The Whiterock Castle Campaign- Nothing better than a good old sausage in you.

[Goonalan]

Turn 17. “Suckers.”

The Sinister Secret of Whiterock.

“What is it you spy yonder stout Orc.” Cestode starts up, and is hissed into silence.
“Not that.” Gina snaps, thankfully Grungarak hasn’t heard.
“Not what- stout? Does he have issues with his size? Some sort of regime may be in order, I try to eat half a pig before lunchtime, and I avoid exercise at all costs- bad for digestion.” Cestode pats a belly, he has a few to spare.
“No, not the stout bit, the Orc bit.” Gina whispers.
“But he’s…”
“A Ranger.” Gina finishes.
“No, he’s an Or…”
“That’s right, a Half-Orc.” Twiglet steps in.
“Oh. I see.” Cestode plainly doesn’t see at all.

Over on the far platform, a rickety wooden affair, Grungarak levers himself up and begins to climb the cavern wall- he’s not got far to go, in seconds he’s at a second, much smaller, platform, there was a ladder here once, now there’s just a lever, it can go up and down- it’s in the down position.

“There’s a lever.” The Ranger calls back.
“Good. What position is it in?” Gina asks.
“Down.”
“Then pull it up.”

Obvious really.

GRRRRRIND

Shuddering and shaking, dancing in the air, the chain between the platform rises- all the way up, there’s a hook on the end of it, a very large hook meant to haul something big. The something big it used to haul is alas long gone.

“That’s a puzzler.” Twiglet states.
“I’ve got an idea.” Gina smiles.

Ten minutes later they’re ready.

Or not, as the case maybe.

At least some of them are ready.

“How did they get up and down then, the Gnome things?” Cestode asks.
“Suckers.” Grungarak shouts down to the Dwarf.
“I beg your pardon, I…” Cestode splutters.
“Suckers- they gripped onto the cavern wall and just walked down it- I s’pose.” Gina clears up the mystery.
Grungarak nods, unseen.
“Oh, I see.” Cestode adds.

“Ready then brave Paladin of Moradin?” Twiglet asks, leering over the edge of the platform.

Below Cestode hangs off the chain secured by a loop of rope, a second rope is tied around his waist- that’s a lot of rope, just in case he falls which, in turn, is gripped up top by Gina and Twiglet.

“Ah. Yes, for Moradin.” The Paladin mumbles.
“Lower away.” Gina shouts across.
Grungarak wrenches the lever down, and jiggling into the dark goes Cestode.

It takes a little over thirty seconds for the chain to descend all the way, thirty seconds of blind terror for Cestode, followed by a little more blind terror- he hangs there, in the dark.

“Err… I’m down.”
“What can you see brave Cestode?” Twiglet calls.

Cestode gulps.

“Err… Not much, there’s a ledge- both sides, a bit above me- both sides. But too far away for me to get too. And… er… there’s a big waterfall- somewhere below, I can hear it. And a light- either very small, or a long, long way down.”

Cestode gulps some more.

“Can you get off the rope, on to the ground?” Twiglet calls down.
“NO. There is no ground”, Cestode screams back, “as far as I can see.”

“Okay- we’ll swing you.” Twiglet calls back.

Which takes a while to register with the Paladin of Moradin.

“What do you mean- swing me?”

But by the time he’s finished the sentence he’s found out- the hard way. Cestode suddenly learns a new skill- trapeze artist.

“Hey. HEY. HEEEY.” He feels sick.

“Tell us when you’re…”
THUMP
“I’m there.”

Cestode grips the ledge, hauls himself up. “Give me some slack.” He shouts up, rope loops below him, he eventually unhooks the first rope from the chain.

He gulps again, and heads on in.

“Please Moradin, please Moradin, pleeeeeease.” He whines and with white knuckles grips his axe.

Down a short corridor that ends before a peculiar portal cast of silvery metal. Each of the paired doors sports the face of an enraged giant, maw open wide, as if in a barbaric howl. A raised keyhole is placed at the seam between the two doors.

“Nice.” The Dwarf whispers, “homely.”

Thirty seconds later he’s back out again.

“There’s a door, it’s locked- we need a Rogue, or else the key- do any of you have the key, probably not- waste of time really, I should be heading back.” He calls up.
“Have you tried it?” Gina shouts down.
“What?”
“The door. It might be open.” Gina ends the debate.

“.” Cestode minces back into the dark.

All the way to the door.

Gingerly he reaches out, carefully lays one hand flat to the door, breaths out, then in- and pushes.

CLANG

Behind him a portcullis drops, the Dwarf spins to see.

FWEEEEEE

The mouths of the giant faces on the doors open wider still, it gets very windy, Cestode crouches low, tries to stagger forward towards the portals.

FWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

A hurricane is unleashed.

CLANG

And Cestode is sent spinning back into the portcullis, pressed flat against the metal, cruciform, and either side of a pair of dirty great iron spikes, the portcullis is dotted with them.

By the time the wind ends, runs out of puff, Grungarak is down at the bottom of the chain, and screaming at the lost Dwarf.

The portcullis rises, then clangs shut again, standing on the ledge is Cestode- he looks as if he has seen a ghost, or else he’s been hit by lightning.

“Get back over here.” Grungarak’s words arrive at last, Cestode shakes his head, and steps off the ledge.

 

[Goonalan]

Turn 18. “Nothing better than a good old sausage in you.”

The Sinister Secret of Whiterock.

Everybody, suddenly, takes the strain. The bewildered Paladin is eventually hauled up, back into the waiting arms of Grungarak, who is hanging onto the end of the chain with one hand- like he was born to it.

“Went a bit dizzy there”, Cestode explains, “still no harm done.”
Cestode is as pale as a sheet, almost glowing- spectral.

“Hold on.” Grungarak grunts, and begins to push and pull on the chain. The pendulum swings.

“Wheeeeeeeee.” Cestode declares, and gurns.

FLOP

The Half-Orc leaps, and lands, turns and braces himself- pulling as hard as he can, the pendulum swings back and away, and is suddenly arrested in its progress as Grungarak stops it dead.

“URK.”

The other end of the rope that’s attached to the Half-Orc passes through one of the giant links on the chain and then encircles Cestode’s waste. The Dwarf is momentarily crushed and slammed into the chain.

“This was not supposed to happen.” He’s certain.

Grungarak unties the rope and lets it flop onto the ledge, “don’t go away”, he declares and heads off.

Cestode waves his thanks.

A set of stairs leads up into the dark, Grungarak draws his axe and pads up them and into a large chamber, lit with a soft, gloomy light, radiating from overgrown, giant mushrooms. The floor is covered in a thick carpet of rotting humus, the air stinks of stagnant water and decay.

Near the southwest corner is a stone spiral staircase that ascends into darkness. At the far end of the room is a pair of golden doors, overgrown with thick roots.

Grungarak cautiously enters, from behind him he can hear the ongoing conversation.

“I don’t know where he is.”
“Well where’d he go?” Gina asks the obvious.
“I said I don’t know. I’m a bit- dizzy.” Cestode replies.
“Be brave Cestode.” This time its Twiglet’s voice.
“Yes. I’ll try. Probably.”

The Half-Orc creeps on, the chamber is ancient, there are bones on the floor, animals, humanoids, Orcs- he smiles.

The spiral stair heads up into darkness, he sniffs the air- there’s an animal scent, filth and rot, it’s coming from above. He moves on towards the door, and is almost caught.

Like lightning a vine, one of the myriad that snake through the chamber, lashes at him, set to catch his leg, he dances, to the side and back, another vine, another, the vines reach out to grab him- but he’s away, moving backwards, dancing still till…

THUMP

His back’s against the wall, ahead of him, on the door, sinuous liana’s wind and coil, creep out, reach out- trying to grasp him.

He’s back at the ledge in less than thirty seconds.

“We need to find another way down.” He calls across, the Dwarf now back to his senses nods.

Two minutes later the pair are back up top, and off the chain.

“Nope. Moradin has assured me, as if in a dream, that we should have taken the first door, the first path… the righteous path, as I stated earlier, Twiglet… Twiggy, there’s no shame- you tried.”

It goes quiet for a bit- Twiglet looks crestfallen.

“Onwards.” Cestode marches off, back up the stairs.

They follow on, and back into the first chamber, with the as yet unexplored passage heading south, Cestode is almost at the end of the passage.
“There’s a door, onward Moradin’s soldiers, marching as to war, with the hammer of Moradin going on before…” he states and then sings.
“Wait.” Gina calls to him.
“What is it now?”
“We need a Rogue.”
“What?”
“A Rogue.”
“We have no need of pilfering vagabonds, miscreants and ne’er-do-wells, we...”
“To find any traps that lie ahead.” Gina adds.

“Good idea, I think I suggested it earlier.” Cestode confirms.
“Then we’ll go and get one, back at the Inn, there’s a few shifty looking critters in there, bound to be one… me and Grungarak.”
Grungarak looks surprised, shrugs. Gina winks at Twiglet, who winks back.

“Perhaps I can be of assistance…” Cestode starts, but they’re gone, “right, spot of lunch- what’ve you got? I’ve got sausages, nothing better than a good old sausage in you, eh? Twiglet?”
Twiglet blushes furiously.
“Are you hot, we could take a step outside my trusty comrade in arms- once round the Monolith?”
Twiglet shakes his head.
“Glad of that- hate exercise, abhor it, rolling around, pumping, jiggling- sweating, profusely mind, not for me. A pie, now that’s exercise.”
Twiglet nods.
“I’ve had some great pies in my time, steak & kidley, mince & bunion, my mum…” Cestode suddenly has no where to go, his eyes glisten.

Twiglet nods.

“Glad we had this chat.” Cestode mutters and shuffles over to the exit, “I’ll make sure the monolith’s alright, find something to guard.” He heads up to wipe his eyes.

Twiglet takes a breath, her first one for ages.

And there endeth session 3 of actual game play.

 

[Richard Rawen]

*sigh*

 

[Goonalan]

*sigh*

Alas this game died a unnatural death some time ago- musical differences, the players went their seperate ways.

Sorry and all that.

Cheers Paul

PS For my 4e Campaign see my sig.

 

[Goonalan]

Bloody hell, and then I went looking, into the darkest recesses of my PC (not even the same PC that I wrote this story hour on)...

Turn 19. “Clear up your mess.”

The Sinister Secret of Whiterock.

An hour passes, mostly in enforced isolation, then they’re back.

“So what qualifications did you say you had?”
Fandango, all tight leather armour and Half-Elven Rogue, just delivered from the Drake, “I thought…” She looks at Gina, the Gnome shakes her head- no help there.

Cestode continues, “if you were in a balloon, and it was rising higher, and you had to throw someone out, because otherwise you wouldn’t be able to get back, who would you throw out… to earth, so you could get back there. Who?”
The Half-Elf scans the vacant faces that surround her.
“Easy. You.”

Time passes- Cestode works it out.
“Moradin you…” Twiglet restrains him.
“I want an equal share, minimum 100 gold, else I head back to Cillimar.” Fandango states.
“That’s an outrage, I…” Twiglet struggles to keep a grip on the frothing Paladin.
“That a deal?” Fandango asks and removes an errant piece of lint from her attire.
“One hundred- I’ll give you one… One of these.” Cestode proffers a meaty fist.
“Thanks for the exercise.” Fandango goes to leave.
“Wait.” Gina sees sense, “equal shares, including the magic, and fifty minimum.”
“What magic, I thought we were after some kids- what’s down there?”
“Don’t worry about that- there’s magic down there, fifty minimum.”
“Seventy five- up front.”
Cestode makes animal noises as he struggles.
“Deal.” Gina concludes.

Two or three minutes of stuggling and swearing later order is restored, well… of a sort. Cestode’s still not happy.

“Can you check the door ahead.” Gina points, Fandango nods, “I’ll put my talents to work, if you’ll keep the lumbering Dwarf at bay.”
Cestode fumes, and then thinks- possibly a first.
“How do we know, y’know- how do we know that you’re up to it- the job?” The Paladin of Moradin grins.
“What?”
“Look over there”, Cestode points, “that skull, in the corner, on the crate- get it for me, if you can do that, then…”
“Just the skull?” Fandango looks confused, “why?”
“Cestode, that’s a tr…” Twiglet starts up but is cut short.
“A test- just a test.” Cestode declares.
Fandango shrugs and mooches over to have a look at the skull lodged in the corner.

“NO.” Twiglet’s getting angry, he stomps off down the passage- to the door, “we need you to check out this…”

FWUD- “Aaaaaaaaaagh…”

And…

CRUNCH

Two things happen at once, Twiglet reaches the end of the passage- the floor gives way- he falls. At the same time Fandango reaches in and grabs the skull, tugs it, one corner of ceiling collapses but the Half-Elf is too quick, she’s out of the way- rubble and dust fill the air.

PLOOOOOOSH

Twiglet plummets into deep water, and somehow retains enough cool to furiously flap towards the surface- more by luck than judgement, the water is a little cloudy to say the least.

He breaks the surface.

“I’m alri…”

Then spots a very large Rat, a Dire Rat in fact, paddling towards him- he grabs out his dagger.

“Rats- get down here”, Twiglet calls up, “quickly.”

Up top things are not going to plan, the dust clears and lying amidst the rubble are the skeletal remains of a trio of, well- Skeletons, Orc in size and shape, oh look they’re picking themselves up and reaching for weapons, jagged, rusty scimitars.

“Rope- grab.” Grungarak gets to work, throws his rope down the newly formed hole and passes the end to Gina and Fandango. “Clear up your mess.” The Half-Orc shouts at Cestode then nods at the pair holding the rope- they take the strain, the Half-Orc descends.

Cestode shrugs, unlimbers his warhammer, spits on his hands and grins- “come to daddy.”

The first Orc Skeleton obliges and is smashed to smithereens.

“So he’s good for something.” Fandango whispers to Gina, who smiles.

Down below Twiglet snarls, the Rat splashes towards her and is stabbed in the belly, once, then twice- it floats off lifeless.

PLASH-PLASH

Twiglet looks about, two more Dire Rats have taken to the water, he frantically scans the circular cavern, some sort of a cistern- spots an opening, a set of stairs leading up out of the stinky water. He paddles furiously, thrashes the water to foam in an effort to get there.

PLOOOOSH

Grungarak falls the last ten feet into the stinking water, grabs a rat in passing, and submerges- rip, tear, rend. The Half-Orc surfaces and discards the corpse of the deceased Dire Rat neck broken by his crushing hands.

Twiglet makes the stairs, spins around as the last rat follows on, slices the thing but not before it’s taken a bloody chunk out of his ankle.

RAAAAAAAR

The noise comes from behind him, he spins around again- dagger still in hand.

Out of the darkened stinking chamber up the stairs ahead comes a huge creature all matted fur, clawed paws and terrifying beak- hang on, beak- it’s an Owlbear, a juvenile, but still six feet at the shoulder, Twiglet looks down at his dagger, back up at the Owlbear, turns once more, and plunges back into the foetid water.

 

[Goonalan]

This one's for Richard

Turn 20. “Dwarves- we don’t float.”

The Sinister Secret of Whiterock.

Back up top the remaining pair of Orc Skeletons double team the fat Paladin of Moradin.

SMASH

Or rather they would do, the second Skeleton loses its head, Cestode’s warhammer describes a furious arc, the offending skull ricochets off all four walls before coming to rest, the Skeleton concertinas into a pile of dried bones.

One left, and Gina’s no help, the Gnome is heading down the rope, now secured by Fandango, the little Gnome is incredibly light, almost no weight at all.

Gina gets half-way down the line and stops, a light spell flares, illuminating the chamber fully, and the Owlbear growling at the top of the stairs, the creature moans and shuffles backwards not used to the bright light.

And that’s all the time Grungarak and Twiglet need, the pair share a look and then thrash their way to the stairs and out, trampling some sort of nest on their way, a rats nest by the look of things.

The pair dash into the Owlbear’s chamber that stinks like a butcher’s slaughterhouse, the air thick with the smell of bloody feathers. A hulking shape looms out of the darkness, and is met by flashing axes.

The creature lurches forward paws the air before it and for its efforts is gashed horribly, blood and fur fly, the thing squeals like a stuck pig as Grungarak buries his blade in the creature’s side. Twiglet is none too slow either, a downward chop that bites deep into the creatures left knee, it moans, almost sags and falls.

It swipes out, desperate; one claw catches Grungarak, spins the Half-Orc around and away- blood gushes from the wound on his forehead. Twiglet dodges in, swings his greataxe beneath the creature’s guard, buries the blade deep in its gut. The creature squeals again, wrenches the axe from the Dwarf’s hands and backs away, moaning all the while, blood pours from the wound, a curtain of red making the floor slick.

The Owlbear gets only two or three feet before finally collapsing, one slow sad eye opens and closes, it takes a good while for it to die.

Back in the first chamber the last Skeleton is giving Cestode the run around, the Dwarf has already taken a glancing blow, his armour absorbing much of the hurt, till finally he backs the thing into a corner and smashes its legs from beneath it.

The fight is over.

Two minutes later the rope has been secured up top and Cestode has finally made his way down, and through the water,

“Not made for water, Dwarves- we don’t float, it’s against nature, the teachings of Moradin, start splashing around in water and where will it end- washing, that’s where.”

The others ignore his mutterings, explore the chamber properly. It’s a stinking mess however there’s something odd in the rat’s nest, interesting-odd, a bone, a rib by the look of it, although much bigger than a human rib, the bone is covered in runes, Gina tucks it away, perhaps Quintas can help to identify it.

Then there’s a spiral staircase heading down, and down’s where they need to go, but not too soon, Gina tends to wounds, and proffers friendly words.

“Keep it up Twiggy, you’re a real warrior now- look at the size of that thing.” Twiglet and Gina turn to stare at the corpse of the Owlbear. Twiglet grins.
“There, there Mr. Grungarak.” Gina soothes the hurts on the Half-Orc, who grunts and nods back at the Gnome.
“Chin up brave Paladin of Moradin.” Cestode shrugs and looks along the line to Fandango- grimaces at the Half-Elf.
“I’m fine Gina, I endeavour to avoid sharp objects, at all times.” Fandango winks at the Gnome, and she’s done.

Fandango also makes a discovery, the skull she rescued earlier, on Cestode’s behest, it’s got something rattling inside it, the something turns out to be a nicely cut emerald, not of great value but nice looking and worth a gold or thirty.

The value of the stone increases dramatically when Gina indicates that the gem seems to have magical qualities- although what they are, another item for Quintas to inspect.

Five minutes later they’re heading down, and this time Grungarak is leading the way, which is fortunate as he’s been in the chamber below before- soft, gloomy light, radiates from overgrown, giant mushrooms. The floor is covered with a thick carpet of rotting humus, and the air stinks of stagnant water and decay.

And at the far end of the room, a pair of golden doors, overgrown with a flailing Assassin Vine that probes the air as they shuffle around the outside of the chamber, keeping as far away as they can from it’s twirling lianas.

“Moradin’s greenhouse, how do we kill that?” Cestode asks.

Grungarak points, buried within the thickest part of the plant is its central stalk, the Half-Orc stops pointing and starts shooting, arrow after arrow thunk into the heart of the plant, a good half of them penetrating the rough bark.

Fish in a barrel time, the others join in, save Cestode who, as it turns out, has an opinion on missile weapons.

“Face-to-face, that’s real fighting, the clash of steel, combat-at-arms- anyone can throw things, fire them… whatsits?” The Dwarf indicates the strange device that Gina is putting to good use.
“It’s a crossbow.” The Gnome states and shakes her head.
“Crossbow, an alien word to a Paladin of Moradin, victory can only be gained in the test of strength.” The Dwarf shuts up a while.

Eventually the Assassin Vine flops onto the floor, dead.

“Where can I buy, one of these- Cross-Bows?” Cestode enquires of Twiglet, in a whisper, when no-one is about.

“I’ll check out the doors.” Fandango heads over, Gina scurries after the Half-Elf.
Grungarak guards the way, which leaves Cestode and Twiglet with time on their hands- they promenade.

Actually march- Cestode insists.

“Marching’s good for the soul, it’s orderly, and in polite societies, Dwarven societies that is, it’s considered fashionable- you can tell a lot from how a Dwarf marches.”

Twiglet tries to keep up, Cestode has taken marching to whole new level- hops, skips, turns, random about-faces, there’ll all in there.

“For instance, if an observer were to see me marching now, well they’d know that I was a serious Dwarf, that I have good intentions, and…” Cestode stops stretches a leg, “feel that”, he indicates his right calf.
Gingerly Twiglet reaches down and rubs the spot, “Nice.”
“Isn’t it- I have excellent calves.” He flexes some more, Twiglet rubs some more.

“Oh.” Twiglet stops, stares hard at a blank piece of wall.
“What is it?” Cestode is all action, greataxe to the fore.
“Secret door.” Twiglet points to the wall.
“Where?”
“Where I’m pointing.” Cestode follows the finger, it’s a blank bit of wall.
“I’ll tell the others, you find the opening mechanism.”
“But…” Twiglet heads off, as good as her word.
Cestode turns back to stare at the wall- he has no clue where to start.
“Bastard.” He whispers and then feels the stony impediment that bars the way, not even sure he’s looking in the right place.

 

[Richard Rawen]

Why, thank you kind sir!

Please, may we have another?

 

[Goonalan]

The Whiterock Castle Campaign- Shining example of he-Dwarf

Why, thank you kind sir!

Please, may we have another?

There's not many left so make them last, or else head over to my new-ish story hour starring the Friday Knights a misfit bunch of reprobates that are doing fine work this time 4e related, but hey who can tell from the write ups- it's all D&D related malarky.

And that includes you Richard.

Turn 21. “Shining example of he-Dwarf.”

The Sinister Secret of Whiterock.

Twiglet returns, with Gina in tow, the golden portals are proving to be quite a conundrum, not the opening as much as to the what happens next, after they’ve been opened- they seem to be trapped, or else something happens- the Half-Elf’s not entirely sure, she continues to search for the answer.

“Well I’ve scoured the whole of this wall”, Cestode indicates everything within reach- it’s not a lot, “there seems to be no opening mechanism, as far as I can see, there’s probably nothing here, a false secret door- sneaky, Gnomes are you know, oh hello Gina, I didn’t see you there.”
Gina scowls, “it looks like a door, even I can see it.”
Cestode peers around, stares hard at the spot, what are they seeing?

Twiglet sets to, and a minute later agrees with the Paladin of Moradin, “nope- odd really, why would you go to the trouble, unless”, Twiglet marches over to Fandango, and when I say marches, I mean marches- Cestode style.
“Look at him move.” Cestode rocks back and forth, chuckles and claps his hands in admiration.
Gina screws up her face, confused.

A little while later, “Ok- got it”, Fandango calls them over.

The doors are decorated in a sheet of hammered gold, depicted on which are the traditional enemies of Gnomes – Dragons, Giants, Ogres, and Kobolds. The key, rather the lock, is in the Giant’s mouth- Fandango reaches in.

“There are some tumblers in here, hard to manipulate, made for smaller hands, still I think I’ve got the hang of it.” Fandango states while working away.

The others, bar Twiglet, take several steps back, adventurers are an instinctive bunch. Twiglet catches up on reality, she retires a little way and…

CLICK

The doors open and…

GRIND

“What was that?” Cestode’s in combat mode.
“The secret door’s open.” Twiglet leaps into the air to celebrate, claps his hands like a… well, a little girl, and then scurries off to see.
“Is he…” Cestode starts up.
“Oh, I get it- he’s a sh…” Fandango cuts the Dwarf off.
“Shining example of he-Dwarf… ness.” Gina concludes.
Cestode looks from one to the other- what did he miss, Fandango grins and heads over to examine the newly opened secret door.

Soon after it seems the Half-Elf Rogue has found some more traps, which is a shame as the secret chamber revealed is desperately in need of looting.

The stench of death and therefore gold, assaults their senses. Inside the darkened alcove is a dusty wooden altar, covered in cobwebs, and in two smaller alcoves, recesses, a pair of coffers- silver coffers, silver as in the metal, not just the colour.

Cestode rubs his hands together- undisguised glee, minimalist undisguised glee however.

But that’s all before Fandango ruins the party.

“There’s a… portcullis”, Fandango points up, “and then there’s two”, she points again- to the spaces just before each of the silver chest, “two, raised areas- there and there, triggers, any weight on them and… Whammo.”
“Whammo.” Cestode states, “what does Whammo mean, exactly?”
“No idea, nothing good I’d imagine.”
“Do you even know what you’re doing?” Cestode splutters.
“Yes.” Fandango states, certain, “not rushing in- getting myself killed, however…” Fandango curtsies and indicates that the way is clear for Cestode to try his luck.
“Harumph.” The Paladin of Moradin goes for a little walk, then stops and turns back- grinning.
“Can’t we just drag the coffers out, we don’t have to step on the triggers- ahhh, see, I was paying attention.”
“Not if there’s anything in them.”
Cestode stares into space a moment, in polite societies it signifies thinking, finally- “why?”
“Because the weight of the coffers will probably activate the triggers.” Fandango concludes.
“Then we just have to disarm all of the traps- starting with the portcullis.” Cestode goes one better.
“Right, I hadn’t thought of that. Give me a minute.”

“Logic, cold-hard Dwarven logic.” Cestode taps the side of his head and retires to eat pre-lunch.

Twenty minutes later Fandango’s done, or not…

“The portcullis is secured, the other two traps are beyond my skill…”
“Beyond…”
“However”, Cestode shuts his mouth, “I have a plan.” Fandango continues, “two of us rush in, grab the coffers and drag them out.”

Nobody talks for a while because they think there’s more to it- the plan that is.

There isn’t.

“Who goes in?” Cestode’s eager, he’s also the slowest and least agile person present, he smiles, warm in that knowledge.
“Me.” Fandango states.
“Me.” Grungarak concurs.

It goes like a dream.

The pair rush in, trigger the triggers, grab their respective coffers and rush back out again, all before the right hand wall of the chamber travels all the way across to crush anyone, in this case no-one, that’s left in the chamber.

“Whammo.” Fandango says, and springs the first chest, and what a lot they’ve got, courtesy of a Detect Magic spell from Gina they divine that there are two magical milky white pearls; a magical warhammer- Cestode doesn’t wait to be asked, he grabs it; a magical cloak, and five magical crossbow bolts. There’s also a trio of gold ingots and a single, beautiful, emerald wrapped in silk.

“That paid for your time?” Gina asks.
Fandango grins at the Gnome.

The find is stashed away, they head over to the golden portals and through.

 

[Richard Rawen]

There's not many left so make them last, or else head over to my new-ish story hour starring the Friday Knights a misfit bunch of reprobates that are doing fine work this time 4e related, but hey who can tell from the write ups- it's all D&D related malarky.

And that includes you Richard.

Now, does that mean I'm included in those that will just have to make them last... or am I lumped into the D&D related malarky...

it applies either way I suppose

 

[Goonalan]

Blimey, I was in a dark place when I wrote this...

Turn 22. “The stars are beautiful.”

A moment away from the narrative to introduce Fandango, for your delectation and gaming pleasure-

The stars glitter, she’d never felt so… so… alive.

Safe in his arms, twenty-one and in love, beyond love… already. She’d found her soul mate- the man that she would marry, raise children with, grow old with…

“The stars are beautiful, when I see them, when I’m away- I think of your smile.”

They dance on, the beat mirroring the beat of her heart, Fandango felt like she was in heaven, lighter than air, the tips of her toes barely brushing the ground.

He’s eighteen, three years her junior, of the Rhenee folk, bargees, floating extended families content to ply the waterways of the land, sometimes in search of adventure, most times laden with cargo for faraway places. His high cheek bones are perfect, his face- well, an Adonis, his hair- silk, too good to be true, and yet here he is- holding her to him, his strong arms…

They dance on.

Until the sun comes up.

Then it’s back to the fire, the music has stopped, it stopped an hour ago, but by that time they no longer needed the violin and the drum, the rhythm was within them.

The drum.

The Drum.

DRUMDRUMDRUM.

Fandango awakes, it’s raining outside, and on the thin and leaky wooden roof of the shack, she pulls the covers over her- cold. She shivers and coils her hair around her finger.

Time passes, oh so slowly.

Eventually hunger gets the better of her, she rises, tip toes across the sodden boards to investigate the cupboards knowing full well that there’s nothing to be found there- she looks anyway, even feigns annoyance for a while.

Then heads back to bed.

Pulls the covers up over her.

Cold still.

Hungry still.

The rain beats on the roof, trying to get in.

She lies down, closes her eyes, blocks out the light.

The fire’s almost out now, they hold hands, gaze into the dying embers lost in the moment, lost forever.

His hand feels warm in hers, and yet his touch is light, almost fading.

He turns to her, stares into her eyes, eventually leans in to kiss.

Kissssssss.

HISSSSSSSS.

She wakes again, the water has made its way into the shack, although the drum on the roof has ceased, it’s dark out.

Droplets fall onto the still warm oven, bubble and hiss into puffs of steam.

Fandango gets up again, in a rush this time- she dresses quickly, then leans hard on the door, it sticks sometimes, and bursts out into the night.

A toenail of moon shines down illuminating the muddy lane, the other wooden shacks, and behind them the huge broken walls of Cillamar.

She heads off in a crouch, warped like a crone, makes for the nearest gap in the wall, she’s soon there, nobody sees her, there’s nobody about. Although a hacking cough, emanating from one of the other rickety shacks, signals life, although fading.

She’s through the gap and into the city itself, at this time of the night there’s next to nobody about, drunks in the doorways, a few watchmen doing their level best to avoid anyone’s attention, and the odd shadowy figure more concerned with their own business than the business of others.

It takes her ten minutes to reach the Temple of Pelor, unheard and unseen.

The main door is open- she goes inside.

Finds a pew.

Settles into it.

And finally sleeps.

Without dreams.

Three days later she awakes.

In a cell.

Right on cue the cell door opens.

“You can go.” The watchman indicates the direction of the exit, follows her out, to the front desk first for her belongings, then out into the cold light of day.

He’s a young man, the watchman, not yet wearied of the job, he has some sympathy- he passes Fandango a handful of coins and nods his head towards the Drake.

Fandango heads off.

A second watchman exits the watch house, stands there- stretching his legs, stiff and tired after a long shift spent sleeping off yesterday’s hang-over.

“Sad story.” The first watchman speaks.
“Mmm.” The other acknowledges the effort, and yet remains uninterested.
“Killed her man.”
“Who did?” That’s got his attention.
“That one.” The first watchman motions towards Fandango just entering the Drake across the way.
“How come we’re letting her go then?”
“He’d been bitten- Ghoul, he was on the turn when…”
Silence for a while.
“When she stuck him with a knife. Been shacked up with his rotting corpse for two weeks when we found her... found her- that’s a laugh- we found her asleep at the Temple of Pelor, it took two days with the Sarge to get her to tell us where she lived, where the body was.”
“Mmm.” The second watchman sidles round to a side wall, unbuttons his flies and pisses against the watch house.
“We found the dagger still in her hand at the Temple- knew she’d killed someone, just couldn’t work out who.”
“D’ya wanna cuppa?” The second watch man is back.
“Nah.”
The second watch man ducks back inside, the first reaches out, grabs his arm.
“Husband gets bitten, turns into some undead beast- tries to kill her, the place was a nightmare- blood everywhere, she stabs him to death and then, get this, drags him back to bed- sleeps with him, for two whole weeks, doesn’t eat- there’s nothing to eat.”
The second watch man tries to free his arm, he can’t- the first holds tight.
“Then we- we get her back here and kick the out of her. For two days.”
The second watchman shakes his arm free at last, enters the watch house without a backward glance.

The first watchman turns back to the Drake.

Fandango’s long gone.

He hopes she’s sitting by the fire.

With something to eat.

And drink.

And someone to talk to.

The sun beats down.

It’s a beautiful day.