Canny Scott found in the South of England!

Morning Boys, 

With Assif fully returned and Scott temporarily back in the bosom of his Mother country, we still have an opportunity for a game.

Hopefully all’s well with Scott’s family and although he’s currently trapped in the purgatory of living in the UK time-zone while working Ozzy hours, it’ll be over in a fortnight.

After that, depending on Scott’s plans, does everyone want to attempt a game in a week or so? On-line or in actual face-to-face person?

I’m happy to do both and host, but I’m aware that, while the rest of us are relatively close by, David’s still a two-hour+ drive away.

I’m happy for David to stay over at mine though.

Scott, pick a Saturday or Sunday morning or evening you can make, and we’ll take it from there. 

Finger’s crossed that our combined March/April calendars aren’t completely unmeshable.

The Impossible shot

No matter how long he stares at the upper spinning sphere, Arowe can gain no more than momentary glimpses of the emerald hidden inside. One, two, three, glimpse. One, two, three, glimpse.

As he watches the flickering orb, his mind drifts unbidden back to a time in the woods before they’d even discovered the Three-Quarterling’s secret garden or the Goddess Estrid's magical pool. Arowe recalls Sir Briefadel’s crass and needy display of his own skill. Surprised as he was at the time, Arowe realises that this shot will be every bit as difficult as Sir Briefadel’s using a heavy long-sword to slice the wings off a fly mid-flight.

Still, he has several of the Dryad arrows remaining in the quiver they’d supplied and he’s not even dipped into the magical one provided by the mystic merchant; Whackeem. With no time constraints, he can fire arrow after arrow at the tiny window of opportunity until he gets lucky.

Standing just clear of the stone doorway, Arowe raises his enchanted bow and, running his tongue along the leaf-feather flights of the first arrow he draws, he pulls taut his bow-string and releases.

It’s a good shot… A great shot! And the slender arrow flies true through the initial space, but then, before its tip can dislodge the gem, the spinning metal blades clash into its trailing shaft. 

The background humming noise instantly intensifies at the point of contact and resounds back outward a hundred times louder. Unprepared, Arowe takes the blast full to the face and immediately tastes blood in his mouth..

So much for unlimited tries…

Quicker than the Human Eye

Putting greater distance between himself and Henshaw with every upward step, the graceful Arowe arrives at the top of the slightly spiralling stairwell, only to discover yet another open doorway.

Looking in, he immediately notices that this level is brightly lit by dozens of magical shining crystals mounted in the stone ceiling. The tapering tower has narrowed considerably from its lower levels but this room is still relatively large, or it would be if it hadn't been diagonally bisected. A heavy masonry wall spans the entire length from floor to ceiling, but the roughly hewn blocks seem to be oddly cemented together with expensive copper rather than traditional lime mortar. More bizarrely, in the centre of the wall, and the room itself sits a huge, silvery ball, approximately eight-feet in diameter, with another, smaller one directly above it. 

Squinting, Arowe stares at the two asymmetric orbs. Initially they appeared to be pulsing in response to the overhead lights but after watching for a few moments, he begins to suspect that, rather than an orb, it's actually spinning rings moving so fast, they give the illusion of solidity. After a dozen more seconds, he's certain, with the smaller, slightly slower, one offering glimpses of some green crystal hidden inside.

Intuitively understanding the connections, the Elven Archer realises that, if he can dislodge the emerald in the top sphere, both spheres will slow to a stop, giving access to whatever's trapped in the larger one.

His theory is confirmed by the deeply etched message in the 'Common' script, stretching the upper length of the diagonal, stone wall, interrupted by the smaller spinning orb...

'If the Gem, you Snag... You may Free the Hag.'

Arowe's normally smooth forehead knots, as he considers this near impossible shot. To breach the tiny, spinning gaps with an arrow, he'd need to summon up all of his skill AND have the gods of luck smiling down upon him.

Puffing a little behind him, Henshaw catches up and cranes his long neck around the open doorway. He's proven himself to be a surprisingly clever fellow but his eyes are drawn, not to the spinning orbs, but the stone plinth the larger one sits on and a smashed display cabinet mounted on the wall in direct line-of-sight to it.

"Why's there a gutter running from beneath that big silver ball and what do you think was sitting behind that broken glass?"

Arowe pulls his concentration away from the almost hypnotic spinning orbs and looks instead to where Henshaw's pointing.

There is indeed a narrow stone trench running from a circular drain coming out of the stone plinth under the larger orb, slightly sloping and running along the length of the diagonal wall. It stretches from the central plinth to outer wall, where it seems to exit via the start of a small stone pipe. The stone gutter is stained inky-black with whatever used to flow there, but whatever it was, for whatever reason, it's flowing no longer.

Next, the sharp-eyed Elf looks across at the broken display case mounted on the wall beside him. Shattered glass lies in shards beneath the wooden frame and the dark green velvet inside sits empty. All that remains are the two bronze hooks and the indentation left by a thick chain and large, heart-shaped pendant.. 

A heart-shaped pendant that Arowe realises that he's seen before!

Beneath the Knees of Lord Urdurel

After cutting a crawl-space sized shape through the bottom of the talking, cold-iron door, Fortu carefully examines the blade of his new 'Hand-and-a-half' sword. Frowning heavily, he’s simultaneously amazed and relieved to see that it’s retained its perfect edge, despite literally just having been used to, back-and-forth, saw through a thick chunk of metal.

Beckoning the idle Doberman over, the two extraordinarily strong men work together to shove the solid metal block, showing Lord Urdurel’s lower legs, out of the way. The taller Fortu pushing the top of the block and the squat Doberman, lying on his back and using his feet to push the bottom. Despite their lack of purchase, the heavy metal section is slowly driven backward until it's fully clear of the three-foot depth of the metal door.

The slender Arowe, after already dismissing the powerless ghost, is the first to wiggle through, as his sharp, Elven eyes are the best suited for spotting any unwanted surprises lurking in the darkness beyond the cold-iron door. As expected, he finds himself in a small hallway leading to another flight of stone steps. What is surprising, is that there's plenty of light for his Elven eyes to see by. Beetles, centipedes and spiders skitter out of the way, but he senses something else though. Something in the background that he can't quite put his finger on, until lanky Henshaw clambers through and up beside him.

"What's that hummin' noise?"

Back on the other side of the, now compromised, cold-iron door, Doberman stands guard whilst Fortu ushers everyone else through. He's suspicious of the shadowy ghost, even though it's already returned to its hunched over sobbing within its glass case. He also shares Rifkin’s concern about the slime creature pursuing them up the tower, although there's no sign of it yet.

Not prepared to wait for the others to crawl, one-at-a-time, through the door-gap, the fair-haired Arowe rushes up the curved, stone stairway, as the subtle humming noise coming from above gets progressively louder. Glancing back at Henshaw, who's still close on his heels, the tall Elf steels himself and presses on. There's no time here for hesitation, for surely this is what he'd always dreamt of back in Glendorn? A dark and mysterious tower? A chance for heroic adventure? The opportunity to pit his speed, strength and skills against anyone or anything that dare bar his path?!

Back down at the metal door, once everyone else is safely through, Fortu wrestles, pushes and squeezes the podgy Doberman through the slightly too narrow gap, and then wriggles through himself. Arowe and Henshaw have already rushed on ahead but Liga Bur, Rifkin and Barbella are there, waiting to help push the heavy metal block back into the formally solid door. Despite Fortu’s supernaturally sharp sword, the cuts are jagged and there will be slight gaps. It’ll no longer be a perfect fit but its weight alone will hold it in place. When repositioned, only something as small as a mouse would be able to find its way through. Just as his teammates start to push together and the gap starts to narrow, Liga Bur stops and stares intently back at Padrik's glass cabinet. He's missing something...

Rifkin is the first (after Arowe and Henshaw) to notice the subtle humming sound coming from the top of the stairs. After craning his head for a moment, he quietly voices his observation.

"F-sharp with infinite sustain."

Mindless Activity

If it could think.

If it could experience joy.

It would think it was happy now.

A pig; A whole pig.

What a feast!

But then, without warning, the pig is gone.

It should feel sadness.

But to feel, it would need a heart.

To understand, it would need a brain.

The Blob has neither.

Instead, it merely hungers once more.

And so, begins to move.

The Sword is Mightier than the Quill!

Rifkin hadn’t actually seen the unrelenting and seemingly unkillable slime creature, but he’d heard the panicked screams from the men below. Screams of true fear drawn from tested men; men of action. They'd all escaped, but somehow he just knows that the abhorrent creature is still silently searching for them, slowly oozing up the stone steps behind and below them.

Fortu, seeing Arowe, Liga Bur and Barbella examining the glass cabinet, moves straight over to the ornate metal door in the opposite corner of the spacious room.

It's large, heavy and definitely cast out of the same cold-iron that the outer doors and spears were made of. It also has a full-sized embossed image of an eyepatch wearing, crowned and bearded man, his stockinged legs planted wide with his right hand, palm out and fingers splayed. Fortu recognises the features but, beyond the eyepatch, can see some differences. The figure strongly resembles Sir Briefadel and is of a similar age, but is markedly stockier. His Father; Lord Urdurel perhaps? Something's wrong though, as the iron is weirdly discoloured and warped. It's as if the door had been super-heated and, while soft and pliant, forcibly pushed out of the way, before being wedged back into place. 

As Fortu gets to within touching distance, the iron moulding speaks... Or attempts to at least. It sounds like words but muffled and distorted through partially melted lips. The Gladiator scowls though and activates the magic mouth for a second time. Listening harder this time, he can just make it out, for as garbled as it is, it's still in the common tongue.

"Halt, whether you be friend or fiend. If you know the answer to this question, through you may go... What was my beloved Daughter's secret middle name?"

From behind the broad-shouldered Pit-Fighter, Rifkin's slightly arched, elven-ish eyebrows shoot up. After quickly rifling through his overstuffed knapsack, he starts to furiously flick through the tattered remains of the Gnome; Grimcrack’s diary. Despite the Bard not being able to actually read the Gnomish script, Arowe had underlined certain words and passages in the loose scraps that seemed, potentially important. Finally, finding the page he’d been searching for, Rifkin looks up to see the smiling Fortu cutting horizontally through the metal figure’s knees. The armoured Fighter's already more than halfway through slicing a large rectangular block out of the thick cold-iron door with his astonishing new sword. Sighing softly, and knowing it's too late to make any difference, the Bard doesn’t have the heart to announce what he’d found…

Instead, Rifkin just whispers the answer into the cool, still air around him…

“Lamenta Angela Urderal.”

‘Angela’. Clever. A secret name no witch, fiend or demon would even dare think, let alone say aloud.

Padrik’s Curse

Arowe finishes reading the engraved inscription at the base of the glass cabinet.

'... the worthless soldier, who abandoned his post and allowed my precious daughter to be slaughtered in her bed.'

So engrossed in his reading, Arowe barely notices the enchanted, mummified hand, tied around his neck, twitch and point, before a shadowy figure starts to coalesce within the glass cabinet. It's vaguely defined but it seems to be a young man kneeling. Kneeling but weeping, before gradually becoming aware of the Elf's presence.

"Go away!" It whispers.

"I failed in my duty to protect my charge but you must still leave this place!" It's voice getting slightly louder and more ardent.

Slowly rising to its translucent feet, the ethereal figure sways easily through the glass of the cabinet and brandishes what must be an afterimage of its sword. A ghostly weapon. Arowe though, has lived over a hundred years, recently faced an ethereal hag and heard enough ghost stories to be unafraid. Standing his ground against the pathetic spirit, it flinches back from the surrounding statues of the girl it failed to protect. Knowing the wretched creature has no power on the material plane, Arowe instead interrogates the tortured spirit.

"My name is... Was Padrik. I was assigned guard duty for the Lady Lamenta but I failed on my first night's watch. Seven days I was meant to protect her, just seven days... But I failed. Failed on my first night!"

Emboldened by his Elven teammates obvious lack of fear, the Halfling; Liga Bur also listens in to the ghostly tale of woe.

"Although only sixteen, she was already renowned for her kindness and beauty. Despite being a member of the castle guard, I'd never actually seen her up close, so I crept away from my post to sneak a peak through the window of her bed-chamber door. It was just for a moment and I knew there were a score of other guards outside protecting her.”

 

The ghost of Padrik pauses and his vaguely human outline sags in shame. 

"I was somehow caught by surprise and stabbed in the back. I never even saw the face of my killer. It was only when Lord Urdurel summoned my spirit back, that I learned what the consequences of my 'dereliction of duty' were. The guards outside had already been slaughtered by assassins before they'd come for me... And then sweet, innocent Lamenta. My Captain pleaded my case and begged for leniency. He argued that I’d only been eighteen years old myself and should never have been tasked with such responsibility. Lord Urderel would hear none of it though. He swore that he'd find the culprits and punish them in the worst ways imaginable... Starting with me." 

Unimpressed, Arowe yawns and turns away from the ghost’s mewing self pity, to see what Fortu is doing but Liga Bur senses something more in this bound spirit than just regret. Gesturing around the room full of statues, The Halfling squints.

"And this was your punishment? You’re just another inmate in this vertical prison?”

The ghost of Padrik fades further back into his display box of ignominy.

"I can't escape this place. My spirit is bound to my bones, cursed to witness the terror and pain in Lamenta's eyes for all eternity. Tethered to my own decaying skeleton until I've somehow fulfilled my oath to stand seven nights watch."