Barefoot on Broken Glass

Liga Bur, leading loyal Mir Hundur and carrying the fiercely flaming Dijonn, is the last to enter the brightly lit ‘Orb’ chamber. His friends have already beaten its trap and stepped through the round cage to the other side of the thick diagonal wall and he moves to follow, but his keen Halfling senses and Orcish training force him to stop in his tracks. 

As a Halfling raised by Orcs, Liga Bur had been encouraged to trust his more primal instincts. Something was distinctly odd here and, before he could move on, he needed to know what?

Taking in the room, the sharp-eyed Halfling tries to work out what's troubling him. Is it the copper running through the mortar of the rough, central wall? Is it the blackened gutter feeding from whatever used to be clamped to the central metal stand? Is it the smashed, darkly lacquered display cabinet?

Despite being raised by the more tender footed Orcs, Liga Bur has never felt the need to wrap his feet in cloth or bind them in leather. Now though, he has cause to pause. 

Examining the shallow collecting pool beneath the black-blood stained 'T-bar' stand, Liga Bur realises that the tiny swords were designed, not to kill but rather keep the prisoner bleeding constantly. The blood from the thousand cuts would drip down and collect in the stone basin beneath them and flow across the gutter leading from it and then out of the tower through the narrow pipe. The very same pipe that he'd seen from outside. The very same stone pipe that had endlessly fed the outer circle of scorpions! 

Being careful not to stand in any of the dried black remains, the Halfling tracker jogs back towards the broken cabinet. The glass was smashed hurriedly and the floor immediately in front, is covered by sharp shards of it.

Climbing back up and standing on Mir Hundur’s saddle, Liga Bur urges his hound mount forward, counting on the big dog’s thick paws to keep them both safe. The varnished wooden remnants of the display case are bolted to the wall about five feet above the floor and deliberately positioned in a direct line of sight from the main orb. It's empty now but, by the indentation in the plush, green velvet, it patently contained the chain and heart-shaped pendant worn by the Hag during his fevered dreams.

It was also obviously valued greatly by the prisoner, so why keep it almost within their reach? For the sake of vindictive cruelty? Was this half of the room kept unnecessarily bright, just to allow the prisoner occasional glimpses of their prized possession? It made little sense but what other reason could their be?

Scowling, the gruff tracker, dissatisfied with his own conclusion, drops back into his saddle. Guiding Mir Hundur with his knees, he raises the brightly burning Dijonn high in the air and follows his companions through to the other, darker side of the diagonal wall.

Lord Urdurel’s Balls

(Near) Death by a Thousand Cuts

After climbing up onto Rifkin and Henshaw’s shoulders to remove the, now accessible 'control' crystal to prevent the 'orb' from restarting, Arowe steps through the gap and quickly takes in the 'trap'. The large, cold-iron ring has stopped perfectly in alignment with the wall itself, so as not to restrict entry or exit, causing the tall Elf to, once again, begrudgingly, admire the Gnomish precision engineering of it all.

Inside the ten foot diameter, circular space, though empty of any prisoner, there stands a large, vertical, black metal ‘T’ frame, well over six feet tall, with self-tightening, cold-iron cuffs for wrists and ankles. They've recently been unclamped but the last setting they’d been at was tiny! Slender as a child perhaps or a shrivelled old woman? 

Surprisingly, the ‘T’ frame has also been designed to rotate, but slowly, in the opposite direction of the outer ring and marginally out of kilter, possibly to add to the level of disorientation. It’s also slightly arched to allow uninterrupted access to its captive’s back and buttocks and stands in the middle of two concentric rings of recessed, slender mechanical arms. One thousand of them, each ending with a tiny gauntleted fist grasping a wavy, two-inch, cold-iron sword. They’ve been cleverly designed to be able to ascend from their slots, slash at the restrained victim and then retreat in a complicated, seemingly random pattern to maximise the area of flesh sliced. 

Whoever it was being tortured, they were able to endure this treatment for decades upon decades without succumbing.  

More concerned with what lies beyond the 'cage' though, the Elven archer/slinger steps quickly out of the prison area and into the strangely unlit other half of the room beyond. Rifkin follows closely behind but Henshaw delays a moment to closer examine the bafflingly complicated and sadistic machine.

Fortu, Doberman and Barbella are next to arrive and are relieved to find this room already defeated, with lanky Henshaw beckoning them through the metal-ringed gap in the wall. Once inside though, he points out something that's bothered him.

“This spinning ring fing, the cuffs and the tiny sword blades are all made outta the same metal as the ‘poison-to-Fey’ swords Briefadel gave me and the boys. Same as that talkin' door Fortu cut through wiv his magic sword. What’s the reason? Could the prisoner be one of the Fey? Like Estrid, them Pixies or that Half-goat bloke… Magritte?”

Intrigued, Fortu kneels to better examine the circle of the thousand tiny swords. Each one is an exact but minuscule replica of the wavy bastard sword he's currently using. Grasping one to examine it even closer, Fortu realises that these intricate, little-finger-sized miniatures of the weapon in his hand, even feature the unreadable sigils etched along each side of his blade.

The ex-gladiator stands back up with a puzzled expression hidden behind his dark helmet. The mechanical knight, the outer lock, the ghost’s tabard and now this? Fortu begins to suspect that the sword he’s gripping so firmly in his hand, holds a significance far greater than just being…‘Awesome’.

Of Gods and Ballers

Arowe gazes down at the flimsy sling in his hand and grins in amazement. He’d not used one of these since he was a child, before he’d been allowed to be trained in the short and long bows. That was over seventy years ago and yet, somehow, he’d managed to loose one of Zephir’s small, round bullet stones, perfectly through the minuscule gap in the smaller, upper spinning orb, on his very first shot!

The bullet had passed through the fraction-of-a-second gap and then ricocheted around inside the spinning orb until it’d dislodged the sparkling green gem and, consequently, halted the larger orb beneath.

Looking through the stone ceiling above at an imagined sky, Arowe offers up a silent prayer of gratitude to whichever of the Elven gods is watching over him and guiding his hand. It should have been a monstrously difficult shot, and yet he had succeeded on his very first attempt… Discounting his original, near impossible try with the long shafted arrow.  

Henshaw is the first to approach the, now idle cold-iron hoop and is fascinated by what he finds.

Now that the ‘sphere’ has stopped spinning, it becomes apparent that Arowe was correct in his assessment and that it really was just a large metal ring spinning so fast as to give the illusion of solidity. The smaller, slower moving top ‘sphere’ possessed a third bar, allowing a repeating but tiny window of opportunity.

After momentarily examining the mechanism, a stunned looking Henshaw turns back towards his Elven employer.

"That might just have been, the greatest shot, I've ever seen!"

The Bard; Rifkin nods in wide-eyed agreement with Henshaw's accidental three-line stanza and Arowe can't help but bask in the glow of their joint admiration. 

Ghost of a Chance

Shrewd as he is, Liga Bur can’t help but notice Dijonn's flame flare back into life as he emerges from the three-foot crawlway under the iron ‘Urdurel’ door.

Glancing back through the gap, he sees the keening ghost, sobbing silently while surrounded by the seven animated statues of the murdered Lamenta. Seven statues representing the seven days guard duty he'd failed to honour.

Why did the fire elemental dim so much while within the tortured ghost-guard's well lit prison room? Was it because its light wasn't needed? If that were the case, why brighten here, where more than sufficient light is streaming down the stairs from the floor above?

Putting this worry to one side, Liga Bur feels another nagging concern take its place. He'd rescued the fire elemental but why not the ghost? Were they not both just prisoners in this accursed tower? But more; the Hag that had tormented him for the last five days was spirit in form. Spirit like this guilt-ridden ghost? A cynical thought occurs to him; could an arrangement be made? A deal that would benefit them both?

Snapping back to reality, the cauliflower-eared Halfling hears the overhead grunts of exertion from Fortu and Doberman, as the gap between the block and door slowly narrows. Leaving Mir Hundur and Dijonn behind, Liga Bur calls the lithe human; Barbella to follow him through the remaining gap. Confused, Fortu stops shoving and gestures to the stout Doberman to do the same.

The light back in the room is tinged blue, creating an eerie effect, but bright enough to see clearly by. It wouldn't be much of a punishment if Padrik didn’t have to constantly view the cringing, crying, dying faces of the teenage girl he’d failed to protect.

Examining the central cabinet, the Halfling warrior is frustrated by the obvious thickness of the glass. He knows that his fine bladed, silver Kukri won't be able to break it. Barbella though immediately finds a solution. On the opposite side to Liga Bur, the glass panel has a hinge that is secured by an intricate bronze padlock.

Noticing a couple of rats scamper up the stairs from the floor below, Liga Bur feels a renewed sense of urgency… The Blob is coming!

"Can you open it?"

Barbella smiles wryly, revealing that golden tooth again.

"Wot exactly are you implying?"

With that though, his smile broadens as he deftly twists his magical, glowing sickle tip in the lock. With a gratifying 'click', it pops open and the glass panel swings slightly ajar.

Suddenly aware of what's happening around him, the ghost rises again.

"What are you doing? You must leave, leave, LEAVE this place!"

Unperturbed, Liga Bur explains his predicament with his 'night-time’ tormenter and makes his request. At this surprising news, the shimmering, vaguely human shaped ghost, falls silent for a moment…

"You want ME to guard YOU from the spirit Hag who haunts you in your dreams?"

Liga Bur nods in affirmation and the translucent ghost of Padrik expands on his original question.

"You want me; the wretch who failed utterly to protect Lady Lamenta, to serve out my uncompleted seven days of duty guarding you?"

With a confused but hopeful look upon his wispy face, the ghost of Padrik finally nods back in agreement.

"Gather up my remains and place my skeleton where you want me to guard. I can only materialise for eight continuous hours before fading for the next sixteen. Remember though, I can’t travel more than ten feet beyond my bones, even without those statues surrounding me, so arrange them carefully."

With the ghost's permission gained, Liga Bur gathers up the tabard in the case and, using it like a sack, pulls everything inside the glass case into it. Bones, weapons and helmet etc. and drags it off the plinth.

Even as he and Barbella rush back to the, now tight, gap in the iron door, Liga Bur spots the emblem on the sack that was Padrik's uniform. It's a wavy, black bastard sword, broken in two on a field of grey (but what was probably white). A sword that looks almost exactly like the one Fortu just cut through the iron door with.

September Sometime?

Despite my manic morning, last weekend’s game turned out really well. Scott’s professional ‘GoogleMeet’ subscription (Thanks Scott) made gameplay much smoother, with us tea/pee breaking as needed rather than on the hour, every hour.

Considering our original plan of four to six weeks between sessions, we’re looking at September. I can’t make the first couple of weekends anyway, so that works out pretty well for me. The next question is when you’re all free?

Saturday the 14th of September

Sunday the 15th of September

Saturday the 21st of September

Saturday the 28th of September

Sunday the 29th of September

We’ve already agreed that mornings are better for all of us. I’ll (barring another grandchild) be pottering around from 8.30am but although I’ll remind everyone, it’ll be up to Scott to text us all the unlimited GoogleMeet code. 

Edit: We have a definite date where we’re all definitely available! (And two late possible possibilities.) 

Let’s just agree on Saturday the 21st. That gives me exactly a month to prepare Sir Briefadel’s evil monologue.

:D

Clever, Clever, Clever Boys!

Sir Briefadel clenches his darkly stubbled jaw as he peers out over the lower teeth of the mouth balcony

“They’re not falling for it! Sephony, from her hidden perch, hasn’t spotted any of them coming from either hand.”

The beautiful young woman beside him, pulls her borrowed cloak tightly around her, stares deeply into her ruby pendant and licks her full lips.

“These ‘idiot men of action’ of yours have proven themselves to be most talented and tenacious. We’ve waited here to test their mettle and mettle they’ve shown. More reason to recruit them to our side.”

The seemingly older man sighs.

“Yes but what if they don’t accept our offer? What if they actually press their attack?!”

Tossing her shiny, raven black hair out of her face, the voluptuous woman smiles.

“We’ll then, my darling boy, clever as they are, we’ll just have to kill them all!” 

Pre-August-2024-Game-Catch-up

The Party are currently slightly spread out and struggling up the (highly guarded and trapped) lost ‘Singing’ tower, to find, or possibly kill, the long imprisoned Mother of their erstwhile benefactor; Sir Briefadel. 

The now murdered Wizard Moody had claimed that the tower was just a century old desert myth; a children’s bedtime story but Rifkin knew about ‘Dulcetta’s tower’ being lost to time and space only fifty-odd years ago. That said, Estrid; the Goddess of the pool had personally cautioned Arowe about potential temporal mismatch problems, before ushering the adventurers through her magical pool and into the Givrad Void in pursuit of the heavily armoured Sir Briefadel and his astonishingly well trained hawk.

The incongruous and ornate stone tower rotates slowly and impossibly steadily in place atop a tiny stone Gnome’s pointed hat, in a dead zone of cold and grey, despite existing somehow out of phase, in the blisteringly hot, multiple sunned, desert world of Calcienta.

The Party are eight days camel ride from the wealthy but decadent city of Valdez. A city which the group escaped with the Bard Rifkin’s help during a violent slave rebellion. According to the maps Liga Bur found, you’re also only around nine days from the twice dead Druid Zephir’s Oasis portal back to the Void.

With the assistance of the recently butchered Wizard Moody, Liga Bur (despite being constantly harassed in his sleep by a spirit Hag) was able to guide the Party to the mythical tower and with the aid of the dead Gnomish Knight; Grimcrack's diary, Rifkin was able to part the illusionary veil and grant you entry to the bizarre, gravity defying tower.

During the exploration, the Party, with the clever use of oil and fire, managed to cross the constantly moving, 'death spiral' scorpion defence and defeat a mounted mechanical Warrior to gain the ‘Awesome’ key-sword to open the main door. They then tore through a quartet of mechanical Mace-hand-maidens in the damp and misty interior, where Liga Bur rescued a tiny flame creature called Dijon. After that, the Party faced spear and pit traps and a terrifying, seemingly unstoppable, slime creature. Then after outpacing the Blob, they encountered magical temptations and an imprisoned and perpetually tortured ghost of a tragically young and penitent guard.

Now, After Fortu carved through a solid, cold-iron talking door with his magical, adamantine, two-handed blade, Liga Bur watches the still sobbing spirit of the dead guard Pardrik through the ever narrowing gap, as Doberman, Barbella and Fortu struggle to push the heavy iron block back into place.

A floor above, Rifkin and Henshaw look alarmed as Arowe wipes blood from his lips after being struck by the magnified echo of his arrow impacting against the top spinning sphere.

Everyone's got just seven days to find and refamiliarise themselves with their character sheets, henchmen, session notes and dice after our half-a-year break. I'm pretty sure most of you are at least slightly injured and please make sure you've updated (downdated?) any potions, scrolls, arrows and random equipment you used up last game. 

If you can find the time, take the opportunity to read through the last few months of Orange Inn posts. There are some useful nuggets of information scattered about in amongst them.

I'll now use the panic I'm feeling to reread my notes, and write anything further that might come up before digging up the low and 'high'-tech equipment I'll need for the webcam and map set-up. See you all between 8.30am - 9am next Saturday!