Whispering Wizards

Although deprived of his coin purse, serrated dagger, possibly magical jewelled turban and without his vital spell book, the captive Wizard Moody is still tied up and tethered at all times. He is however, often left ungagged during feeding, drinking and interrogations.

In the last four days he's tried begging and bribery to no avail and has finally accepted that his only chance is to be of as much assistance as he can.

Still, the 'Singing Tower' is just a century old myth. No-one's even ever seen it; it's merely a children's story to scare toddlers back into bed. He can perhaps guide them to the vague area it's meant to be, but there's nothing really out there beyond dying of thirst or heatstroke.

The situation seems bleak for him. Especially considering the hatred emanating from the heavily armoured Fortu. If looks could kill, he’d’ve been dead before they’d fled Valdez!

The shrewd Moody has noticed a slight divide between the men though. Although initially appearing unified, there are two specific factions within this Party. Four on one side and three on the other and whenever he gets the opportunity, he tries to sew discord and whisper poison into the ears of the Human soldiers.

"You know you're just fodder to them. They'll sacrifice you as soon as they consider it expedient."

"How much gold are they giving you? Not even a half-share I'll bet!"

"Notice how much magic they have. What have you got? That hardly seems fair."

A Hero’s Quest

Keeping your Friend's Close

Despite the resentful presence of the glowering Wizard Moody, the last three day's travel have been hot and uncomfortable but thankfully uneventful. Then, on the third ‘night’, something dark and disturbing happens...

With one eye on the Halfling’s still unconscious but violently thrashing form, Barbella leans in and whispers into Henshaw's jug-ear.

"Why'd you tell 'em you understood Orcish? You said not to tell 'em anyfink!"

The blond thatched Henshaw scratches his slightly sunburned neck.

"The little guy woz cryin' out in his nightmare and Fortu asked me direct like. Not revealin' stuff is OK but straight-up lying? I'm not so skilled at that as you."

The now fully bearded Barbella rubs his nose.

"I suppose, but I still don't fully trust 'em. Unlike you, I don't feel that indebted and I'm only sticking around for the loot."

Henshaw smiles, revealing the 'lucky' gap between his two front teeth.

"Well, the Half-Elf did break us out of that arena and, if it's loot you're after, I fink you'll find it better by ‘sticking around’. Guardsmen only get paid a living wage, while Adventurers? Adventurers get rich!"

The shorter and swarthier of the two men, looks down at his magical short-sword and his bag of gold.

"Considerin' what we've faced so far, we ain't got too much to show for that theory."

David: You can add Orcish to Henshaw's character sheet under languages spoken after Common.

Welcome to the Big Top!

While Doberman joyfully hammers down the three, long, oddly wrought, cast-iron tent-poles deep into the sand and Barbella and Henshaw are unrolling and laying out the multiple, cream coloured, canvass sections, Rifkin smiles at the fantastic (if unnecessary) bargain he'd gotten. The tent is truly enormous! More like a marquee really. He's never seen one so big, other than the ones from the larger travelling circuses. A dozen men could comfortably sleep in it!

Forty-five feet in length by fifteen feet in width (not including the awnings and guide ropes) and varying in height between eight and twelve feet at the poles. In fairness, it's actually three sections that combine to make one large composite one but designed to stand alone if needed. He hadn't planned on buying anything so large or flamboyant but the old camel ostler had been trying to get rid of it, so sold it for markedly less than the price of the four smaller tents that he'd originally requested.

It's proven to be a blessing though, as the daytime heat is horribly oppressive and being outside in the direct sunslight for any length of time is problematic. This tent allows for some privacy and a modicum of personal space.

The battered, and seemingly cowed, Wizard Moody spends most of his time tethered to the central pole, his wrists bound behind his back, raw and bruised from the harsh ropes. His gag removed only when eating, drinking or being questioned.

Not ideal but the strangely shaped pole, along with the two secondary poles are secured well enough by the depth of sand and tension from the canvas top and multiple guide ropes.

The black metal support poles are fascinating though. Their bizarre shape enables oil lamps to be hung from them safely but they also feature twin metal fans. The one outside the tent, turned by the heat from the sun, spinning the one inside, fast enough to create a cooling and pleasant stirring of the air within.

Sadly, the decor inside is slightly disappointing. The three oil lanterns illuminating the patterned rug floorings covering most of the sand, multiple, colourful silk cushions and slightly raised bases for the bedrolls. Enough to lift the sleeper off the warm floor but nothing more. 

Rifkin sighs. It'll be a shame to abandon this alongside the seven camels. 

"Oh well… Easy come, easy go."

Just for a change, this’ll annoy David (yes I know my draftsmanship, scale, proportion and layout are all over the place) instead of Assif! :D

Who, What, When and Where Wolf?

The Party are safely now two days out from walled Valdez city, with the Halfling; Liga Bur, confident in his almost preternatural ability to lead his friends to the 'mythical' tower. It'll still be a difficult, eight-day journey due to the heat and desert terrain, but if they continue travelling during the cooler hours of, what passes as, night here in Calscienta and follow the few visible stars, they'll be fine.

Rolling up his map while bouncing along on the odd camel creature, Liga Bur's memory drifts unbidden back to their two recent arena bouts. In each battle, in an attempt to change their collective fate, he'd used his supernatural 'gifts' to momentarily summon a wolf. 

The Halfling half-smiles to himself. It had worked though and each time the magical creature had managed to temporarily distract their opponents. Enough to disrupt their enemies' plans and turn the tide of battle.

In retrospect though, something didn't seem... quite right. 

Weren't these creatures just random summoned spirits given temporary flesh-like form? But it'd definitely looked the same each time, with a distinct vertical scar-like mark intersecting its left eye. Had it somehow been the same wolf both times? Perhaps it's just his mind playing tricks, but he feels that he recognised it somehow. 

From when though? From where?

The Hierarchy of Intelligence

 

Dream into action

 As Fortu slowly runs the whetstone along the edge of his new sword, purely out of habit as the new blade has a finer edge than Fortu has ever known, he absently listens as Riffers explains the latest split of treasure. Coming from the pits where personal wealth was unknown he has no real concept of the worth of the gold and gems Riffers divides and has always trusted that the Bard was honest and new best. So he had little interest in his explanation and was paying very little attention until...

The bard held up the small dagger, as he did it caught a glint from somewhere and Fortu blinked. Laying down his sword and whetstone he felt drawn to the dagger, the edge appeared wavy at first but as he approached it took on a more serrated line.

"Riffers mate lets have a look at the knife"

 Rifkin smiled as he handed over the weapon, expecting the large fighter to belittle the small knife. "Looking for a shaving knife?" he jested.

Fortu took the blade, as he turned it around to inspect he was sure he noticed Moody flinch as the blade's shadow past over him. The dagger was exactly the same as the one from his dream; he remembered the look of the serrated edge as it tore through Moody's throat, the warmth of the mages life blood as it drained over his hands and the slight gasp of his last exhalation of breath.

 Without realising it, he stood taller, flexed and glared around "unless anyone else wants it? yeah I may just have a use for this blade."

Post Valdez Gold

No real opportunities to earn or spend any gold but just to keep track:

Everyone except Rifkin won 150gp from surviving two bouts in the arena.

Moody had a coin purse containing 60gp, a magical wavy/serrated 'Jambiya' +2 dagger and a large 'is it magic?' Diamond from his turban.

Fortu:

Used his first winnings bag of 50gp to bribe the main gate guards.

Henshaw:

Immediately (and in front of witnesses) repaid Fortu the remaining 150gp of his debt.

Rifkin:

Despite some skilful negotiation and doe-eyed pleading, the Bard spent every last coin he had on the escape plan to get you all out and then some.

Current Gold amounts: 

(I still can't be bothered to work out what it is in gems, silver and copper, so Rifkin divided Moody's 60gp slightly unevenly.)

Fortu:        Gold: 963gp

Arowe:        Gold: 1463gp

Liga Bur:    Gold: 888gp

Rifkin:         Gold: 6gp (Poor again)

Henshaw:    Gold: 5gp (But debt free)

Barbella:    Gold: 359gp 

Doberman:    Gold: 356gp

Anyone want the magical dagger or diamond?

Update your character sheets and include the gold in your encumbrance stats.

Luck of the Elvish

 Arowe has always been someone who took risks and rebelled against authority, even though his position was one right at the top of the hierarchy and he had everything to lose by being so ... chancy.  That he risked leaving the family estate for the uncertain life of an itinerate "adventurer" was foolish, sure, but it was worth it for the fame and fortune it promised.

But here in this scorched world of unfathomable beasts and ruthless slave traders, that choice was starting to look like not such a good one. Those fighting under Najam's banner were fighting for something they truly believed in and a chance for a better life.  Arowe was here chasing someone who was good at not being caught, but for what? Money? That is laughable. If there was another reason, Arowe as already forgotten what it was.

But at the same time, Arowe was blessed with a unnerving amount of luck.  That he should be a handful of good arrows from being a useless dead elf, to finding a literally endless quiver of arrows and spears, is astonishing.  That he should keep striking killer blows to everything from the carapaced goliath and its insectoid masters, to hawks hundreds of feet in the air, to the rabid boar that should have surely killed them all, is still more remarkable.

It was, and is still bothering Arowe deep down - an itch somewhere inside himself, out of reach but lingering in his mind.  How was he so lucky?  He even tried to test it with the seeming impossible; inside the arena, firing an arrow high into the air and, incredibly, skewering it with another missile mid air in front of a baying crowd.

Maybe being so lucky, and ridiculously good looking, was something divine bestowed upon him. Maybe. Or maybe it was just sheer dumb chance.

I guess, he'd find out soon enough, if he ever got to face that charlatan Briefadel.

To See or not to See

Momentarily distracted by what'd just happened, Jaspir; the young guardian of the main gate, watches the odd group ride awkwardly but hurriedly away from the walled city. Strange, pink-skinned foreigners who were, most likely, wanted criminals.

Should he have stopped them?

Was he wrong to look the other way?
Looking down at his right hand, he roughly approximates the gold in the heavy coin-bag. Judging by weight alone, it certainly feels like fifty gold. A nice bribe, even when spread between himself and his five subordinates. Seven gold for each of them, leaving a sweet fifteen left over for him.
But then, there was the matter of that bound and gagged Wizard...
Screw him though, Wizards were generally arrogant pricks who sneered down their long, thin noses at working men like him.
Also, Valdez city was burning, both literally and figuratively with the flames of rebellion blazing through the streets.

Looking around at the ongoing scuffles between the loyalists and the red-wearing insurgents, he'd soon need to pick a side.

Though secretly routing for Najam's forces, perhaps he'd bide his time just a little while longer...

Game Date: Still Two Months Away

Assif had an unavoidable covid related double booking.

Next Session:

Saturday the 7th of October.

9am for the UKers and whatever time that makes it in the evening for Ozzy Scott.

This gives me an extra week to twiddle my thumbs before my traditional last minute note-writing and model-making manic scramble.

Next quasi-useful, momentum maintaining story will be posted up on Saturday.

See you boys in fifty-eight days now…

Hopefully!

Déjà vu dreams

 Fortu's eyes snap open, in the dim light of the fires embers he makes out the silhouettes of his friends and realises that once again he has had the dream of bashing out the brains of Sir Briefedel . Only this time there were differences. It was the rebel leader Najam snapping the order 'shield' and mounting the arena wall, each guard on the balcony with Briefedel's face. As he/ Najam crushed the life from them the 'owner/ ruler' got further and further away. With Liga Burs literal dream nightmare, Fortu wonders if his dreams are also being manipulated. For he feels they started the chase mere hours behind Briefedel, now they were days behind with no exact idea where he was or what he was after. Surely by the time they caught him he would have done what he came for. Would it not be best to return to Valdez and help Najam and the rebels end the horror of the fighting pits.

As he relived the dream again he felt that at times it had even seemed that it was Fortu's own face on the owner and he was clawing an escape over the body of the mage Moody. The more he thought on it the more he realised that his actions to the arrogant snivelling mage were just as his owners had treated him when in the fighting pits, he needed to be better than that.

Rising from his bed roll he moved over to where the mage uncomfortably lay bound and gagged, this time instead of kicking him awake he gently shook him. "Moody" as the mages eyes fluttered open Fortu saw the fear as the mage cringed away as best he could. "hush mage, I have treated you abhorrently, your crimes as a trader in human flesh do not excuse my behaviour. I would see that you are tortured no more."  Moody's expression flashed from fear to confusion to hope, before resting on relief. Fortu gently held the mages head "but your crimes must be paid for" Kneeling on the mages chest he draws the serrated knife across Moody's throat, tensing against the feeble struggles of the mage he saws through until he reaches vertebrae. He continues to hold the mage until all life has fled. Fortu leans down and whispers "men with strength and power should protect those weaker not feed off them"

At the sound of raised voices Fortu wakes with a start. Confused by the dream within a dream he peers across to where Moody lays. Although still bound and gagged he is still alive. Fortu considers enacting the dream but becomes aware of those rousing around him, "what the feck is happening now" he mutters.

Rifkin's Cunning Plan: Part Last

It's only been a couple of days since his arrival, but Rifkin's managed to put his rescue plan mostly into place.

Valdez is a vibrant city, full of life but the disparity between the rich and poor is shockingly evident and its rulers are either wilfully blind or knowingly indifferent to the needs of the people.

With his slightly pointed ears attentive to the social chatter around him and his vaguely almond shaped eyes ever alert to opportunity, the Elvenish Bard, has not only heard rumblings of a second coup attempt but, where and when able, actively encouraged it.

While bribing guards for information and access to certain areas, Rifkin's noticed that several of the more helpful ones wear a red cloth subtly tied at their throat or wrist. He's even seen it worn by some members of the general populace.

Deciding to risk it all on one, well timed, do-or-die rescue attempt, Rifkin pays off some of the 'sympathetic' guards for maps and schedules before approaching a 'friendly' camel ostler to buy their mode of escape. They haggle animatedly for a while until the toothless old camel trader finally sighs.

"Listen sonny, you're a charming boy but, even at my best price, you've simply not got enough for seven camels, saddles, tents and supplies. I tell you what though, if you can raise just 1,500 gold, they're all yours. Got anything worth trading?"

Rifkin recounts his remaining gold for the third time. He'd used up a chunk of it on bribes but he'd have been hundreds short regardless. Handing over half the total as a deposit, the Demi-Elf asks the obvious question.

"Where's the nearest Magic emporium? I've got a couple of things they might be interested in."

Later that night, Rifkin sits back down at a table in his cheap boarding house, gets out a quill, an ink bottle and some of the pale blue parchment he'd taken from the murdered Three-Quarterling's comfortable underground home. After considering at length what to write and who to write it to, the Bard dips his nib into the ink and puts quill to parchment. He knew the magical 'find-anyone-anywhere' feather tokens would eventually come in handy.

Rifkin spent every coin and gem he had, used one of his Feather tokens and his three scrolls of Invisibility, plus he sold Egrow's unusable Wand of Burning-Hands to buy the escape camels etc. 

Game Date: Two Months Away

Scott provided several dates and we settled on the one exactly two months from the last one.

Next Session:

Saturday the 30th of September.

9am for the UKers and whatever time that makes it in the evening for Ozzy Scott.

This gives me plenty of time to twiddle my thumbs before my traditional last minute note-writing and model-making panic scramble.

To maintain momentum, I'll be posting up quasi-useful back stories and random imagery every Saturday and possibly Wednesdays, if my idle brain can generate enough self-entertaining mini projects.

See you boys in fifty-seven days!