Tales from the Ledge: A Last Look Down

“They made it out! Those buggers actually made it out of the black mist!”

It’s the grinning and slightly amazed, gold-toothed Barbella who spots their employers escape the black chasm below them.

Henshaw wanders over.

“What, even Fortu? In all that heavy armour?! I’d’ve bet good money against that happening… If’n I actually had any money that is.”

Barbella rolls his eyes while waving at the faraway Arowe, Liga Bur and Fortu until he manages to attract their attention.

“LEAVE... THE... ROPE... DOWN... THERE!”

He shouts, but the rushing wind steals his words, so he and Henshaw are forced to exaggeratedly mime what they need and what they’re going to do.

Fetching the woozy Doberman and the deafened Rifkin, they all prepare themselves to jump from Dulcetta’s mouth. Rifkin though, despite his sudden disability, manages to cast ‘light’ spells on all four of them, to enable them find each other in the swirling darkness below.

Rifkin jumps first, and his lithe half-of-a-half-elf, frame floats gently downward, supported by the tower's magically generated winds. The smallish Barbella jumps second to similar results. Then, almost round and green around the gills Doberman totters of the ledge…

And plummets!

Well, relatively to Rifkin and Barbella. He actually passes them before they enter the dark mist beneath them. 

Finally, with one last look at the door at the back of Dulcetta’s stone throat, Henshaw jumps last. He falls faster than Barbella but slower than Doberman, as the updraft dramatically slows his fall.

The straw-thatched mercenary can’t help but marvel at what he’s doing and what he’s seen and been through these last few months. His four elder brothers wouldn’t believe what he’s experienced. Frankly, he can barely believe it himself!

DMs Run the Game they’d want to Play in

Congratulations! We finally (after a few false dawns) finished the ‘Givrad Void’ module! I hope you’ve all enjoyed playing this adventure as much as I did running it. 

Like the title says though, I think Dungeon Masters, Dungeon Master because they get frustrated as Players in other Dungeon Master’s games. Assif, I know is just there for the ‘kick-in-the-door’ combat. Scott enjoys devilishly circumventing or disrupting my carefully contrived plans and Cousin David’s probably just there out of love and loyalty. 

For me though, it’s all about the story. Everything has to make sense within the internal logic of the fantasy setting and common sense and reason must always be able to be applied. Villains will behave as smartly or as dumbly as their stats state and monsters will exploit their own environment and physical advantages to the full. Henchmen and associates will behave in a way depending on their own agendas and as a reflection of how well or poorly they’ve been treated. Actions will always (well usually at least) have consequences.

That said; everyone finally gets to Level-up to 7th level! (Even Rifkin and the lesser Henchies!)

Fortu: 24,763 xp (7th!) 

Arowe: 24,558 xp (7th!)

Liga Bur: 24,331 xp (7th!)

Rifkin: 15,009 xp (6th!)

Henshaw: 6,271 xp (4th!)

Barbella: 6,271 xp (4th!)

Doberman:  6,271 xp (4th!)

At this point, I’ll also give you all an opportunity to have a little tweak of your characters, if you want. No changing race or class (apart from the new 7th level cross-class level if desired), but if you want to replace a previously chosen Feat that never came into play or you want to rearrange your skill points a little; fine by me. 

This is all under the assumption that we all want to soldier on with this campaign? Even though we’re occasional players rather than weekly grinders, a long-form D&D game is still a time consuming commitment.

I’m going to try to take a break from compulsively thinking about it until the new year, aside from possibly/definitely posting up some videos and the last of my background stories. Despite the routinely depressing ‘No comments’ underneath each posting, I still hope that you read and enjoy them all.

They’re chock-full of clues and reminders of what’s happened, but hopefully entertaining too. If we are to continue, I’d urge you to spend some of your free down-time to read back through them and take a few notes to remind yourselves what’s been happening, why it’s been happening and who it’s been happening to?

After you’re latest decision, I’m already wondering what’s going to happen next? I wasn’t sure whether you were going to charge into the lower levels of Hell after Hetzabah and Sir Briefadel or return to Fissa to face the potential wrath of the (small ‘g’) goddess; Estrid and the hulking Druid; Thornberg? Now though, wIll the seven (and a dog) of you try to seek out and warn the eyepatch wearing, old Lord Urdurel that his errant son is coming to get him?

At the end of yesterday’s session (as Scott’s full-time back in England), I suggested that we perhaps just drop the online sessions and revert back to the quarterly ‘Cottage of Doom’ weekends?

David though suggested that we might instead do a combination of both? 

Either way; Fun, fun, fun!

Tales from the Ledge: A Lover, not a Fighter.

At the very back of the observation ‘mouth’ near the top of Dulcetta’s ‘singing’ tower, Rifkin continues to rub his sorcererly deafened, slightly pointed ears and wonders, ‘How long will this damnable deafness last?!’. To distract himself from his growing concern, he inspects the spread-out contents of his emptied haversack. Specifically, he examines the two newly acquired magical items.

He hadn’t managed to do much beyond ‘Detecting magic’ on these objects but he can feel their hidden enchantments. The strangely cut emerald, that had somehow powered Hetzabah’s spinning prison cage and the old leather dog-collar that Henshaw had pulled off the broken metal automaton.

Staring deeply into the cuboid, walnut sized emerald, Rifkin finds himself reminded of two other gems; The brittler, sandy-yellow ‘diamond’ from the Wizard Moody’s turban and the Hag’s heart shaped, heart sized ruby, that Arowe and Liga Bur had discussed in length. It had been worn by the Hag who’d tormented his Halfling friend during his dreams. Now though, the semi-Elven Bard had seen it himself. The beautiful young woman had been wearing it while battling Doberman and Fortu at the edge of the ledge. Rifkin hadn’t gotten close, and been distracted by her large, bouncing and exposed breasts either side of it, but he could have sworn he saw something trapped within the ruby. Something white and round, preserved forever, like a fly in amber.

Picking up the thick, leather collar, it seems oddly old and worn but tough. It’d obviously been designed for a very large dog and the round, bronze tag reads ‘Belvedere’. Could Liga Bur’s companion hound; Mir Hundur have a use for this? Rubbing his thumb across the tag though, causes the engraved name to shimmer for a fraction of a second. What could its power be?

Putting that unsolvable concern out of his mind for the moment, Rifkin turns his attention to the other enchanted but unclaimed items that he’d been carrying around over hundreds of miles under the multiple hot suns of Calcienta.

Perhaps Henshaw had been right? Surely it’s best to divvy up the magic items unwanted by Arowe, Fortu and Liga Bur?

Picking up Egrow’s magical dagger, he marvels at the blemish-free gleam of its Cold-iron blade, despite the gloom within the cave-like mouth and the hazy grey sky.

The semi-Elven Bard hums uncharacteristically tunelessly to himself, as he considers his current complete lack of weaponry. His mind also drifts back to the time when Fortu chastised him for his apparent cowardice. Accidentally speaking aloud, Rifkin murmurs…

“Could I actually bring myself to use this, if desperate need arose?”

Rifkin knows he’s battling against his own natural instincts though and, after a moment’s hesitation, re-wraps the dagger and moves to place it carefully back into his bag. Before he’s able to however, he feels an involuntary shudder run through him, as a shadow falls across his back.

It’s Barbella’s voice that breaks the silence for everyone other than Rifkin.

“What exactly is all that stuff you got there?”.

Reflections in the Dark: Liga Bur

Clinging tightly to the much heavier Mir Hundur in the ferocious updraft, Liga Bur tumbles after his Elven and Human compatriots. The semi-plummeting Fortu was quickly swallowed up by the swirling darkness below but he actually starts to gain on the slenderer, lightly armoured Arowe. Still, he and his faithful hound are the last to enter the absolute and unnatural shadows beneath the rotating tower.

Unable to judge the remaining distance in the black mist, they land with a bump and Liga Bur immediately rolls off his loyal companion to prevent further injury. The fire elemental; Dijonn, despite flaring wildly, is only able to pierce about ten feet of the, almost tangible, blackness that surrounds them. After picking himself up and soothing his wide-eyed dog, Liga Bur starts to search for his friends. He calls their names but his voice is worryingly muffled in the fog-like darkness.

Ever the pragmatist though, he considers what their next move should be. He's a great tracker, ironically better than the skillful Orc who'd trained him, and he's only gotten better since. His old mentor; Gajutar Auga had often joked that it was just because he was closer to the ground. Despite that though, tracking a flying horse for several days across a desert on a unfamiliar world? Impossible. The life-toughened Halfling is confident however, that once they find their way out of this black hole, he could easily guide his charges back to bustling Valdez city or dead Zephir's oasis and the portal back home to Fissa.

While leading Mir Hundur slowly forward and calling out every few steps, the sharp-minded Halfling wonders about Sir Briefadel's last few words.

"Tell my Father that, after I’ve raised my army, I'm coming for him. And then, once he's dead, I'm going to finish what he started!"

Liga Bur, perhaps due to his cautious Halfling nature or his outsider Orcish upbringing, held an instinctive distrust of large Human settlements and had avoided the main cities of Stowan. He'd travelled there only because of the stories he'd heard of old Halfling settlements along its Feyland boarders. 

Now though, perhaps it would be prudent to travel to Stowan's capital city; Cottis and warn old Lord Urdurel that his son is coming to get him?

Tales from the Ledge: A Path Pre-trod

Rifkin leans heavily on the stone ledge and anxiously waggles his little-finger in his ear, trying (unsuccessfully) to get some semblance of his hearing back. His smooth, pale hands still trembling from their recent ‘reunion’ with (the apparently secretly-a-Wizard) Sir Briefadel.

He’d appreciated the luck they’d had from finding Grimcrack Thin-Needle’s diary and magical harp. An instrument specially chosen to help overcome the first obstacle of the tower. But it’s only now though, he’s realising that, despite his current loss of hearing, this wasn’t their only piece of good fortune. Now that he considers it, they’ve been walking a somehow blessed path from the very beginning.

The Three-Quarterling’s silver Kukri; An ideal defence against the Werewolf; Kane.

The sentient rapier; Arogorn Feybane would have been the perfect foil against Estrid; Goddess of the pool and her Fey guardians.

The underwater armour found behind the cell of the terrifying Beer creature, allowed Fortu to, not just survive but overcome the deep abyss pool.

The Cold-iron short-swords taken from Kane’s bloody corpse, that are a dark anathema to the Fey.

His own delicate Wind fan, taken on a whim, that allowed Fortu and Doberman to cross the bridge.

The Key-Sword won by Fortu, which opened the door to the tower and so much more. They wouldn’t have made it to the top without it.

And now the Oath bow; a weapon powerful enough to strike gods and demons!

Reaching for his satchel, the now curious Bard wonders what else they had that might have proven useful. 

Reflections in the Dark: Arowe

Loosing yet another shaft from his suddenly righteous 'Oath-bow', Arowe howls in a fury that surprises himself, as the arrowhead, shaft and flight pass harmlessly through, the already badly injured Sir Briefadel's heart, as if he were already a ghost! 

Unlike the sinisterly intelligent rapier; Arogon Feybane, that had sought to influence Arowe to act out its own rampantly anti-Fey agenda, the magical bow seems to have just exponentially amplified his own anger toward the vile Human Knight.

Leaning precariously over the ledge, literally holding on by his fingernails to the metaphorical skin of Dulcetta’s stone teeth, the Elven Archer howls again as the ethereal trio of Knight, Witch and Nightmare horse, pass through the illusionary veil surrounding the tower and out of his sight. In apoplectic frustration as much as anything, Arowe clamps his jaw shut, releases his tenuous grip and falls toward where he last saw the heavily armoured Fortu disappear into the inky darkness below. 

Despite his rage, Arowe safely assumes that, if the fierce updraft could support his weightier, heavily armoured friend, it’ll comfortably cushion his fall. He’s instantly proven correct; a little too correct however. The upward blast rips up at his pink, silk shirt and chaff’s his delicate Elven skin but he barely begins to drop at all! Fortu seemed to be falling at about half of gravity's natural rate, Arowe’s falling at only about half of that!

Finally though, the finely boned Elf descends through the top layer of darkness, but Arowe realises that he won’t finish up at the same place as the ex-Gladiator. The tower had already rotated several degrees before he’d dropped after his Human travelling companion.

Eventually, landing lightly on his feet, Arowe strikes one of his remaining stowed Sun-rods and the warm, orange light pushes the darkness back a little. The blackness surrounding him is more like a thick fog, but his acute Elven eyes still enable him to see, perhaps ten feet ahead.

Calling out to Fortu confirms his initial assessment; this sight and sound dampening black mist is not remotely natural.

Now, alone in the dark, with no audience to impress, Arowe's mind begins to drift. In his eagerness to seek out adventure, he’d skipped past any possible humdrum encounters with the normally dull Humans. His High-born, High-Elf Father had warned him against getting too involved in the short-term matters of the short-lived Humans, so he'd skirted the cities, even the famed capital; Cottis, with its elaborate and towering architecture said to rival that of the Dwarven citadels, and aimed straight for the Feylands at the western border of Stowan.

As an educated Elf, Arowe had heard of Lord Urdurel of course. He would be an old man now, but only by Human standards. As an Elf child, Arowe had loved hearing the exciting tales of daring heroics and epic battles during the Human's early reign. Approximately fifty years ago though, things suddenly changed. The military expansion stopped and instead, an enforced peace fell across the conquered kingdoms. There was, he remembers, a short resurgence of bloody violence but it only lasted a few years and it was mostly targeted towards his own people. Interestingly, after which, the injured King Urdurel laid down his sword and gave up his crown, returning his conquered lands to their (confused but grateful) surviving heirs.

During his journey through the hundred-and-sixty-mile span of Stowan however, there was one aspect of the erstwhile kingdom, that had captured his attention. The whole realm seemed to frown upon the use of magic and, though Witchcraft and Sorcery were permitted, its practitioners were closely monitored and heavily restricted. 

As he yells out for the unresponsive Fortu again in the darkness, Arowe is still surprised by the obvious ire still apparent in his voice. He’s never, in all his long life, felt this angry before and the fact that he’s now unable to act upon it, burns at his Elven soul!

Tales from the Ledge: Moody’s Warning

Leaving the distracted and recently deafened Rifkin to tend to the, still weirdly wounded Doberman, Barbella walks over to Henshaw, who remains staring over the toothy ledge.

Casting a slightly too casual look over his shoulder, the swarthy stabber-for-hire, loudly asks.

“Any sight of them?”

Before sneakily whispering into Henshaw’s oversized, pink and sticky-out ear.

“I was finking about what that Wizard Moody said before Fortu slit his throat. He told us that the adventurers didn’t really care about me, you and Doberman and that they’d sacrifice us as soon as it was advantageous to them.”

Henshaw furtively glances at the apparently deaf Rifkin before whispering back.

“I can’t say I appreciated the way Arowe shouted at me when I questioned why he was sending Doberman out first…”

Barbella interrupts his lanky friend.

“As Canon fodder!”

Henshaw sighs.

“The Elf was frustrated and under pressure though… And he did offer us a larger share of the loot from now on.”

Barbella sneers.

“Look around you; this tower was a prison, not a treasury. A half share of nothin’ ain’t no more than a third share of nothin’. It was just a costless bribe, just in case we was thinking of betraying them and they was definitely willing to ‘sacrifice’  Doberman to gain that ‘advantage' Moody was talking about.”

The blond-haired Henshaw sneaks another crafty peek over his shoulder.

“In fairness though, I’m surprised Doberman’s still alive anyway. He stupidly barrels into every skirmish with no concern for his own safety. He just chops away with whatever weapon he happens to have to hand. He's got no finesse whatsoever!”

Barbella smiles.

“That’s true. In Doberman’s stubby fingers, everythink’s an axe. Frankly, I’m surprised he’s not been killed just by all the foul crap he mindlessly stuffs down his cake-hole!”

Henshaw laughs out-loud but Rifkin still doesn't seem to notice their conversation.

“Doberman’s so fat, he can surround a group of enemies all by himself!”

It’s Barbella’s turn to choke with laughter.

“Doberman’s so stupid, he could pick a fight wiv himself in an empty room!”

After a while their shared mirth subsides and they gaze back at Rifkin and Doberman, who are both sitting upright now. Then, Henshaw, with a serious expression falling again across his face, finishes their conversation.

“Doberman may be a fat idiot but he’s our fat idiot. It ain’t right that they treated him like he was just expendable.”