else a treacherous shape-shifter come to… shift… er… shape. You bugger.”

Dartamor looks blank.

“I healed him.”

Jerky states.

Which sorta takes the wind out of everyone’s sails.




And one more for luck.


At least they think alike.

“So you’re a priest…” Grand Alf starts and then grows bored of the conversation, another bloody do-gooder, that’s all he needs.

“So Dartamor, can we go yet- back to the sarcof… sarkoffa… sarky… coffee… goose, that’s it? Can we?” Grand Alf finishes.

“In a minute.” Dartamor rises, no help from any of the others, Grand Alf punches the air and runs off to get his stuff together.

The divine duo close in on the Gnome, some might say, crowd him.


And in unison.


Jerky nods.

“Which one?” Aleso asks.

“Which one what?”

“Which deity?” Saradomin clarifies.

The two get closer still.

“Oh. I see.” Jerky says, then nothing else.


“The one true god.” Jerky simply states.

In unison.


“The Lord of all life.” Jerky adds.


“The cudgel of the dark.”

“Cudgel- St. Cuthbert.” Saradomin pokes Aleso in the chest.
“… of the dark- Pelor.” Aleso pokes Saradomin in the chest.

“That’s it.” Jerky nods and goes to walk off.

They stop him.

“What’s it?”
“WHICH ONE YOU BLOODY GARDEN GNOME.” Aleso screams, drags the Gnome up to his eye-line, and shakes him.

“Pelor, of course.”

Aleso drops the Gnome spins on his heels and in one smooth move goes down on one knee and punches the air- you try it.

“Yes, you beauty.”

He spins back, picks the ruffled Gnome up and fusses him.

“Oh brother Pelorite, it’s so good to see you, I have been lost in this dark place, starved of any proper theological discussion having NOTHING BUT A BLOODY HEATHEN FOLLOWER OF ST. CUTHBERT FOR COMPANY.”

You can guess who he’s looking at when he finishes his little tirade.

Saradomin makes to slink off.

“Although I worship Pelor, I appreciate the efforts made by our fellow travellers, the clergy of St. Cuthbert, who are, in my eyes; leading the charge against the followers of the dark- I salute you.” And Jerky does.

Saradomin wipes away a tear.

“WHAT?” Aleso makes for apoplexy.

“I think instead of making light of our differences the churches of Pelor and St. Cuthbert would perhaps be better served by acknowledging first our common causes. I think that would be what Pelor, and St. Cuthbert wanted. Don’t you agree?”

The divine duo turn to sneer at each other.

And in unison.


They slink away.

“Thanks for that.” Dartamor fills the gap, shakes Jerky’s hand, “I bet you’ve got a story to tell...”

Next Turn: Level Up

Next Turn after that: A Short Story.


Turn 5.2

Up a Level

It’s true, all four of them have gained enough experience points to reach level 2, so here they are-

Grand Alf​

Human Male Sorcerer Level 2
NG HP 12 AC 12 Init +6
Str 8 Dex 14 Con 13 Int 10 Wis 12 Ch 17
Saves Fort +1 Ref +2 Will +4
Shortspear “Pokey” +0 d8-1
Lt. Xbow (Mwk) “The Stapler” +4 d8
Dagger +0 or +3 d4-1
Armour: Spangly Robes and Wizard-type conical hat, so none then.
Feats: Improved Initiative & Toughness
Skills of note: Bluff +3 Concentrate +5 Diplomacy +3 Disguise +3 Gather Info +3 Intimidate +3 Perform (Sing- Cheesy Pop) +3 Spellcraft +5 Spot +3

Spells Level 0 (6) Light, Ghost Sound, Detect Magic, Read Magic Level 1 (5) Sleep, Magic Missile

Items of note: Scrolls Sleep (x2), Shield (x2), Magic Missile (x1); Potions Invisibility & Blur.


Half-Elf Male Rogue Level 2
CN HP 10 AC 16 Init +7
Str 16 Dex 16 Con 9 Int 18 Wis 13 Ch 11
Saves Fort -1 Ref +6 Will +1
Rapier (Mwk) +5 d6+3
Comp. Shortbow (Mwk Mighty (STR 12)) +5 d6+1
Silver Edged Dagger +4 or +4 d4+3
Armour: Black Mwk Studded Leather
Feats: Improved Initiative Sneak Attack +d6 Evasion
Skills of note: Appraise +5 Balance +4 Bluff +3 Climb +6 Craft (Hunter) +4 Decipher Script +5 Disable Device +8 Escape Artist +3 Forgery +5 Heal +3 Hide +7 Jump +3 Knowledge (Nature) +5 Listen +6 Move Silently +7 Open Lock +8 Pick Pocket +4 Read Lips +5 Ride (Horse) +4 Search +9 Spot +5 Swim +3 Tumble +5 Use Rope +4

Items of note: Silk Climbing Rope, 20 Mwk Arrows, Potions Spider Climb, Hiding & Cure Light (x2).

Aleso Flett​

Human Male Paladin of Pelor Level 2
LG HP 21 AC 15 Init 0
Str 15 Dex 11 Con 12 Int 10 Wis 12 Ch 18
Saves Fort +8 Ref +4 Will +5
Scimitar (Mwk) +5 d6+2
Comp. Longbow +2 d8
Dagger +4 or +2 d4+2
Armour: Shiny Chain Shirt & Sparkling Steel Buckler
Feats: Power Attack & Cleave; Divine Grace, Detect Evil, Divine Health, Lay on Hands (8 HP/Day), Aura of Courage, Smite Evil
Skills of note: Bluff +4 Concentration +3 Craft (Carpentry) +3 Diplomacy +6 Disguise +4 Gather Information +4 Handle Animal +5 Heal +4 Intimidate +4 Perform (Sing- Opera) +4

Items of note: Potions Bull’s Strength, Cure Moderate & Cure Light (x4).


Human Male Cleric of St. Cuthbert Level 2
LN HP 19 AC 19 Init +3
Str 16 Dex 16 Con 15 Int 14 Wis 17 Ch 13
Saves Fort +5 Ref +3 Will +6
Heavy Mace (Mwk) +5 d8+3
Lt. Xbow +4 d8
Club +4 or +4 d6+3
Armour: Dirty Chainmail & Rusty, slightly bent, Large Steel Shield
Feats: Extra Turning (8/Day) & Scribe Scroll; Smite (+4/+2) x1, Strength boost (+2)
Skills of note: Concentration +6 Craft (Armoursmith) +3 Diplomacy +3 Heal +8 Knowledge (Religion) +5 Listen +3 Perform (Bagpipes) +1 Profession (Scribe) +4 Ride (Horse) +3 Sense Motive +3 Spellcraft +6 Spot +4 Use Rope +3 Wilderness Lore +3

Spells Level 0 (4) Level 1 (3+1)
Domains: Destruction & Strength

Items of note: Scroll Protection from Elements.

Jerky Timbers​

Gnome Male Fighter Level 1 Cleric of Pelor Level 1
CG HP 18 AC 14 Init +0
Str 14 Dex 10 Con 14 Int 10 Wis 15 Ch 12
Saves Fort +4 Ref +0 Will +4
Lt. Mace +5 d4+2 (Goblin-made)
Armour: Scruffy Goblin Leathers & Small Wooden Shield
Feats: Turn Undead (4/Day) Weapon Focus (Lt. Mace) Scribe Scroll Power Attack
Skills of note: Climb +3 Concentration +6 Diplomacy +3 Heal +4 Jump +3 Listen +4 Spellcraft +3 Spot +5

Gnome Spells: Dancing Lights, Ghost Sound & Pestidgitation
Speak with Burrowing Animals

Spells Level 0 (3) Level 1 (2+1)
Domains: Good & Healing

And that’s your lot.

Next Turn: A Short Story.


First Post
So, do the kids come up with the dialogue as you recount it, complete with rhymed spells and garbled theology? If so I'm dead impressed. Come to think of it, do kobold love monologues happen in game? Are they accented and how do your players react?


So, do the kids come up with the dialogue as you recount it, complete with rhymed spells and garbled theology? If so I'm dead impressed. Come to think of it, do kobold love monologues happen in game? Are they accented and how do your players react?

The dialogue- not entirely, although it's obviously based on what they do say, I try to improve it a little, perhaps a lot, at times- the gist of it is there, as are the characters actions (antics).

Every time some one casts a spell then it has to have a rhyme (Saradomin) to go with it, or a command word, or phrase (Grand Alf). I usually ask them what they say when they're casting the spell, or charging into battle, or whatever.

None of the accents are in game, I think I explained that away earlier in the posts, I just liked the idea of Scouser Kobolds, it grew from there- I have done it in other games though, I've also DM'ed players that have tried to do it throughout with their characters. There are a lot of budding Sean Connery-esque sounding adventurers out there, particularly when it gets to the love scenes, Yeaaaaaashhh.

The Dartamor and the Kobold Queen love story started, I think, with Grand Alf's player (James) saying, after Isdrayl had just been praising the brave Daratamor, that "she wants to kiss you." For four boys, aged 9-12, this proved to be there most fearsome encounter yet- common consensus went a little like this- "Run."

The deal is I'm going to get this printed out, nicely, for them when we're done, as a memento- kind of my first dungeon sort of thing.

So I take liberties at times, however the core of what's written here, is all from the game.

Thanks for the question.

I'm actually nearly out of posts, and no game for a while because work is getting very busy, back to the grind.


You did indeed get it right, I pine for the little scamps.

Turn 5.3

A Short Story.​

“So how long have you been here?” Grand Alf asks again.
“I’d say three about months.” Jerky replies.

“Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeew.” Grand Alf concludes.

“Three months in that tiny cage.” Dartamor joins in.
“How’d you survive?”
“By the blessings of…”, Jerky looks at Aleso, he’s pre-grin, rubbing his hands, “our Lord”, he finishes.

“Did you see a group of adventurers during your sojourn?” Aleso asks.
“As a matter of fact I did, three of them, a warrior- Talgen, I think; a lady wizard- Sharwyn, those two were brother and sister; and a holy knight, Sir Bradford- a Paladin of St. Cuthbert, they were…” He stops; no one can hear what he’s saying anyway.

Saradomin is on his feet, and screaming, “In your face”, and is in Aleso’s face, “a Paladin of St. Cuthbert- get in there, one-all, ONE-ALL…” he runs out of steam.

Gingerly sits, the others stare at him, Aleso silently fumes.

“Sorry… er, do go on, Jerky, what was that you were saying?”

“The adventurers were taken below…”

Dartamor interrupts, “actually it may have been only two of them that made it. It seems the Goblin chieftain, Durnn, killed one of them.”

Jerky shakes his head, “Pel…”, then thinks better of it, “god help them.”

“Go on Jerky, what else do you know?”

“Well they were sent below, to the Outcast, a mad man by the sound of things, the Goblins are terrified of him- he’s a crazed Priest I think, from what they say- worships some tree with magic apples. Clearly he wants stopping. I think everybody can agree on that.”

The three sane people nod, Grand Alf grins and smears Magic Smash on the palm of his hand, then licks it off.

Jerky stops to stare at him.

“You alright?” He asks.

“Yeff.” Grand Alf spits peanuts back at him, grins some more with Magic Smash lacquered teeth.

“Just don’t put you hands near his mouth.” Dartamor offers.
The Gnome nods back, still staring at the Sorcerer.

“Continue brother.” Adds Aleso, pointedly staring at Saradomin.

“They were sent below, to the Twilight Grove, whatever that may be.”

Grand Alf gets up and capers, eventually settles on chasing the end of his hat, which is of course on his head, trying to suddenly look behind him to see it.

“There’s some other stuff- Twig Blights, little bundles of… Twigs, they’re the spawn of the tree, I think, the Outcasts servants- they’re not dangerous, singly, but get a few of them together and they could rip you to shreds.”

The seated three nod.

“Anything else?”

Jerky stops staring at Grand Alf, turns back to the others.

“No, I don’t think so… Oh yes, can I join you, I think I could be of use, and well… I’ve got some scores to settle.” The Gnome grins, like he means business.

“Welcome to the Lost Boys”, its Saradomin’s hand he grasps, and shakes.

The group assemble, ready for action, the meeting’s over, or so it seems.

“So we’re going below?” Jerky asks.

Grand Alf spies that they’re all ready, throws his hat on the floor stamps on it a couple of times, grinning, then screws it back on his head- and runs off, back to the Dragon Key Door with the Sarky-Coffee-Goose, it seems he has unfinished business there.

The others do their best to keep up.

A while later…

They’re all over the other side of the pit, courtesy of some rope tricks (Dartamor), and a Spider Climb Potion (Dartamor).

A torch burns illuminating a nine foot long intricately carved sarcophagi- carved to resemble a dragon at rest.

“Well?” Grand Alf stares.

There are six clasps keeping the lid in place, Aleso and Saradomin set to work, the three others grab missile weapons and await the grand opening.


The last clasp on the near side is off.

“I think we should wedge the grappling hook in it and then lever it off by pulling the rope from the far side, so as you three can nail whatever’s in it, and we’ll be behind the lid- shielded, should any shots go… astray.” Aleso has a plan.

“What do you mean astray?” Grand Alf feels threatened- he’s a crack shot… scratch that, I was reading it wrong- he’s a crack pot, they’re probably best hiding behind the lid.

“What do you mean whatever’s in it- whatever’s in it is going to be dead… surely?” It’s Dartamor’s turn to be concerned.
“Dead, Undead- something like that.” Saradomin ventures.

DMs interlude- at the time the group, having never played the game before, were convinced that all that was going to be in the thing was a very dead guy and a bunch of treasure- honest, their little faces, so naïve.

Read on…

“What do you mean Undead?” Dartamor is developing a concern.
“Don’t worry Dartamor if it’s Undead I will endeavour to send it back to the grave in an instant.” It’s Jerky’s turn to be cocky.

Satisfied the Rogue nods for Aleso and Saradomin to pull the thing open. They take the strain…

This goes on for some time.

The furthest they manage to lift it is two inches.

Grand Alf jams Saradomin’s club in the gap, he was going to jam his short spear in but at the last moment was worried that it might get stuck, and then where would he be.

Two minutes later Saradomin’s club is wedged tight in the sarcophagi- no one can shift it, and the others, no matter how hard they strain, cannot lift the lid up enough to recover the club.

“That was my club, a symbol of my connection to St. Cuthbert, it’s very… <sniffle> important to me… we shared a bond, her name was… Sharlene.”

Saradomin collapses onto the lid of the sarcophagi, hammers at it- grizzling.

“They taught us a rhyme… back at the seminary.” Saradomin staggers around to the front of the sarcophagi, wailing at his loss, and marches, half-heartedly, on the spot.

“This is my club.”

He points at his club- Sharlene.

“This is my brain.”

He points at the place his brain should be.

“This is for fighting.”

He points back at Sharlene.

“This is to keep off the rain.”

Points at his head and then collapses onto the cold stone floor- banging his little fists again.


They give him a minute.

Jerky is looking even more panicky- what’s he got himself into.

Still crying, Saradomin gets up, wanders round to the other side of the sarcophagi, to Aleso, points at the first of the three remaining claps, the two get to work again.

“It’s alright, I’m ok. <sob> Just carry on as if nothing’s happened… SHAAAAAAAR-LENE.”

His whole body shakes as he bawls.


And the last clasp is removed.

The grappling hook is still in play, the divine duo drag the one ton stone lid off.


And onto the floor, they dance out of its way.

Saradomin rushes for his club, Sharlene, cradles it lovingly.

Inside the sarcophagi is an eight foot tall, extremely wizened, old man- of sorts.

“He’s big.” Grand Alf calculates, he settles for jumping in the air, with one hand up above his head- trying to indicate to the others just how tall the old guy is.

The corpse is wearing jewellery, a necklace; two bracelets… its eyes blink open.

“FECK. That scared the life out of me- I thought he opened his eyes.” Grand Alf places his hand over his breast, feels his thumping heart.

The creature turns to stare at him, and then slowly rises from his bier.

“Feck” Grand Alf again, “I thought it… Oh it is.”

The creature rises from the dead, Grand Alf follows the creatures arm as it lifts up, raises, stretches out to grasp him round the neck.


The Mage brings his crossbow up and shoots the creature from point blank range through its head, the bolt remains lodged in there.

Everything stops for a moment.

Then the creature reaches up and pulls the bolt back out of its skull.


And passes the bloody thing back to Grand Alf, who nods his thanks, as he takes it back.

“He seems nice.” Grand Alf adds.

The wound in the creature’s head seems to be healing over, a second later and it’s completely gone.

Still nobody has moved.

“TROLL.” Jerky shouts.

Which seems to get things moving.

The Lost Boys scatter, Grand Alf takes a few steps left, comes to a halt looks about, then a few more right, looks about- basically dodging either side of the huge stone coffin, trying desperately to see where the Troll is. He knows what a Troll is after all; a Troll is an enormously fat creature, slovenly and uncouth, most of them have a lisp and walk with a stick, they’re fond of butterscotch, dumplings, acrylic-wool mix cardigans and… Hang on. His brain thinks- I’m panicking aren’t I, I’ve no idea at all what a Troll looks like, for all I know the Troll could be the dozy tall geezer sitting in the sarcophagi before me… Oh, hang on again. A tiny sign flashes on and off inside the cavern in which his brain sits- the flashing sign reads- “Bingo.”

The Troll lashes out, one huge gnarly fist, Grand Alf ducks, the creature’s fist passes over his bent form and smashes into Aleso’s face, breaking his nose and fracturing his jaw.

“That was close.”

Grand Alf scoots away.

Aleso staggers into the wall, grips on for dear life.

Dartamor looks for a safe spot, sees one, runs up a wall and takes to crouching on the ceiling- the joys of Spider Climb.

“Mwash Mwit.” Aleso mouths.

Saradomin has no idea what he’s on about, continues to run around the room, in what passes for blind panic.

The Troll rises from its sitting position, it’s enormous, still stood inside the sarcophagi, it could touch the ceiling- easy.

Not so safe then, Dartamor thinks.

“How do we kill it?” He shouts.
“Fire.” Jerky hollers back.

The effect is instantaneous, everyone, bar Aleso, fumbles for a missile weapon and lets rip at the creature- it has little or no affect, the wounds regenerate swiftly.

The Troll gingerly steps out of the sarcophagi, stretches; clicking and creaking bones, yawns- then looks for breakfast.

“I meant fire- burn it.” Jerky clarifies.

Aleso meanwhile has been fumbling for a healing potion, finds one, or so he thinks, and takes a swig, thinks- damn, that’s hot- his throat burns.


Gouts of flame erupt over and around the Troll.

It stops what it was doing, smoke coils from its blackened form, turns to face the Paladin.

“MwI Mwidn’t Mwactmwually mWean MWo MWo Mwat…” Aleso offers.

A hand darts down from the ceiling and swiftly swipes the Trolls necklace, the hulking creature looks about- momentarily confused- what just happened. Dartamor takes the opportunity to skulk away.

The Troll remembers its purpose.


Aleso prepares to meet the creature’s charge- by pressing himself hard to the stone wall, looking away, and shutting his eyes.


The Troll lands hard on the sarcophagi, unsteady still, stone shatters and smashes where it lands.

“Hold your ground Holy Knight, for I have a plan.” Grand Alf states.

Aleso makes a half-hearted pretence of defence.

The Troll punches him in the face again. Aleso’s head rocks back and cracks into the stone wall, he looks groggy.

“That’s it- you’ve got him now.” Grand Alf encourages, and then “Saradomin- go.”

The bustling Cleric rushes in, “yoink”, and instead of healing the Paladin, grabs the Fire Breath Potion, Saradomin scuttles out- still leaving the Troll facing off against Aleso.

The Troll strides forward, lashing out as it does so, Aleso retreats- into a corner, he’s trapped, and won’t last long.

“Mwot mwevwmer mwit mwis mwen mwooo mwit mwoon.” Aleso garbles.

Next Turn: Mwelp Mwe.


Turn 5.4

Mwelp Mwe.​

The Troll continues to menace Aleso.

“MWake Mwit Mwop. MWWake Mwit Mwo MwaMway. Mwelor Mwelp mWe.”

The Paladin seems to be taking it all in his stride, in his usual fashion.

Grand Alf flings a flask of oil at the creatures back, it smashes on impact. Dartamor adds to the mess, upending another flask from above, on the creature’s head.

The Troll staggers back, looks about for his new enemy, oil in his eyes.

Jerky darts in, grabs Aleso and drags him out of the way, his healing touch pumping the Paladin full of vim and vigour, and hit points, of course.

“Gy Gighty Gaint Guthbert- Gie Gowl Geast.”

Saradomin gargles, and then spits.


It’s flame on.

The Troll staggers and flails wildly, the adventurers hang back, stay out of the creatures reach.

They take it in turns to dart in, melee weapons to the fore, deliver distracting blows.

It’s soon over, the Troll crumples, a steaming black mass, mostly- there are parts of the creature that still seem to be regenerating.


Aleso chops the Trolls head off.

The Paladin rolls his shoulders, puffs out his chest.

“Pelor bless us in this our great quest, may thy fiery countenance shine forth and bring low all those that stand before us.”

He crosses himself, even he realises how close he came to death.

“Ditto, replacing Pelor with St. Cuthbert, and for ‘fiery countenance shine forth and’, substitute ‘gnarly knobbly rod of might’, we give thanks.”

Saradomin finishes his prayer.

In the background Grand Alf has picked up the dead Trolls head and is holding it up before him, think Hamlet with Yorick’s skull in the graveyard scene, except-

“I'm standin' here. You make the move.”

Grand Alf poses, stares hard at the Troll’s head.

“You make the move.
It's your move.”

Grand Alf quick draws a sandwich.

Takes a bite- MMm, Magic Smash.

“Don't try it, you flip-diddly-doo.”

He intones spraying peanuts and breadcrumbs.

“You talkin' to me?
You talkin' to me?
You talkin' to me?”

His sandwich shaking reaches titanic proportions.

“Then who the hell else are you talking-- You talking to me?
Well, I'm the only one here.”

He slaps the Troll’s head round the chops with the floppy end of his sandwich, steaming mad.

“Who the flip-dickety do you think you're talking to?”

He drops the Troll’s head- like it’s just said something nasty about his mum.

The head impacts with the floor, crumples- rots away.

“Oh, yeah?”

Arms out wide, head thrown back, sandwich vibrating furiously.

“Err… Grand Alf.” Saradomin calls over- looking behind the Sorcerer, eyes on stalks.

“Whaff?” Grand Alf takes a huge bite of sandwich- he’s earned it.

“GRAND ALF”, this time the shout is from all of his colleagues- a chorus. They’re all looking behind him.

Grand Alf takes another bite of sandwich and saunters around to see what’s so interesting behind him.

Oh yes, the Troll, he saunters round again, a moment then his brain catches up with his visual faculties- he juggles his sandwich for a second, then abandons it to gravity, and scarpers.


The others step in, alas for the Troll it’s only just on its feet, it seems it’s got up too soon.

Aleso and Saradomin flail wildly at the thing.

“Pelor… SMASH… kick the… WHACK… out of this… FUMP… foul miscreant.”
“St. Cuthbert… WHACK… send thy knobbly rod… SMASH… and staff… FUMP… to discomfort this ... THUNK… foul wretch.”

And the Troll is in bits again, regenerating slowly still though.

The divine duo are a little out of breath.

“MORE FIRE.” Jerky shouts.

The five some fumble through their packs, while delivering ad hoc beatings to the flopping Troll shaped mush- they strike oil. All that they have, is brought forth, poured on, and flame applied.


And that really is the end of the creature.

“This is rubbish.” Dartamor admires the necklace he ‘found’ earlier- around the Troll’s neck.

Jerky, however secures a quality dagger, probably masterwork, and that seems to be the end of the treasure.

DMs interlude- you should have seen the looks I got, they thought they were going to be, ‘minted.’

“Right.” Grand Alf states, “let’s get on with the job at hand… rescue the kids, we haven’t got time to waste treasure hunting- people’s lives are at stake.”

The Sorcerer shakes his head, disappointed in his colleagues, and then heads off- at a sprint.

“What the…” Jerky starts up, but Grand Alf’s gone.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to get used to him.” Aleso offers.
“He was sent to us as punishment.” Saradomin states.
“Penance.” Aleso adds.
“For past sins.” Saradomin finishes.

They wander off.

Daratamor approaches a still unmoving Jerky.

“It’s the one thing that pair agree on.” Dartamor states, and then he too is gone.

Jerky shrugs and follows.

Next Turn: Down, down, deeper and down.

Richard Rawen

First Post
Great fun as usual, can't give the bright young lads too much treasure from the go or they'll get overconfident (and greedy). Really brings back memories =-)


Turn 5.5

Down, down, deeper and down.​

They’re back in Durnn’s chamber, the huge, liana draped, hole leads down into darkness.

“I’ll check it out.”

Dartamor secures a rope around the throne, seems to be fairly immovable, and lets it flop over the side- he edges his way down, and into another world...

Dartamor moves silently down into a huge cavernous chamber, lit by a fine collection of white and blue glowing fungi, he reaches the cavern floor- it’s soft, a layer of soil. Numerous spindly plants, stunted and twisted, dot the chamber.


Dartamor crouches, notices a cowled figure, spade in hand, digging in the dry grey dirt.

He spots another, and then notices the creature’s hands, stripped of their flesh, on the spade- Skeletons.

The cowled figure turns to stare at him, two glowing red eyes hidden deep within the creature’s hood.

A plant to his right uproots itself, shakes soil free, and then staggers towards him.

Dartamor looks up, into the glaring light above.


He half screams-whispers.

“What did he say?” Up above, Grand Alf asks.
“Kelp?” Saradomin wonders.

And is greeted by silence, and confused faces.

“Kelp?” Aleso states.

More silence. More confused looks.

“Ohhhhh. I get it.”

Saradomin rocks gently- laughter. Grand Alf and Aleso look on further confused.

“Kelp- remember, at the start, you were fighting the rats, you were shouting up, we thought you said… Kelp, instead of- help.” Saradomin explains.

Grand Alf and Aleso exchange glances, continue to stare at the odd Priest. They don’t get the joke.

“Kelp, as in ‘help’- as in he’s in trouble.” Saradomin chuckles some more.

“Very funny”, he adds, “tres amusing.”

Confusion continues.

“Are you saying that Dartamor needs our help?” Aleso finally asks.
“Yes, I suppose I am.” Saradomin continues to hiccup with laughter.

Then Saradomin gets it.

“Oh- he’s in trouble.”

Grand Alf leaps over the side, grabs at a vine, and slides down it like some professional vine-slider, or something. He’s at the bottom in seconds, hoping up and down, blowing on his red-raw hands.

“Hot… Hot… Ow… Burny… Burny… Hot hands.”

No use to anyone.

Dartamor is cut and bruised, scratched and slashed- he’s not well. And his rapier doesn’t seem to be making much of an impact on his less-than-solid attackers.

He’s also being crowded by two Twig Blights, ferocious bundles of twigs- or so they seem to Dartamor, and two Skeleton gardeners swinging spades.

Grand Alf takes in the scene.


A Magic Missiles thumps into a Skeleton’s skull, the creature turns to glare at him- heads over to investigate further.

Dartamor is hit again, barely on his feet, Grand Alf backs away.

And then the cavalry arrive, Saradomin, Aleso, and Jerky last.

“Bludgeoning weapons.” Jerky shouts.

But only Jerky and Saradomin have any of those.

Grand Alf and Dartamor receive simultaneous enlightenment; they both attempt to wrestle the spades away from their respective Skeleton opponents.

“Hands off emaciated fiend, that’s Grand Alf’s Staff of Earth Moving you wield.”

Saradomin strides up to the Skeleton swinging at Dartamor.


Smashes the creatures skull.


Aleso, by his side, scythes through one of the Twig Blights.

Dartamor grabs the Skeletons spade, turns to flatten the remaining Twig Blight.


But too late, Aleso has his second victim.

Saradomin meanwhile shuffles over to help Grand Alf, who’s still locked in a tug-of-spade, sorry- Staff of Earth Moving, with his opponent.


Saradomin bats the creatures skull away- the final Skeleton concertinas and collapses.

Grand Alf wrenches the spade, from its dying grasp, and waves it high above his head.

“Can you dig it?”


Brings it down on the Skeletons already cracked, and now shattered, skull.

And at that moment Balsag the Hunter, a huge Bugbear, chooses to make his presence known.

“Gerr ready ta meet t' cuk pot..”

“It seems we’re just in time for tea.” Dartamor swiftly translates.

A pair of ferocious looking Dire Rats snap and bite at the nearly eight foot tall Bugbear’s feet.

Dartamor grins, crouches in a combat stance.

Aleso holds his scimitar before him, “Pelor bless me”, he whispers.

Saradomin smacks the head of his mace into his palm- withdraws it, shakes it furiously, “Oww.”

Grand Alf smiles like fury- “What’re we having for tea?”

He skips from foot to foot.

End of turn, end of the sessions we’ve played so far.

Next Turn- your guess is as good as mine the next game is not for ages.


First Post
Great Story. The Sunless Citadel was my first adventure when i came back into D&D after ten years adsent and it is a great adventure.

The only problem i have is that you think Goblin's are form Yorkshire. As some one who was was raised and spent twenty years in Yorkshire am slighty upset at been compared to a goblin.

But Hey Ho - carry on the good work.


I spent two years living in Leeds- fantastic place, fantastic people.

I arrived there with a kit bag (ex-forces) with all my wordly possessions in it, and an address of somewhere to stay- no idea where it was. I got on the first bus I saw outside the station, the driver looked me up and down, after my explanation, then said hang-on.

Five minutes later he dropped me off, then said he'd have to get off because he'd diverted from his route to get me where I needed to be...

It's that kind of stuff that leaves an impression.

Yorkshire folk as Goblins- that's easy, I love the accent and I've nothing but fond memories of Tykes.

My good lady says I've the look of an Ogre about me... but she's biased.

Thanks for reading.



Next game not until 10th October, earliest- gaaaaaaaah.

Damn work and their evil machinations, makes you madder than Grand Alf.


First Post
Goonalan said:

Next game not until 10th October, earliest- gaaaaaaaah.

Damn work and their evil machinations, makes you madder than Grand Alf.

Well that sucks. I'll put you down for a 10-11-07 read then . . . a Wednesday, I look forward to it =-)


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