The King/Key Sword

Fortu, one-handedly twists the five-foot-long, sinuous blade by its hilt. He still can’t believe the power of it! Never has he seen a metal blade capable of cutting through blocks of stone or slicing through wood as if it were paper! 

According to Rifkin, this sword had been held in the metal grip of the bronze knight for a hundred years and yet the soft, green leather grip is unblemished by time, wear or rot. The magics that protect the Adamantine blade, steel cross-guard, hilt and golden pommel, obviously extend even to the softer materials too. Raised in the gladiator pits of Oppugn and denied anything more than the most basic of educations, he can’t pretend to understand how this can be, but he decides not to question it.

Along its flat edge, at the base on both sides, a raised script is clearly visible but none of his friends are capable of any sort of translation. ‘My Husband’s sword’ the voluptuous woman had said. Hetzabah; Lord Urdurel’s second wife and Mother to Sir Briefadel. She had worryingly, regardless of the threat it posed, seemed bizarrely pleased to see it.

Despite her multiple, previous nightmare visits, Fortu had only actually seen her for the first time, atop the tower. A tower named after and physically representing Lord Urdurel’s first wife; Dulcetta. The ex-gladiator can’t help but wonder if trapping his second wife in the tribute tower to his first wife was a deliberate added insult? He also wonders if Arowe and Liga Bur are right in surmising that the beautiful young woman and the revolting old Hag that materialised inside the tent are the same person? The only similarity that he could see, was that they rode a bat-winged, black horse and were both wearing the same heart shaped, ruby pendant. Couldn’t they conceivably be totally different women?

Still, these were matters that he’d leave in the hands of his clever Demi-Human friends. For now, he was just happy to have such a powerful and efficient weapon to protect, not just himself, but the people he was coming to think of as the family that he’d never had.

Beware the Blob!

 

Reaching for the Snatch

It's the fifth day of travel and so far, so good, with the Party making fair time and managing to stay on the right desert ‘path'. The repellent nightmare Hag, (who somehow, simultaneously seems to also be the toe-curlingly hot; Hetzabah} has ‘visited’ four times, attempting but failing each time to invade the dreams and corrupt the mind of the phenomenally skilled, Halfling tracker; Liga Bur.

Despite their open space, temporary tent living, their defences are sound. After carefully and evenly spacing Pardrik's (two-hundred-and-six) bones, carefully all around the marquee, the Elven Arowe trances while his companions set up and organise for the next day. This way, Pardrik can roam freer than he’s been able to do in a hundred years and Arowe can stand watch over his Halfling friend, undistracted.

A few hours later, as semi-expected, Arowe feels the, now familiar, twitch of the enchanted, mummified hand draped around his neck, signalling the phantom Hag's appearance. Gracefully, spinning around, he sees the revolting looking old woman and the pitch-black, bat-winged horse drift through the canvas wall, but the (clearer-than-he's-ever-been) ghost of Pardrik is already standing/floating in the way.

"Begone wretched Hag! I won't let you have this one!"

Arowe’s and the ghost guard's echoey shouts rouse the others from their slumber and Liga Bur finds himself awake and instantly immune from the Hag's dream haunting. Poor Pardrik though, is ‘killed’ yet again, but this time by the Nightmare horse’s flaming, ethereal hooves, rather than the terrifying Hag herself.

After this though, something else unexpected happens; something different. Previously the Hag would flee frustrated at this point, but this time Arowe suddenly feels real heat and smells the smoke and fire issuing from the hellish horse, before he even realises what's occurring. Both the Hag and her large Nightmare actually materialise physically within the tight confines of the sectioned off tent, instantly hemming Liga Bur and his riding dog in, as well as Arowe himself. And then they strike! Not at their original Halfling target, but instead at his vigilant Elven guard!

Arowe weirdly feels no rage towards the Nightmare horse or the Hag though; it’s as if every ounce of his anger is still reserved for his ‘oath-bow’ sworn target and he has none left over. The only emotion he can dredge up is disappointment that he’s not facing Sir Briefadel. This soon changes to genuine fear though, as the massive horse's fiery hoof smack down on his shoulder and the hideous Hag's maw widens as she advances on him. The battle is, thankfully for the Elven archer, soon joined by the armed but uncharacteristically unarmoured Fortu as well as Henshaw and Barbella. Flashing sword blades and reckless crossbow bolts fill the crowded, suddenly claustrophobic space.

Unaccustomed to fighting within such close quarters and choking on the acrid smoke bellowing from the black horse's mouth, Arowe only manages to get a few, ineffectual feathered shafts off before he realises that he's in serious trouble! The two powerful supernatural creatures are solely targeting him and they want him dead! Using the slight flexibility of the tent walls, he manages to slide past the constrained horse-bat-thing and flee to the healing, harmonious words of Rifkin in the next tent section, while Fortu, Barbella and Henshaw hold the Hag and the demon horse at bay and continue to defend Liga Bur.

The Halfling's also desperate to flee but he can't easily escape the tent or get past the Nightmare horse or Hag. Mir Hundur finds his natural claws and jaws ineffective against the Hag and Liga Bur looks at his small, silver Kukri with concern. Can he even hurt her with this?

Inspired by some inner voice, Fortu shouts over at him.

"Forget the knife; Grab her magical ruby heart! Snatch it from her!"

Two things instantly happen. Liga Bur, though appreciating the good idea, realises that, although the chain the ruby hangs on isn't that secured, considering the height difference between the Halfling and the Hag, it's a hard ask. The Hag though, still senses the potential danger and fearfully grips the large ruby to her plump breast, before she and her evil mount fade back into the ethereal plane and escape.

The keen sensed Arowe realises that he’d also spotted something odd in the confusion...

"You were right Rifkin. The Hag's precious ruby does contain a Human eye! It’s hard to tell through the red of the ruby but I think it was a blue one!”

Pit near Spears!

 

Bastard vs Wankel

During the first four days of the long camel-trek back through the desert and despite the Hag’s unscheduled and unwelcome visits, everyone tries to make good use of the blisteringly hot but idle ‘daytime’ rest periods. Rifkin continues, somewhat pointlessly now, to study Grimcrack Thin-Needle’s diary, while Liga Bur, Fortu and Arowe are mostly occupied with their own thoughts and concerns.

Thanks to the recent-ish execution of their prisoner; the Wizard Moody though and the mid-journey discovery of the rocky oasis, the Party now have more than enough water to spare for brief outdoor exertions beneath the hot suns and Henshaw and (the recently cured) Doberman use some of their free time to spar, using their newly acquired Bastard sword and Wankel shield.

Blond Henshaw, considering his profession, is an oddly cautious man by nature, but reckless Doberman’s enthusiasm for violence necessitates Barbella’s presence as referee/murder preventer. This time though, Liga Bur sits beside the bearded stabber-for-hire, just to make his own personal assessment of how much recent experiences have sharpened their combat skills. He’s been suspicious of them ever since Rifkin (out of concern for Fortu) pleaded with Estrid for their lives. They have appeared loyal since then, but the Halfling’s very aware, that if they ever did decide to cross them, it’d be three verses three, as he’s yet to see the Bard even draw a weapon. Although confident in Arowe and Fortu’s combat prowess, Liga Bur has lamented his own limitations of late. Next to the Elf’s remarkable bowmanship and the Human’s phenomenal one-handed skill with, what should definitely be a two-handed sword, he finds himself noticeably overshadowed.

Henshaw and Doberman have practiced this duel many times now with both combatants using their blades wrapped to prevent serious injury but Doberman has a lifetime habit of getting carried away and forgetting that one condition. This particular clash follows their now established pattern, with the bulky Doberman using Fortu’s generously donated hand-and-a-half bastard sword, two-handedly, as if it were a lumberjack’s axe, to rain down shuddering blows onto Henshaw’s magical wankel shield.

Although only minor magical items in the grand scheme of things, both of the men are amazed at their power and resilience. Despite being battered by Doberman’s near monstrous blows, Henshaw’s large, heavy shield remains without a ding. As is Doberman’s sword. Though not forged of the same indestructible metal of Fortu’s new flamberge, it’s enchantment still protects and maintains the blade’s sharp edge.

This time though, while still holding his awkward looking, crablike defensive stance, Henshaw manages to jab his Masterwork cold-iron longsword into Doberman’s large and exposed belly. There’s no real force behind the thrust and Doberman’s chainmail armour protects him from any potential harm, but the laughing Barbella calls the fight in Henshaw’s favour.

The lanky, straw mopped Henshaw, although surprised, grins in response and caws.

"Hah; that'll teach you Doberman! Nobody beats a Henshaw seventeen times in a row!"

Dance of the Mace-Handmaidens

 

Summoning Satyrs

After disconcertingly discovering the first ugly-horse-camel creature brutally slaughtered and half devoured, Liga Bur leaves the others behind to track down the remaining seven. They'll need them if they're going to make it back to Valdez or the oasis. In the meantime, the rest of the Party unpack the stowed equipment and set up the large tent, before simply waiting in its shade for the Tundra hardened Halfling to return with their rides. Despite travelling with the adventurers for over a month now, Henshaw is still amazed by Liga Bur’s formidable survival skills and he knows, without question, that they’d all be dead by now, from either thirst or heat exposure, without him.

Henshaw’s faith in the little tracker is soon proved justified, when Liga Bur comes riding back atop his loyal hound; Mir Hundur, leading all seven of the surviving camels. The Party though, is still not ready to leave. Although struggling to keep his ire-filled voice below a shout, the Elven Arowe is still the first to consider how they can help Rifkin and Doberman.

“Could our Bard’s charm bracelet help here? Perhaps the tiny Pixie has some magic that could cure Rifkin's deafness and Doberman's disease?”

Rifkin smiles crookedly in hopeful understanding and, because of that very deafness, answers a little too loudly.

“PERHAPS NOT THE SHINY PIXIE. BUT WHAT ABOUT THE POTION-BANDOLIER WEARING SATYR; MAGRITTE?”

Everyone nods in agreement and Rifkin, with dramatic but unnecessary flair, twists off the satyr shaped token from Estrid's bracelet and feels it hum and warm up in his soft hand. After less than a minute, the half goat, half man; Magritte appears, Barely dressed beyond his rapier, longbow, quiver and twin potion-caddy bandoliers.

Initially Crouched with his sword in hand, the bearded Magritte quickly assesses the situation, straightens up and sheaths his weapon.

"How may I be of service?"

After a speedy explanation, the friendly Satyr sets to work examining all three of the afflicted. He treats Rifkin first with a carefully selected vial and, much to the Bard's joy, it proves successful. Doberman takes a moment longer but he too is cured of the Hag's disease. When he comes to Arowe though, Magritte just shakes his goat-horned head.

"I'm sorry my Elven friend. Your ongoing affliction is magical in nature, not physical, but worry not; even an ‘uncivilised’ Fey creature, such as myself has heard of the elite Elven Oath-bows. Your hyper-focused rage will not last forever. You'll have to endure this rage for a week, just seven days and then you'll be free of it. Until, that is, you call upon it again."

Afterwards, Fortu and the others share with Margritte what has happened since they last saw each-other and what they plan to do now. The handsome and tanned Satyr listens attentively and, at the completion of the tale, agrees that returning home seems to be the only sane course of action.

"I'll inform the goddess of the pool of your estimated arrival in about eight days and I'll be sure to have the Nixies take turns watching out for you at the bottom of the hundred feet underwater shaft. I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help, but please accept my remaining potions. You may have need of them before we meet again."

With that, Magritte empties his bandoliers, carefully explaining what each potion does as he passes them over. After that, the charming Satyr chats with the adventurers until his hour is up.

"Safe journey my friends. I hope to see you all again soon."

Treasure:

Potions:

1) Potion of Cure Light Wounds x 2

2) Potion of Cure Moderate Wounds x 2

3) Potion of Cure Serious Wounds x 2

4) Potion of Delay Poison x 1

5) Potion of Magic Fang +1 x 1

6) Potion of Bark-skin +2 AC x 1

7) Potion of Bear's Endurance +4 Con x 1

8) Potion of Cat's Grace +4 Dex x 1

9) Potion of Bull's Strength +4 Str x 1

10) Potion of Lesser Restoration x 2

(Assif, I think I got this right but if not, (to avoid any unnecessary confusion) scrunch up your list and throw it in the bin.)

Dulcetta’s First Challenge

 

The Cost of Confrontation

The long anticipated battle at the top of Dulcetta's slowly rotating tower had been shockingly and frustratingly brief, with Sir Briefadel literally choosing flight over fight. Doberman had barrelled in before Sir Briefadel had the opportunity to properly speak and, in the cramped observation deck, Fortu and Arowe were unable to properly utilise their magical weapons.

After just a few scrambled and confusing moments, Sir Briefadel and his Mother, realising that the adventurers weren't going to be persuaded to change sides, chose to step back off the ledge and escape into the darkness far below. Fortu, almost immediately dived after them, followed by the now oath-enraged Arowe and then by the more restrained Liga Bur and his big dog, but to no avail. The third, hidden enemy made itself known and carried the others away to safety. A huge, bat-winged, black horse, seen only by Liga Bur before, and even then, only in his nightmares.

It’s only after the Party members had all clambered out of the swirling darkness below, and everyone is reunited, do they realise the full cost of that brief encounter. They’re all injured to one degree or another. Cuts and scrapes mostly; easily fixed with a few days rest and some magical healing. Some of the others though, are carrying far more serious afflictions.

The musician; Rifkin seems, much to his horror, to have been permanently deafened by the armoured Sir Briefadel’s somehow silent and motionless spell.

Arowe’s recent ‘vacuumed’ blood loss is still apparent and the activation of his Oath-bow, but failure to actually kill Sir Briefadel, seems to have enraged him to a state of barely contained frenzy.

And poor, stupid Doberman; the surprise hag-bite on his blubbery neck that he sustained from Hetzabah, has resisted all of Rifkin’s attempts to treat it. The two opposing, semi-circular teeth marks are already inflamed and festering with some sort of foul rotting disease. A disease so vile and virulent that, even with Doberman’s ridiculous constitution, he might not survive the arduous desert trek to Zephir’s oasis portal, let alone the dimensional trip back to Fissa.

All this from less than a few dozen seconds of combat and then, after all that, Sir Briefadel actually succeeded in rescuing his Mother and escaping. Despite his (very) near death to Arowe’s newly activated Oath-bow, the annoying aristocrat actually won!

Dejected but determined to get home, the band of Adventurers gather up their belongings and head back out into the multi-sunned Calcientan heat, with the irreplaceable Liga Bur sent off ahead to recover their ugly camel creatures.

Once the last of the adventurers makes it out through its veil of illusion, the 'Lost Tower of Stowen' is finally hidden again from prying eyes. Indifferent to the escape of its prisoners, the damage to its mechanical guards and its loss of purpose, it continues to turn, and having completed its full rotation, merely turns on. 

Sand Trap!

 

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 to 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, the 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 descent.

The straw-thatched mercenary can’t help but marvel at what he’s doing, what he’s seen and what he's 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!