Octoberfest or Novemberbest?

September brought a shortened (one encounter) session. Let’s see if we can do better in October… or maybe November?

Thanks again Scott for your uninterrupted Googlemeet membership. Sorry for missing the initial code you sent. 

Are we all free for four hours on any of these mornings?

Saturday the 26th of October 

Sunday the 27th of October 

Saturday the 2nd of November

Sunday the 3rd of November

Saturday the 16th of November

Sunday the 17th of November

I promise that I won’t make any rash; ‘This’ll be the end of this module’ promises this time.

Edit: Thanks Boys. Saturday morning on the 2nd of November it is! (Almost exactly a month away.)

Why Should You Care?

Assif asked the question after the last session; 

“Why should we care about Sir Briefadel?”

It’s simultaneously a fair and unfair question.

As a Party, you were sponsored by Sir Briefadel to find Estrid’s magical pool/portal. You were doing that for the sake of adventure and promised coin. (Coin that he was never going to pay.)

At the moment of your success however, Sir Briefadel betrayed you and magically transported (with the aid of Madame Morgana) himself, his lackey Egrow and about thirty soldiers to your position. After which, you fought a bloody battle, where you swapped sides and found yourselves fighting back-to-back with Magritte the Satyr and the other Fey creatures against Sir Briefadel’s troops. 

You won the battle and captured the ‘Wizard’ Egrow but Sir Briefadel and his phenomenally intelligent Hawk; Sephony, managed to get to the pool and escape through the dimensional portal. 

It was at that point that Estrid, the goddess of the pool pleaded for your help to pursue Sir Briefadel and stop him doing whatever he was attempting and to prevent him, at all costs, from returning back through her pool.

It should be obvious by now, that beyond just being an evil dick, Sir Briefadel is consorting with actual demonic creatures and is attempting to raise an army of the damned to destroy his father; Lord Urderal, along with a huge chunk of the continent.

Individually, it’s a slightly more difficult question. Why should a Halfling, a Human and an Elf risk their lives and chase a whinging, vengeful Aristocrat through the void between worlds?

Arowe’s introductory story, painted him as a flamboyant, drama seeking Elf, desperate for fame and glory.

Fortu’s was about brutal death, a lack of autonomy and the anguish of not knowing his own past.

Liga Bur’s dealt with the mystery of his Orcish upbringing and the loss, of not just one family, but his unknown Halfling one too!

It’s my ‘job’ as the DM, to try to tie these three backstories into the thread if the overarching adventure story but it’s also your responsibility to actively engage in it.

Is travelling into the Fey realm, battling living trees and werewolves before passing through multi-world dimensions, not enough of an adventure for the drama hungry Arowe?

Is the recognition that Liga Bur felt, as he saw the Hag’s eyes flash ‘demonic’ red like the ‘Red-eyed’ Orc clan that slaughtered his Orc tribe, not enough to drive his urge for revenge, or at least, his curiosity to find a link between these two events?

Is Fortu’s heart not filled with a desire to learn more about the magical, indestructible, seemingly symbolic sword he now possesses? An enigma, that’s perhaps more solvable than the frustrating mystery of his own personal history?

I’ve tried pretty hard to create an enticing world for you three to explore and a hopefully exciting adventure. Ultimately though, it’s down to you as the Players to choose to engage in the story. All I can do is offer, hopefully fun/interesting plot hooks; it’s up to you three to bite. 

Should you continue to chase Sir Briefadel into Hell itself? The only reason you caught him the first time, was because he (overconfidently) waited around for several days, just in an attempt to recruit you. Perhaps you should return to Fissa to warn Estrid or even Lord Urdurel that his son is raising a fiendish army for vengeance and conquest? Or you could disentangle yourselves from this responsibility and look for another cause or adventure.

Ultimately, you can decide that you’ve seen enough of the world(s), that adventuring isn’t for you after all and just retire. You’re all certainly rich enough now. It’s entirely up to you.

Poor Memory, Worse Drawing

A post mostly just to use the drawing wot I drew.

Dulcettas’s tower slowly (and nonsensically) rotates on the tiny tip of a small, inverted stone Gnome’s pointy hat. The sky is a vague grey all around with nothing to be seen and below, swirling, impenetrable blackness.

The Party is currently (but almost certainly temporarily) split in two, with Fortu, Arowe, Liga Bur and Mir Hundur in the magical darkness, outside and underneath Dulcetta’s tower. While the henchmen, Rifkin, Henshaw, Barbella and Doberman are looking down in the mouth of Dulcetta’s stone face.

The Henchies face the choice of taking a leap of faith after the Adventurers and counting on the magical updrafts to save them, or heading back down through the tower. If they choose the tower, they’ll have to hope that their combined strength will be enough to heave the solid cold-iron block back out of the way before, possibly, facing the huge acidic blob again and then, somehow hope they can work out how to open the huge main outer door again from the inside, without Fortu’s ‘key-sword’ to activate the huge lock.

The Adventurers, on the other hand, ‘only’ have the arduous task of climbing up the eighty-foot slope… in the swirling, smoky darkness!

Thoughty Too

With nostrils full of hellish flame, the large, black-as-night, bat-winged horse bursts through the protective veil, back into the blazing heat of Calcienta and lands beside the group of tethered camels, half-a-mile from the tower. The humpbacked creatures’  twin-lidded, long lashed eyes bulge and they try to run but the iron rods that their reins are tied to, are driven down too deep.

Gently lowering her wounded son to the floor, the suddenly scar free Hetzabah roots through his supplies for the remainder of his potions.

“Drink this my handsome boy.”

Sir Briefadel’s eyes flutter open and he coughs.

“They tried to kill me! You said that they wouldn’t! You said that they’d join our cause! You swore we were invincible! I could have died!”

Rising naked, from her crouched position, the beautiful, raven haired woman glances back down at the still supine Sir Briefadel.

“Truthfully, that didn’t go as I’d expected. The Elf’s possession of an ‘Oath bow’ was a surprise but there’s something beyond mere revenge driving those men. Something deeper. Perhaps something that they don’t even understand themselves. The Orc raised Halfling and the far too tall Elf are oddities I can’t place but something about the scent of the Human Gladiator is disturbingly familiar…”

Alive but still injured, Sir Briefadel clambers, shakily to his armour-clad feet and scowls at his, somehow much younger, Mother.

“Sod the bloody adventurers! I can’t believe my own soldiers betrayed me! Why on Fissa, would mercenary scum like that put loyalty before gold?!”

The Outsiders

Outside on the open mouth of the balcony, Sir Briefadel and the mysterious, dark-haired woman await the potentially fatal confrontation that’s been destined to come. Their whispered conversation is drowned out though, by the soft moan of the eerie music and the fierce wind gusting unrelentingly upward.

The Room of Possibly too many Possibilities!

With the help of Doberman and Henshaw, heavy Fortu lowers himself from the hatch, before carefully dropping down onto the tangled, confusing detritus of twisted metal, broken glass and cremated rat corpses. The ex-gladiator then uses his dark, armoured sabaton covered feet to stomp flat the area directly under the hatch as best as he can, to make it safer for his teammates. He then catches them all, one after another, but tough as he is, Fortu still flinches slightly when the chunky Doberman falls from above.

The barefoot Liga Bur and four-pawed Mir Hundur seem the most vulnerable but both possess leathery soles or tough pads and, although being cautious, find themselves mostly safe. Everyone else depend on a combination of sturdy footwear and heedfulness. Then, using the brightly burning torchlight of his fiery assistant, Liga Bur examines the state of the two, blackened-to-charcoal, cold-iron reinforced, wooden doors. Dijonn has kept his promise regarding concentrating his flame there and the two, formerly substantial barriers are thoroughly burnt through. A solid shoulder barge from the heavily armoured Fortu, is all that it takes to break them down.

The, now open, twin doorways both expose tightly spiralling stone stairwells leading downwards and, after a brief discussion, the keen sighted Arowe draws his magical, camouflaging Elven cloak around himself and slinks down alone into the darkness of the right-hand one. His footsteps also muffled by the matching, soft-leather, magical Elven boots he wears.

After a brief descent, the stone steps lead into a short corridor, so dark that even his hyper sensitive Elven eyes can perceive nothing and he's forced to grope his way forward. After a little while though, he comes to another short flight of stairs with grey 'daylight' seeping down from an already opened hatch.

Utilising his magical cloaks subtle power, Arowe raises his head just above the hatchway to see that it opens up on a giant stone palm. The fingers and thumb curled upwards to act as five ledgeless balusters, partially preventing anyone accidentally falling off. It’s with a mild sense of surprise that he realises that he’s on an ornamental balcony outside of the tower. The hand he’s peering out on, is one of the outstretched hands of the elaborate giant statue of Dulcetta.

Looking out from his hidden position, he can see the stone left hand across from him at about the same height and in between and above is the massive head, open mouthed in song. Straining to see or hear anything, Arowe's frustrated as he can’t really make anything out either way, due to his low vantage point and the roar of the fierce updrafts.

Confident that he hasn’t been spotted by anyone though, the stealthy Elf quietly retraces his steps and then, once back with the others, tries the other door, corridor and steps to similar effect.

On his return from his second foray, the grimacing Arrow realises, that despite seeing through the Gnomish ‘only-two-doors’ misdirect, he’d somehow still fallen for it. By spotting the relatively easy to find ceiling hatch, he’d been lulled into the mistaken conclusion that there’d only been one extra option. 

The question then becomes ‘where’s the missing exit?’ and it’s Liga Bur that suggests the answer. The only point that Arowe couldn’t see properly from his outside positions, was the statue Dulcetta’s wide open mouth. If her hands were balconies, then her mouth would make a perfect, shielded-from-the-elements, observation point.

Arowe nods in agreement, but that would place the additional doorway exactly between the two already burned down ones. Refocusing at the wall again, it suddenly becomes obvious. The hidden third door would sit perfectly between the overt two on its right and left, with the deceiving Gnome statuette, lying directly overhead. The weirdly unsooted section of the wall adds credence to his theory.

Stepping forward, the tall Elf feels around behind the illusionary wall space with his fingertips and almost immediately touches roughened burnt wood. Retrieving his charcoal blackened fingers, proves him right. A skillful glamour covers the secret third door.

Giving it a firm push though, proves it also still standing and only partially damaged by Dijonn's general, undirected flames. It’ll still need to be broken through.

Fortu draws his huge magical sword, smiles and steps up to the mark…

You have a surprisingly large number of options here.

1) Run back down the open stone stairwell to retrieve your camels and ride away.

2) Climb up through the now open spire top into the blustery windy outside.

3) Through the burnt down right door, down the anti-clockwise spiral stone staircase and across and up into the open air, right palm.

4) Through the burnt down left door, down the clockwise spiral stone staircase and across and up into the open air, left palm.

5) Through the still locked, cold-iron reinforced door directly in front of you.

Friendly Fire!

Peering down through the small hatchway, from the now secure spire space, Fortu can’t fault Liga Bur’s clever plan. Letting their tiny new fiery teammate deal with the swarms of rats while they stay safe and unburnt up here? Brilliant! But he’s still disturbed by the fiery elemental’s level of delight.

Apparently incapable of disguising its maniacal glee, the flame creature; Dijonn cackles and crackles with joyous laughter as the, seemingly endless, procession of grey rats crisp and char beneath him.

“You’re not on fire, you filthy, fleshy, furry vermin! Fire’s on you!”

Despite the flames, the rats continue to swarm into the room from both doorways, suicideally compelled by the enchanted panpipes, just to burn up almost instantly. 

As Doberman, Arowe, Fourtu and Liga Bur continue to gaze down from the small attic hatchway, the intense heat from below singes their hair and eyebrows, while the greasy black smoke, thankfully, vents up past them through the opened spire top.

It’s an alarming sight to behold. The small fire elemental uses the four flaskfulls of oil to increase his own power and burn with such intensity, that the two sturdy, cold-iron reinforced wooden doors, are quickly reduced to blackened charcoal.

After just a few minutes roaring mayhem though, as his oil, fat and fur fuel supply runs low, Dijonn starts to shrink back from a room-sized inferno to his usual torch-like flame.

As the stuttering fire creature cries up to Liga Bur for help, the Halfling immediately stretches down with a third, unused and unlit, tar saturated torch and proffers it to his greedy but grateful servant. 

Fortu though, can’t help but notice the surprising distance the slightly panicked Dijonn is able to leap, with an unsettling feeling of foreboding.

Hatching a Plan

Using the mysterious black-glass lenses hidden beneath his helmet, Fortu gazes around at everyone puffing and panting after their recent exertion. They stand victorious after the frantic, confusing battle with the terrifyingly dangerous, mechanical bat/gnat creatures, but there were several injuries. Reassuringly though, the life auras glowing around his friends and colleagues still burn brightly. Only his Elven companion; Arowe’s seems slightly dimmed.

The pacifistic Bard; Rifkin also stops playing now the immediate danger has passed and instead, rushes over to the injured Arowe, so he can attend to his, disturbingly still bubbling, wound.

The Elven archer tightly grips his neck to help staunch the flow of blood from the strange sucking injury, while Rifkin uses the last of his healing spells. It was fortunate that the bat/gnat machines were such poor flyers. Shuddering involuntarily, Arowe realises how much worse it could have been if they had been even slightly otherwise!

Meanwhile, rummaging through the buckled metal and broken glass, Henshaw pulls a thick and strangely weathered leather collar, with an old bronze tag from the metal hounds headless neck.

“I spotted this earlier. The tag says ‘Belvedere’ on it. That’s the same name of the big bloodhound in one of the grand paintings downstairs.”

Fortu takes the sturdy strap from Henshaw’s outstretched hand. What could it mean? Was it somehow, just another petty act of revenge from Lord Urdurel? What, he wonders, happened to the original flesh-and-blood Belvedere? 

While the others are dealing with what just happened, the pragmatic Halfling; Liga Bur is already three-fifths through thinking up a plan of action. He has no interest in facing thousands of rats again and considers what tools, other than their swords and bows, they have that can be used to their advantage. The stone tower has tapered to the point where the chamber is relatively small. The only remaining ways forward are through the two sturdy wooden doors, behind both of which are the magically commanded rat hordes. 

What they do have, is oil to spare and a fire elemental completely unafraid of the rats and immune to their bites.

The only issues would be, them not being caught in the flames and where will the smoke and fumes vent to? Looking up, Liga Bur sees the hatch and wonders if there's still yet another way out?

Quickly organising the three rescued guards into an impromptu Human pyramid, the agile Halfling warrior, being the obvious choice, clambers up and into the, now undefended 'attic' space. Once securely inside, he braces his strong feet against the hatch frame and reaches down to help the surprisingly nimble Barbella climb up after him.

Inside the octagonal spire, there are a series of evenly spaced beams, that makes ascending to the top relatively easy. It’s near the peak that Liga Bur finds another intricate Gnomish mechanism. Calling Barbella up after him, they work out between them, how to crank it open and the apex of the spire spreads wide like an eight-sided beak. 

It’s only then, when Liga Bur hears the rush of wind buffeting the, now exposed tower tip, that he realises that the bat/gnat creatures, that were obviously too heavy for proper inside flight, were really intended for aerial combat outside of the tower, Their normally too-heavy frames, actually designed to be partially supported by the constant and powerful magical updraft, whilst still heavy enough not to be completely blown away.

Looking around at the (just-about) adequate space for all eight of them to shelter away from the flames, the canny Halfling smiles at his Human climbing partner. With the top of the tower opened up, that’s the smoke venting problem solved as well!

Death from Above

As Arowe creeps stealthily up the final flight of stone steps, he cautiously peeps around the last curve and over the stone threshold. He’s not a fool though and he’s not willing to just rush in alone, without at least taking a few moments to assess the scene before him.

There's no door blocking his entry but, besides the wreckage of a large mechanical hound on the floor, there appears to be no other defences in this room at all. Sir Briefadel had obviously run out of pre-prepared plans at this point and was forced to fight the automaton directly. Parts of the bronze and steel creature are scattered all over the flag-stoned floor and its head and four legs have been cleaved from its mangled body.

Only a sparking, two-foot tall steel rod, partially emerging from its circular bronze track, still seems to be pointlessly and blindly moving. It wasn’t completely a one-way battle though, as there’s blood all-over the jaws of the mechanical defender. Red Human blood.

As the rangy Arowe fully enters the new level, one of the dismembered hound’s glowing, mechanical eyes follows his movement and on further inspection, he recognises the beginnings of some recent repair work. Still, the immobile metal beast is of no threat, beyond that of being a trip hazard. Other than the bronze rail, stumpy rod and destroyed metal dog, there are two more doors on the curved wall opposite. Two identical doors leading somehow out of the tower, with another of the simple stone Gnomes mounted on a plinth above and between them. It's hewn in a sort of shrugging, finger-pointing pose, indicating the two options. Although initially seemingly identical, the door on the right has already been broken through and then roughly repaired. On testing though, they both remain locked and Arowe can hear the summoned rats scrabbling around behind them both.

The preternaturally sensitive Arowe though, is old enough to know, that the little stone Gnome statuette on the wall is a misdirection. By merely offering two choices, it strongly implies that those are the only choices available. An obvious Gnomish, tricksy-dicksy misdirection to fool gullible Humans.

While the rest of his rag-tag band of teammates shuffle in, one or two at a time, Arowe exploits his fine Elven senses and searches for another exit hidden in the room; a third option. And before the last straggler finds their way into, the smallish, now crowded room, he spots it. Not along the walls but up in the ceiling, a good six feet over his head. A small, two foot square, hidden hatch leading to yet another level directly above them!

The question then becomes, how to open it? A wooden pole perhaps but that wouldn’t facilitate him actually getting up there. It's too high to jump, so to gain access, he’ll need to be lifted up... Again.

Doberman and Fortu, being by far the strongest, are the obvious choices but, despite Arowe’s striking six-foot Elven frame, Doberman’s roundish body is still too short to make up the twelve-foot span needed from floor to hatch. Standing, instead on Fortu’s broad shoulders and further supported, triangle-like by Doberman and Henshaw, the athletic but slender Arowe reaches up and pushes with all his might. The hatch above however, doesn’t budge. It’s either locked or just too heavy for Arowe to shift alone.

It's the much stronger and heavily armoured Fortu, from under Arowe’s feet, who offers a slightly different option.

“If you can, just brace yourself straight and I’ll raise myself up on my toes. Once the hatch seal breaks, shove it back out of the way.”

Arowe is slightly embarrassed when this ploy proves successful but, as his keen Elven eyes adjust to the darkness above, he sees four rows of small hanging creatures. And then, even as he watches, in a slightly delayed fashion, their crystal-like eyes blink on like tiny red, then orange, then green lights.

More automatons!

Rows of Mechanical ‘bats’ hanging upside-down. Bronze bodied bats with leathery wings, needle noses and bizarre glass bulb bottoms.

With an ominous click, the bottom rung of four detach themselves from the rafter they were hanging from and drop down toward the hatch, even as the startled Arowe instinctively slides hastily down off of Fortu's back.

Thankfully, although these mechanical Gnomish creations are much smaller than the ones they'd previously fought, they still struggle to get through the open hatch due to poor cooperation and their wide, bronze rodded, leather wings. Flailing and scrabbling over each-other, two manage to find their way out.

Falling as much as flying, one misses the currently unarmed but heavily armoured Fortu but the other one succeeds in stabbing Arowe in the neck with its hollow, needle-nose. Despite the smallness of the weapon, Arowe is shocked by the sudden and inexplicable loss of blood as it’s literally sucked out of him under a vacuum. His knees weaken for a moment before he’s able to pry the blood-filled thing off.

Everyone joins the fight, with Rifkin urging them all on with his inspiring melodies, but every second, more and more of the wicked, clumsily flapping, mechanical creatures escape from the overhead hatch until the air is filled with them!

Pitched to the Rats

Well before the swift Arowe reaches the top of the final, curving stairwell, he starts to make out an eerily familiar music. The tune is different and the musician, less well practiced but the tone of the instrument... 

He recognises it; Panpipes! Just like the ones used by the stinky, Human Druid; Koenig in the tannery all those months ago, when he played them to summon hordes of filthy, disease carrying rats. 

It's with a seething indignation, that Arowe remembers personally handing the magical instrument over to Sir Briefadel to sell for them. Worse, now he realises that the wretched Human never even found a buyer. Never even looked for one. He just bare-faced lied about it and kept the magical panpipes for himself!

Arowe grinds his pearly white teeth as he suddenly understands the why. Sir Briefadel had spent decades researching how to save his Mother and must have known, that to breach the tower's illusionary outer barrier, he needed a magical instrument. The double-dealing Human had probably been searching for one for years... He'd probably, secretly sent them all on that first mission just to retrieve it!

Despite his initial anger at this realisation, the tall Elf can't help but smile wryly at the irony of the situation. Their penultimate test as a Party is going to be a repeat of one of their first ones. 

Rats! 

Lots of rats! 

Lots and lots of rats!

This time though, he and his friends won't be caught by surprise.

I Know What You Did Last Summer

Emerging from a thicket of oak trees on the edge of the wood, Thornberg finds himself, now well within the Human realms. Sniffling at the air, he immediately smells the lingering, acrid hint of burnt wood and damp thatch but it still takes him a few minutes before he actually finds the remnants of the tannery.

Searching the partially burned down and abandoned buildings, the big Druid and his even bigger bear companion, discover several burned human corpses, a score of crisped, giant rat bodies and countless fire-shrivelled normal ones, before they actually find Koenig.

The great bear; Bamse tracks him down to the tree-line on the opposite side of the small settlement. His body twisted and burnt beyond recognition. Tragically, the dead, lacerated dog-sized rat, sprawled protectively across him, gives him away.

Thornberg can’t help but voice his inner thoughts; the words emerging through his thick beard, deep and gruff.

“That’s Koenig all right. His giant rat familiar; Francis obviously died desperately trying to defend his master, long after he'd been struck down.”

Wandering over to the riverbank, the gigantic Bamse moves to lap at the cool water but looks up at Thornberg for permission.

“Go ahead bear. The toxic elements from the tanning process seem to be long gone. Koenig’s letters had said that the fish here were all dead but I see plenty of healthy ones swimming around now.”

While the enormous brown bear splashes joyfully into the refreshing water, the bulky Druid, once again, moves to commune with the witness trees, just to confirm what he’s already, almost, nearly, completely certain of.